Euchor snarled, but he did not immediately reply. “No,” he said at last, “I won’t send Milnese soldiers to die in the South for Rhinebeck’s sake without something in return from him.”

The Painted Man seethed inwardly at the man’s shortsightedness, but this was not unexpected. Now it was just a matter of negotiation.

“Duke Rhinebeck has empowered me to make some concessions,” the Painted Man said. “He will not remove his people from their half of Riverbridge, but he will turn fifty percent of the tolls over to you for a period of ten years, in exchange for your aid.”

“Only half, for a decade?” Euchor scoffed. “That will barely buy rations for the soldiers.”

“There is some room to negotiate, Your Grace,” the Painted Man said.

Euchor shook his head. “Not good enough. Not good enough by far. If Rhinebeck wants my help, I want that and something more.”

The Painted Man inclined his head. “And that is, Your Grace?”

“Rhinebeck has still failed to produce a male heir, has he not?” Euchor said bluntly. Mother Jone gasped, and the other men in the room shifted uncomfortably at the unseemly topic.

“Much as Your Grace,” the Painted Man said, fighting words that Euchor waved away.

“I have grandsons,” Euchor said. “My line is secure.”

“Your pardon, but what has this to do with an alliance?” the Painted Man asked.

“Because if Rhinebeck wishes one, he will have to marry one of my daughters,” Euchor said, looking back at the women standing unprettily behind his throne. “With the bridge tolls as her promise gift.”

“Aren’t your daughters all Mothers?” the Painted Man asked in confusion.

“Indeed,” Euchor said, “proven breeders, all of whom have given sons, but still in the flower of their youth.”

The Painted Man glanced at the women again. They didn’t seem in the flower of anything, but he made no comment. “I mean, Your Grace, aren’t they all wed?”

Euchor shrugged, “To minor Royals, all. I can dissolve their vows with a wave, and any of them would be proud to sit the throne beside Rhinebeck and give him a son. I’ll even let him choose which one.”

Rhinebeck will die first, the Painted Man thought. There will be no alliance.

“I have not been empowered to negotiate such matters,” he said.

“Of course not,” Euchor agreed. “I’ll put the offer in writing this very day, and send my herald to Rhinebeck’s court to deliver it personally.”

“Your Grace,” Keerin squeaked, again a sickly pallor, “surely you need me here for—”

“You will go to Angiers, or I will throw you from my tower,” Euchor growled.

Keerin bowed, attempting a Jongleur’s mask though his distress still shone through. “Of course it is my great honor to go, if I am absolved of my local duties.”

Euchor grunted, then turned his eyes back to the Painted Man. “You still haven’t given me a price for your battle wards.”

The Painted Man smiled and reached into his satchel, producing a grimoire of hand-sewn pages bound in leather. “These?”

“I thought you said they weren’t with you,” Euchor said.

The Painted Man shrugged. “I lied.”

“What do you want for them?” the duke asked again.

“Warders and supplies sent to Riverbridge with your herald on the way to Angiers,” the Painted Man said, “along with a royal decree accepting all refugees from across the Dividing without toll, and a guarantee of food, shelter, and succor through the winter.”

“All that, for a book of wards? ” Euchor demanded. “Ridiculous!”

The Painted Man shrugged. “If you wish to buy those I sold Rhinebeck, you’d best treat with him soon, before the Krasians burn his city down.”

“The Warders’ Guild will defray the costs to Your Grace, of course,” Ragen said on cue.

“The Messengers’ Guild, as well,” Malcum added quickly.

Euchor’s eyes narrowed at the men, and the Painted Man knew he had won. Euchor knew that if he refused, the guildmasters would buy the wards themselves, and he would lose control of the greatest advancement in magic since the First Demon War.

“I would never ask such of my guilds,” the duke said. “The crown will cover the expense. After all,” he nodded to the Painted Man, “the least Miln can do is take in any survivors who come so far north. Provided, of course, that they take an oath of allegiance.”

The Painted Man frowned, but he nodded, and at a signal from Euchor, Tender Ronnell hurried forward to take the book from him. Malcum stared at it hungrily.

“Will you accept the shelter of the caravan back to Angiers?” the duke asked, trying to hide his eagerness for the Painted Man to be gone.

The Painted Man shook his head. “I thank you, Your Grace, but I am my own succor.” He bowed and, without being dismissed, turned and strode from the room.

It was simple to lose the men Euchor sent to follow him. The city had begun its morning bustle, and the streets were crowded as the Painted Man headed for the Duke’s Library. He seemed just another Tender as he ascended the marble steps of the greatest building in Thesa.

As always, the Duke’s Library filled the Painted Man with both elation and sorrow. In it, Euchor and his ancestors had collected copies of nearly every remaining book from the old world that survived the flame demons burning the libraries during the Return. Science. Medicine. Magic. History. Everything. The dukes of Miln had collected all that knowledge and locked it away, denying its benefits to all mankind.

As a journeyman Warder, the Painted Man had warded the stacks and furniture of the Library, earning permanent placement in the book of access to the archives. Of course, he had no desire to reveal his identity, even to some acolyte clerk, but his objective wasn’t in the stacks this time. Once inside the building, he slipped out of sight and headed down a side passage.

He was waiting in Tender Ronnell’s office when the librarian returned, clutching the grimoire of battle wards. Ronnell didn’t notice him at first, moving quickly to lock the door behind him. He exhaled then, turning and holding the book out before him.

“Odd that Euchor would give the book to you and not the head of his Warders’ Guild, who would be better able to decipher it,” the Painted Man said.

Ronnell yelped at the sound and stumbled back. His eyes widened farther when he saw who stood before him. His hand sketched a quick ward in the air before him.

When it became clear that the Painted Man intended no attack, the Tender straightened and regained his composure. “I am well qualified to decipher this book. Warding is part of an acolyte’s studies. The world may not be ready for what is contained within. His Grace commanded that I assess it first.”

“Is that your function, Tender? To decide what mankind is ready for? As if you or Euchor might have a right to deny men the ability to fight back against the corelings?”

Ronnell snorted. “You speak, sir, as someone who did not sell the wards at a high price rather than giving them freely.”

The Painted Man walked to Ronnell’s desk. The surface was impeccably neat and clear, save for a lamp, a polished mahogany writing kit, and a brass stand holding the Tender’s personal copy of the Canon. He lifted the book casually, and his sharp ears caught a possessive inhalation from the Tender, but the man said nothing.