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out of Palsance. Still, Haldane understood him. His tone was clear if his words were not.
    Lothor must surely be a king. Morca did not bother to understand him, as he would have understood any lesser man. The dog watched all, silent but eager.
    The door of the carriage opened and a girl, a woman, a princess, Lothor’s little brown heifer, stepped down into the mud of the yard with some difficulty. It was impossible to tell if her clumsiness was the result of shoes raised and protected like her father’s. Her great dress of white and gold hid her feet. The heavy sleeves of the dress were a series of puffs and every puff wore a modest skirt of its own. Her face, underneath her broad-brimmed hat, was unappealing, sour and painted.
    “Odo!” Morca bawled, calling like a herdsman, as she stepped to the ground.
    She flinched at the roar of it and seemed to teeter, and was steadied by her father’s hand.
    Odo the Steward, the Nestorian of highest rank in Morca’s service, who might even order housecarls to come, go, or stay, ceased his directions and overseeing as he heard his master call. His exhortations and movements of hand were no more needed than sideline signals to a squad of well-drilled horses on parade. The work continued smoothly without him as he came off the porch of Morca’s hall and out into the yard
    “Yes, Lord Morca?”
    “Unload the carriage,” Morca called. “It is empty now.” He turned back to Lothor. “Ha. I said if breakfast was early and cold, we should make our dinner here in the comfort of home.”
    Odo began to draft serfs from the earnest ant line waiting to carry away what it was handed from the wagon of spoils to Morca’s storehouse within. Or was the wagon the dowry Lothor had spoken of? Trust Morca. For years, until men had drifted back to calling him Black Morca, he had been known as Morca Bride-Stealer, the man who paid no bride price. In these days, unlike the better ones of old, the name was no sully. Men had laughed and leapt to follow him.
    The serfs hurried to the carriage. One bounded up atop and began to unstrap royal baggage.
    Haldane studied the girl. His bride? Her hair under the hat was some shade of brown and pinned in draping curls. In this light, that was all that could be said. Her nose was long and straight and her face was round. He thought she must be older than he, all of twenty or more. And stunted, shorter than her father. Shorter than the Nestorian women he knew best, the nurses, serving maids, and cooks of the dun, or those he saw in the villages. Shorter than Get women, though he knew none of these, never having traveled, except once to his grandfather’s when he was a child, and it being Morca’s rule that men might marry but that married men might not serve within his walls. But the Get women of his mind and the Get women of his memory were taller than this.
    The boy thought though he might marry this princess of Chastain, he wouldn’t like her. He would close her away in a tight room and turn his back on the door. She deserved no better, and she would get from him only what she deserved. Men might see him with her and laugh.
    Morca said, “This is Lothor of Chastain. The king. And this is his daugh—”
    “No, no,” said Lothor, changing the lapdog to his other arm. “Let me make the introductions. This gaping lurdane, my dear, is your husband-to-be. Haldane, the son of Black Morca. My youngest daughter, the Princess Marthe, the spring of my old age. You are not fit to lay eyes upon her, but I grace you with her hand. I do not know this barefoot man.”
    “Embrace her, boy,” said Morca. “This is Oliver, my maker of magic. Oliver from the Hook of Palsance. Did you know I had a wizard? Would you care to try his skill?”
    Lothor said, “It is a large place to be from. And the name is unknown to me. Call him wizard if you like. We have no barefoot wizards in the Western Kingdoms.”
    “Embrace her, boy,” said Morca in Nestorian.
    “But she’s