"Your grace." Joscelin's voice was mild. "I cannot claim that honor. I have been declared anathema by the Cassiline Brotherhood."

"Ah, yes." L'Envers smiled. "The Queen's Champion, Lady Phèdre's consort, the eternal apostate. And yet, Messire Verreuil, when people say The Cassiline, they speak of you. Will you not cross swords with me?"

Joscelin and I exchanged a glance. No words, not even a shrug were needed; we knew each other's minds, and the decision was his. "As you say, your grace," he said to L'Envers, "I am Cassiel's servant still in my own way." He shook his head. "And as such, I draw my sword only to kill, my lord. I will not draw it on you."

"A convenient prohibition," Barquiel L'Envers observed to his men, who had drawn nigh and watched with interest.

"My lord L'Envers." Joscelin dismounted with grace, handing his reins to a startled soldier. Facing Barquiel L'Envers, he bowed with Cassiline precision, daggers ringing free of their sheaths as he straight ened. The ghost of a smile hovered at the corner of his lips. "I said I would not draw my sword. I did not say I refused your request."

A great cheer arose from the gathered infantrymen, who hastily arrayed themselves in a vast semicircle, clearing space for the combat ants. Someone's squire ran pelting off the field to alert the encampment, and one of the subcommanders pounded another on the shoulder with glee. Barquiel L'Envers' eyebrows disappeared beneath the edge of his helmet in patent disbelief. "You propose to fight me with your daggers?"

"Your grace wished to fight a Cassiline," Joscelin said. "The Cassiline?"

There was a pause, and then L'Envers laughed aloud, slapping a hand on his thigh. "So be it, then! Till first blood, or the other cries yield, whichever comes first. Anton, my shield!" He grinned, showing white teeth, and shook his head. "Naamah's tits, but you've got balls, Cassiline. I almost like you for it."

Joscelin smiled politely, crossed daggers at the ready.

It could have been worse, I will say that much. L'Envers wore a foot-soldier's training gear of cuirass, greaves and gauntlets, and not full armor. Still, the tall, kite-shaped shield into which he slid his left arm would afford a good measure of protection, and his longsword had three times the reach of Joscelin's daggers. Cold steel, these weapons were, and honed to a killing edge. I sat my mount in quiet fear, putting a serene face on it as the Duc L'Envers hoisted his shield, testing its weight, and made a few passes with his sword. All over Champs-de-Guerre, shouting echoed, and the sound of running feet and pounding hooves as the ranks of our audience swelled. An impromptu honor guard formed itself around me, soldiers jostling to fend off their comrades. L'Envers' squire adjusted the cheekplates on his lord's helmet, tightening the strap beneath his chin.

"Shall we begin?" Barquiel L'Envers inquired.

Joscelin merely bowed.

The fight began slowly, both combatants circling for advantage. For all his arrogance, Barquiel L'Envers was a veteran of countless battles, not to be goaded into rash action. He made a testing thrust with his sword, eyes narrowing as Joscelin deflected it easily, his steel-clad left forearm sending the blow wide as he stepped inward and turned, bring ing the right-hand dagger up with deceptive speed. It glanced off L'Envers' shield, which he swung in to cover his exposed side. Joscelin shifted backward, weight on his rear leg as he brought his daggers back to their crossed defensive pose, turning to meet the next attack.

I knew by heart the steps he took, the graceful, flowing turns of the Cassiline forms, daggers weaving an intricate pattern of bright steel. I had seen him perform them a thousand times and more, alone in our garden. Barquiel L'Envers sidled warily around him, leading with his shielded left side. Without warning, his sword-arm snaked forward in a low, lateral stroke aimed at Joscelin's midriff. I gasped out loud . . . but Joscelin was already moving, turning to his left, dagger sweeping down to intercept, catching the deadly edge between the curved quillon and the base of the blade, his right elbow rising as he turned to land a jabbing blow at L'Enver's throat.

Barquiel L'Envers coughed, eyes watering; I daresay the blow had bruised his larynx. "You wouldn't try that against a man wearing a gorget, Cassiline," he said in a strained tone.

"No, my lord." Joscelin smiled slightly. "I would not."

Catching his breath, L'Envers launched a flurry of an attack; short, quick blows that pressed Joscelin hard and left no opening for him to close. I watched it with my heart in my throat, for any number of them might have been deadly had they landed. To this day, I honestly do not know if the Duc could have pulled his stroke short if Joscelin's guard had faltered. Blessed Elua be thanked, it did not.

But if it became clear that Barquiel's sword could not penetrate the flashing circle of Joscelin's daggers and vambraces, it was equally clear that Joscelin could not get within reach of the Duc's longsword and past his shield. Around and around they went, churning the muddy field to mire, while the murmur of wagering rose among the watching army and cold sweat trickled between my shoulderblades.

