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biting deep into the leather as one of the Head Falconer’s apprentices instructed him. “Phèdre!” He grinned, hoisting the bird to display it. “What do you think? Shall we build a mews at Montrève?”
    “Elua willing.” I stood back a healthy distance, regarding the peregrine’s fierce, round eye, its raptor’s beak. I had seen that look on my patrons; I did not need to endure it from a bird. “We may build a bestiary, if you like, providing we return in one piece. Are you ready?”
    With some reluctance, Joscelin returned the peregrine unto its keeper, and we departed. It was only one of several meetings I had arranged prior to our leave-taking, and ’twas the next I dreaded the most. I have learned, in my trade and in my life, to deal with monarchs and their kin, with seers and scholars, priests and pirates alike. But if there is one person capable of striking fear into my heart, it is my couturiere , Favrielle nó Eglantine.
    To be sure, she owed me a debt of gratitude; and never let me forget for an instant that it was a most unwelcome debt, no matter how much she prized the end result-which was, indeed, her freedom and her fame. If I had not paid the price of her marque to Eglantine House, she would have toiled in obscurity long into her middle years. Well and so; I do not think it was such a terrible thing to have done!
    Nonetheless, Favrielle misliked the burden of gratitude.
    “Short notice,” she said in the antechamber of her salon. “What a surprise, Comtesse.” As if I’d not gone to the trouble of making an appointment. “Are you in need of a gown for the Queen’s piquet tournament, or is it some new patron you must now impress?”
    “Neither.” I strove to be gracious, ignoring Joscelin’s suppressed laughter. “It’s naught that requires your personal attention. I need two riding outfits, nothing more, fit for long travel.”
    “Nothing more.” Favrielle nó Eglantine raised her brows, red-gold, like her mop of curls and the freckles sprinkled across her impish nose. On anyone else, it would have looked charming; Favrielle managed to convey unspeakable disdain. “All the world looks to Terre d’Ange to set the mode of fashion, and all Terre d’Ange looks to the City of Elua. And in the City of Elua, everyone looks to Phèdre nó Delaunay, the Comtesse de Montrève, because they know I clothe you, on the road no less than in the ballroom. Do not presume to tell me, Comtesse, what does and does not require my personal attention. So. Where do you travel?”
    “La Serenissima and Menekhet,” I said humbly. “And afterward, Jebe-Barkal.”
    “Jebe-Barkal!” It took her by surprise, but only for an instant. Favrielle’s green eyes narrowed in thought. “You’ll want somewhat light in weight, then, and none too close-fitting, but sturdy enough to wear. Light colors, too, but naught that will show the stain of travel.” She nodded decisively. “Come. I’ll show you some fabrics.”
    Casting a backward glance at Joscelin, I followed Favrielle into the depths of her salon; two floors, it occupied now, an entire building in the clothiers’ district. The building, she owned outright. Her staff of drapers and cutters and embroiderers, seamstresses and tailors, watched us with amusement and an obvious fondness for the irascible mistress of their salon.
    In the end, I chose two fabrics-a saffron wool, fine-carded and light as a cloud, and a raw silk of pale celadon green.
    “You can wear it,” Favrielle said critically, holding a length of the bolt near my face. “Although it’s not your best color.” She surveyed me, scarred lip curling. “I suppose I’ll need to take your measurements anew?”
    “They’ve not changed since you measured me last,” I said with some heat.
    “If you say so.” Her eyebrows rose again. I sighed, and let her measure me anew, standing patient as the knotted cord was wrapped around my breast, waist and hips. Favrielle made notations on a piece of foolscap.
    “Well?” I asked.
    Head averted beneath the tumbled mass of red-gold curls, she hid a smile. “It seems your measurements are unchanged, Comtesse.”
    “I told you as much.”
    “You did.” Without lifting her head, Favrielle made a rough sketch of riding attire in a series of swift, elegant lines. “This is what I’m thinking, do you see? Conventional, but with a looseness of drape that affords better motion and permits the flow of air. And an overgarment, broad-sleeved