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with your presence!”
    Ignoring the starts and murmurs from the throng of patrons, I smiled and went to greet him, taking his hands in mine. “Emile. It is good to see you.”
    “And you.” He kissed both my hands and rose, no taller, but considerably broader than I remembered him. It had been eight years, at least; I had visited only once since my time in La Serenissima. “Chevalier Philippe, Messire Cassiline ... come, sit, my friends! Let us speak of old times and old acquaintances.”
    A space cleared around our table, leaving a respectful aisle about us. I couldn’t for the life of me have said whether it was due to my dubious fame, my quick-tempered chevalier Ti-Philippe, Joscelin’s Cassiline arms and dry, capable air, or if it was commanded by Emile’s presence. Clearly, he had prospered in Night’s Doorstep, and was a person to be reckoned with, at least in the Cockerel.
    Once a jug had been procured and wine poured all around, Emile leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table. “You have word of Hyacinthe?”
    “I have,” I said, and drawing a deep breath, I told him the story of our journey to the Three Sisters, the passage of power from the Master of the Straits, and the dire twist on Hyacinthe’s curse.
    When I had done, tears shone in Emile’s dark eyes. “Ah! You break my heart anew. You may not have known it, Comtesse, but he was like a brother to me.”
    “I know,” I said compassionately. “Emile, there is more, if you will hear it. I may have a key to unlocking this curse; or at least, I may know where it lies. It’s a long, hard path, and there’s something else I must do first if I am to pursue it. I know the Tsingani go everywhere, hear everything, more than the gadje suspect. Are you well enough connected to use their ears for me?”
    He smiled a little to hear me use the Tsingani word for outsiders. “Well enough, I think. It is different than it was in Hyacinthe’s day. The chevalier told you Manoj is dead? Now, the kumpanias interact more freely with those of us in the cities, and they do not despise the Didikani as they once did.”
    Like Hyacinthe, Emile was of mixed blood, D’Angeline and Tsingani- Didikani , they called them; half-breed. “So you hear things.”
    “I hear things.” Emile rubbed his thumb and forefingers together as if holding a coin. “Sometimes I tell them,” he said, then closed his hand in a fist. “Sometimes I do not. For you ...” He opened his hand wide. “For you I will sing like a lark. What do you wish to hear, Phèdre nó Delaunay?”
    “Any news of Imriel de la Courcel,” I said. “Or a child matching his description.”
    There was a pause, and all of us-Joscelin, Ti-Philippe and I-leaned in close, but eventually Emile shook his head, regretfully. “No. I am sorry. It has been five years, at least, since anyone placed a wager in Night’s Doorstep on the whereabouts of the missing prince. The gambling-houses will give you any odds you like, and laugh as they take your money. But I will listen.” He glanced shrewdly at me. “A child matching his description, you say?”
    “A child,” I said, “gone missing from the Sanctuary of Elua in Landras, in lower Siovale. A boy, ten years of age, with his mother’s eyes.” I reached out and put my hand over his, closing his fingers. “And this information, Emile, is not to be sold at any price.”
    “I would not!” He looked hurt. “Hyacinthe was my friend, my lady. Anyone he befriended, Tsingani, Didikani , D’Angeline alike, he treated with loyalty. What do I care for missing heirs? I would not sell this knowledge for profit when you might use it to win my friend’s freedom.”
    “Good.” I relaxed “If you hear anything-”
    “If I hear anything, I will come to you.” Emile drank off his wine at one draught and refilled his mug. “It is true, what I said. The story has grown slowly, but it has grown, and spread. Now Manoj is dead, and there is no Tsingan kralis. The kumpanias speak his name at the crossroads. Hyacinthe, son of Anasztaizia.”
    “He followed the Long Road to its end,” Joscelin murmured unexpectedly.
    “The Lungo Drom ,” Emile echoed, sighing. “Some of us walk the inner path, and some of us the outer. I do not know anyone who has walked a longer road than Anasztaizia’s son.”
    None of us did. Ti-Philippe raised his mug. “To Hyacinthe.”
    “To Hyacinthe.” Emile clinked the rim of his mug in salute, then surged to his feet,