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them. I think the old Prefect, under whom Joscelin had trained, would have dismissed the majority of applicants on both sides out of hand. The new Prefect did not. Most of the would-be Cassilines never completed training, but a few stuck it out, and were now assigned to wealthy wards, sworn to protect and serve.
    And all of them regarded Joscelin with a desperate mix of hero-worship and contempt. His defeat of the traitorous Cassiline who sought Ysandre’s life was the stuff of enduring legend; but he had left the Brotherhood for my sake, and been declared anathema for it. Those who remain, honoring their vows of celibacy, resent him for it.
    “Your business.” The Marquis d’Arguil smiled knowingly. “Naamah’s business, you mean!”
    “As my lord says.” I smiled in reply, laying two fingers over my lips in the gesture betokening discretion. Joscelin, unseen, rolled his eyes. “I will do my best.”
    We parted ways with cordial farewells, the d’Arguils’ Cassiline guard making another ceremonial display, bowing low enough to reveal his hair clubbed at the back of his neck. He bore no sword, though, only daggers. Ysandre had forbidden it in the Palace. This time, Joscelin acknowledged him with a dour nod. The hilt of his sword, wrapped in well-worn leather, was visible over his shoulder, token of the Queen’s trust.
    “Elua preserve me,” Joscelin said when they had left. “Was I ever such a prig?”
    I took his arm. “Worse.”
    He laughed. “Well, mayhap. Remind me to have plans when next the d’Arguils invite us to a fête. Phèdre.” There was a change in his voice, and I glanced up at him. “Had you planned on questioning L’Envers yourself?”
    “I had.” I gauged his thoughtful frown. “You think Ysandre will send for him?”
    “Mm-hmm.” He looked down at me. “He’s her nearest kin. I think she’d confront him privately before accusing him for the world to see. How badly do you wish to ask him first?”
    I thought about it. If Ysandre had a flaw, it was in her willingness to believe the best of people she loved. “Badly enough. Where is he?”
    “Champs-de-Guerre.” Joscelin raised his brows, offering an unspoken comment on Barquiel L’Envers’ continued appointment to the role of Royal Commander. It had been a temporary thing, born out of necessity after Percy de Somerville’s betrayal. But Ysandre had never revoked her uncle’s appointment or named another commander. “It’s less than a day’s ride. We could arrive before she decides to send a courier if we left this afternoon.”
    “Well.” I squeezed his arm gratefully. “It seems our business does require travel.”
    If I thought we would get away clean, I was mistaken. Ti-Philippe was awaiting our return, bursting with news. He could scarce wait for me to finish giving instructions to Eugenie to prepare an overnight travel bag for our journey to the training-grounds and barracks of the Royal Army.
    “My lady!” he said, grinning fit to split his face. “You were wrong. There is a scholar at the City Academy who’s studied Jebean lore, only she’s a musician, not a linguist. Her father was a master drummer at Eglantine House fifty years ago; he travelled the world by sea after he made his marque, and studied in Jebe-Barkal many years. She made a fair-copy of the scroll, and thought she could have it translated on the morrow. And the Tsingano, Emile, he promised to call upon you in the morning.”
    “Tomorrow?” I pulled a face. “I’ve made plans to go to Champs-de-Guerre. Tell the Jebean scholar ... what’s her name?”
    “Audine Davul.”
    “Tell my lady Davul that I will call on her on my return, and tell Emile ... tell Emile I’ll do the same.”
    “In Night’s Doorstep?” Ti-Philippe sounded skeptical. I laughed.
    “Why not? It’s been too long since I had a drink at the Cockerel. It was my haven, once upon a time. Do you remember, we went there when first I brought you to the City. Mayhap I’ve been too long in rarified circles.”
    “I’ll tell him.” Ti-Philippe paused. “My lady, he said to tell you that Manoj is dead, and the kumpanias of the Tsingani speak the name of Hyacinthe, son of Anasztaizia, at the crossroads.”
    I went still, remembering. Manoj was Hyacinthe’s grandfather; the Tsingan kralis, King of the Tsingani. Anasztaizia was his daughter, Hyacinthe’s mother, betrayed and reviled by her own people. It would mean more than words could say to Hyacinthe that the