At last, Barquiel L'Envers stepped back, setting his shield high and lifting his sword overhead, stepping up hard and fast to bring it down in a swift blow aimed at the top of Joscelin's head. In a single, blurred movement, Joscelin raised his crossed daggers to catch the blow, pin ioning the sword between his own blades. For a moment, they were locked thusly, straining—and then L'Envers brought his shield up with a fierce jerk, driving it into Joscelin's unprotected face.

Joscelin staggered backward, twisting away from L'Envers' sword, and the soldiers surged forward. Unnerved, my mount shifted restively, tossing its head and blocking my view. By the time I got her under control, the two men had closed again and were grappling. Joscelin had L'Envers' sword-arm pinned low, blade caught in the curved quillon of his dagger; L'Envers pushed hard against him with his shield, striving to bring it up under his chin. Their legs were braced, feet struggling for purchase in the slippery mud.

It was Joscelin who faltered. I saw it, as they heaved and strained, saw his left foot slide, almost of its own volition, saw his left knee buckle. Overborne by L'Envers' shield, their blades entangled, he went down. With a crow of victory, Barquiel L'Envers wrenched his sword free and leveled the blade, tip pointing at Joscelin's throat. "Do you yield, Messire Cassiline?"

On his back, Joscelin put up his hands. "My lord, I yield."

The army roared its approval and I let out a sigh, glad it was over. Barquiel L'Envers chuckled and handed his sword and shield to his squire. Removing his helmet, he tucked it under one arm and extended the other hand to Joscelin, pulling him to his feet. "Well fought, Messire Verreuil, though I daresay your lady won't thank me for the condition of your attire. Still, you've earned her the right to her questions. Shall we retire to my quarters? I'll give you a proper welcome and see if my valet can't do something about that mud."

And with that, we were adjourned.

The Royal Commander's quarters at Champs-de-Guerre were spacious and well appointed, though not luxurious. A scattering of Akka dian pillows and carpets gave it Barquiel L'Envers' stamp. No sign of a woman's hand was in evidence. In all the years I have known him, I've met the Duc's wife only once. A strong woman in her own right, she seems content to run their ancestral estates in Namarre while her ambitious husband plies his skills elsewhere.

True to his word, L'Envers made Joscelin the loan of a pair of clean breeches, sending his mire-sodden doublet and hose with his valet. A repast of cold chicken was served, along with salted melon slices, crusty bread and a sharp white cheese. Afterward, Joscelin sat cross-legged on the floor in his linen shirt and borrowed breeches, methodically cleaning mud from his weapons and gear while I spoke to Barquiel L'Envers.

"My lady Phèdre." Still pleased with his victory, the Duc was in an expansive mood. "What is this matter you wish to discuss with me?"

"Your grace." I inclined my head to him. "What do you know of Imriel de la Courcel?"

"Melisande's boy." L'Envers shot me a shrewd glance. "Why? What do you know, Comtesse?"

I shrugged. "You have looked for him, my lord. I know that much."

He pursed his lips and stared into his wineglass, deciding how much to tell me. "Yes," he said at length. "I've looked." He set down his glass and looked frankly at me. "Your methods differ from mine, anguissette; on that much, we are agreed. The last time we failed to trust one another, we nearly gave the realm into Melisande Shahrizai's hands.

If I tell you what I know, will you return the courtesy?"

The sound of Joscelin's movements paused, then continued. "I will," I said.

"All right." Barquiel L'Envers drew a breath and ran one hand through his fair, short-cropped hair. "You know I've ties to Khebbel- im-Akkad, and to Aragonia. I've had agents search for word in both places, high and low; and from thence, Ephesium, Carthage and the Umaiyyat. No one has found a trace of the boy. I trust you've implored your connections in La Serenissima, Hellas and Illyria to do the same?"

"Yes." There was no strain in his voice, no flicker to his eyelids, not a single one of the tell-tales of a lie. "And I have sought rumor in Terre d'Ange as well."

L'Envers nodded. "As I thought. Anafiel Delaunay trained you well. If it were anyone close to Ysandre, I trust you'd have found them in ten years."

"It wasn't."

He stared at me. I saw his pupils dilate as comprehension dawned. Fear and excitement look much the same at close range; I wasn't sure which it was. "You know." He caught his breath in his bruised throat, coughed impatiently, closed one hand hard around my wrist. A few feet away, Joscelin unobtrusively readied his daggers. "You know!" L'Envers' eyes gleamed, his lips parted in a eager smile. "Who is it?"