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it. “I’ll take that.”
    “Are you sure?” She rolled her eyes. “It would be a help. We’ve got every hand in there cooking, and no one to serve at breakfast. Mind, it’s heavy.”
    “I’ve got it.” I cradled the pot in my left arm, settling it on my hip. I learned how to serve at the table before I left the Night Court, and it is not the sort of thing one forgets. It made me smile, seeing the startled looks on the men’s faces as I circled the table, ladling generous dollops of porridge into their wooden bowls. There is an art to table service; proper balance, unobtrusive approach, an elegant line. Out of practice as I was, I caught myself making a child’s bargain in my head-if I make it around the table without spilling a drop, without a clink of the ladle, it means they will find them, Blessed Elua let it be so ...
    I was concentrating so hard I didn’t see Joscelin enter and pull up a chair at the table, and startled at his amused features, inadvertently slopping porridge over the edge of his bowl. “Sorry! I didn’t realize it was you.”
    “I didn’t expect to see you here, either.” He grinned and deftly spooned up the spilled porridge. “A fine send-off. Food that will stick to our ribs, and service fit for a king.”
    I shifted the heavy pot, feeling the warmth of it through my gown. “A baronet, mayhap. It’s been a while. Everything’s in readiness, then?”
    His voice trailed off, and I followed his gaze instinctively.
    Mahieu stood in the doorway, a peculiar look on his face. “Phèdre,” he said in a strained voice. “There are these ... these Tsingani in the courtyard. And they’re asking to see you.”
    For a moment I stood frozen, staring at him, the pot of porridge in my arms. It was the scrape of chair-legs and a muttered expletive from one of the men-at-arms that brought me back to myself. “I’ll be right there,” I said, setting the pot down on the sideboard. Joscelin was already rising. “You.” I pointed at the man who’d sworn at the mention of Tsingani. “Stay here. I don’t want any interference.”
    He gave a brief nod, his jaw tight. It would have to do. I went out to the courtyard.
    Although the sky overhead was pale gold, the cobblestones yet lay in the long shadows of the mountains. I needn’t have worried about the man inside; already, people had gathered. Five men, Millard and Luc Verreuil among them, ranged in a semicircle before the Tsingani kumpania , swords half-drawn. I walked past them to meet it, Joscelin at my side.
    It was a small kumpania , as small as the one we had travelled with from the Hippochamp years ago. There was a single covered wagon, its once-bright paint weathered, great splinters gouged from the wooden spokes of its wheels. Even travelling on the old Tiberian roads, passage through the mountains was not easy. The driver sat in the high seat, expression impassive. The women and children would be inside, hidden behind the closed curtains at the rear.
    In front, two men sat on motionless horses, one a little to the fore. They were full-blooded Tsingani, with brown skin and liquid-black eyes, and both as tense as wires.
    “ Tseroman ,” I said to the leader, inclining my head. His shoulders relaxed a little at the Tsingani greeting, though his eyes were suspicious and watchful still. “I am Phèdre nó Delaunay. How did you know to find me here?”
    “You have the mark. What Tsingani do not see, they hear. Your passage was noted.” His voice was husky and accented. “I am Kristof, son of Oszkar. This is my kumpania .” He bowed from the waist. The dust of hard travel lay on his black hair, his yellow shirt. “ Didikani in Elua’s City say the companion of the Tsingan kralis’ grandson seeks a child.”
    “I do.” My heart beat harder in my breast. “Have you seen him?”
    “There.” The Tsingano headman turned in the saddle, pointing unerringly to the south. “In the Pass of Aragon, before the leaves were full-grown on the beech trees. Two men and three children.”
    “D’Angeline children?” I asked.
    Kristof nodded once. “A girl and two boys.” He lowered one hand, palm downward. “So tall. They were not well.”
    “Sick?” I asked. “Injured?”
    “Maybe injured.” His gaze slid away from mine. “Drugged.”
    Somewhere behind me, Luc swore violently. I heard the sound of steel dragging against leather, and sensed rather than saw Joscelin turn, shaking his head in silent warning. Lines of