When she finished, the duke chuckled. “I’m sure teaching will be an eye-opening experience,” he said, picking up the sheaf of papers he’d been reading when she came in. “It always was for me.”

“Oh, splendid,” Sandry told him drily. “Was there any news about Jamar Rokat?”

“Not a word,” said the duke. “It’s as if they appeared in that room, did their work, then vanished.” He leafed through the papers until he found three, and passed them to her. Sandry read them quickly. Captain Qais was as stiff in writing as he was in person, but the facts were clear. So far the bodyguards refused to admit to helping the killers enter the countinghouse. She understood that: if they did, they would be executed as accomplices. The Provost’s Mages were still picking apart the spells of pro tection and detection on Rokat House, with nothing to report. Everyone who worked in the building was being questioned by the Guard. The dead mans brother was making a nuisance of himself, hovering over Captain Qais and demanding results.

Sandry returned the papers to her uncle, and contin ued to eat her breakfast in thoughtful silence. Just as she finished, a maidservant came to the open door.

“Forgive me, your grace, my lord, but there is a boy here.” In her mouth the word boy sounded like a disease. “He says he must speak to my lady immediately.”

Sandry frowned. Could it be Pasco? “Does he have a name?” she asked.

Pasco darted in past the servant, coming to an abrupt halt when he saw the two men at the table. His face, al ready ashy, went dead white.

Sandry took pity on him and got to her feet. “Pasco, good morning,” she said calmly, putting her napkin on her chair. “You met my uncle yesterday, of course—,”

Pasco bowed jerkily to the duke.

“And this is the Lord Seneschal, Baron Erdogun fer Baigh.”

Pasco gave the same wooden-puppet bow to Erdogun, then fixed pleading eyes on Sandry. “Lady, my cousins are hanging in midair and I can’t get them down!”

Sandry heard the duke smother a chuckle. She ignored it as she fixed Pasco with her best teacherly stare. “I take it you danced them up there?”

Pasco nodded, wringing his hands.

“So you agree you have magic,” Sandry told him sternly.

“I’ll agree anything, lady, if only you’ll fetch them down!”

Sandry looked at the maid. “Please inform Oama and Kwaben that I require their company, my own horse, and a mount for Pasco.” The woman dipped Sandry a curtsy and left, her back stiff with disapproval.

Sandry thrust Pasco into a chair and put a muffin in his hands. “Tell me exactly what happened,” she ordered.

House Acalon was not what Sandry had thought it would be when Pasco told her that four families of harri rs lived there. She had expected something gloomier than this tall, airy building with its tiled roof and plastered walls, built around a large central courtyard. Bright, colorful hangings decorated the walls inside and soft carpets lay underfoot. The walls had been white washed recently; wooden furniture gleamed under coats of wax. It wasn’t cold enough yet for a hearth fire in the front parlor where Pasco led her, but a brazier took the chill off the room and released a whiff of sandalwood to perfume the air.

When they entered the front parlor, a woman got up from a chair next to the brazier, closing the book she had been reading. She was tall and strong-looking, with di rect brown eyes and a firm jaw. When Pasco saw her, he gulped audibly.

“Mama,” he said, looking down.

“I am Sandrilene fa Toren.” Sandry offered a hand to the woman, who grasped it lightly, bowed—she wore loose breeches—and released it.

“Zahra Acalon,” the woman replied. “I understand my son has been keeping a few things from us.”

Sandry gave Zahra her best smile. “Don’t blame him,” she said, resting a hand on Pasco’s shoulder. The boy quivered like a nervous horse. “I only told him yesterday he had dancing magic. I can’t scold him for not believing in e. My teacher, Dedicate Lark at Winding Circle, has never heard of dance magic the way he does it.”

She wasn’t sure, but she thought Zahra softened a lit tle. “He should have told us,” she said gruffly. Looking at “Pasco she added very firmly, “Immediately.”

“It’s not harrier stuff,” muttered Pasco.

Zahra looked rueful. “It’s true, my lady,” she confessed to Sandry. “Most of what gets talked of here is harrier business —Provost’s Guard,” she explained.

Sandry nodded. “I understand. When I lived at Discipline, almost all we talked about was magic.” It wasn’t quite true, but it might help mother and son to relax, if she didn’t act critical. “Now, perhaps we should get to the problem.

Once we’ve sorted that out, we can talk about Pasco’s education.”

“This way,” said Zahra, leading them through the house. They walked into a gallery around the inner courtyard. From there Sandry could see the airborne captives, three young people in their teens, all in breeches and shirts, each holding a padded baton. They seemed to be practicing a defense against two attackers on the open ground, Watching them intently from a bench near the low fountain at the center of the courtyard was a tall, slender old man with gray hair combed straight back, a long straight nose and heavy brows.

He thumped the ground with his cane. “No, no, Reha! You’re leaving yourself open for a side attack! Pay attention,!”