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barely have had word of his death.”
    “A courier came by day train,” the archduke said, his tone making Telmaine wince; powerful men did not like being placed on the defensive. “The haste was a touch indecent, yes, but there seemed no reason to delay. The report of di Studier’s death came from Malachi himself.”
    “Reynard di Studier’s not the man for this. Please, Janus, I’m begging you: rescind that order of succession. Quash those charges. Give Strumheller a chance to—a chance to—a chance—” The archduke moved even as he sonned, catching Vladimer as he slid forward, and propping him carefully away from his right shoulder. Vladimer muttered something. The archduke’s reply was tart, for all the words themselves were inaudible. Telmaine thought she deciphered utterly pigheaded .
    “I will give it the most careful consideration,” the archduke said, straightening, his steadying hand on Vladimer’s sound shoulder. “Once I call the physician.”
    He circumvented further argument by going himself to the door to speak to the footmen outside, and staying there until the doctor arrived. The physician obviously had prior experience of Vladimer, effectively deflecting objections while he organized footmen to carry him. Telmaine heard the archduke quietly ordering the halls to be cleared. “I’ll be along,” he promised his brother and the physician as they left.
    Returning, the archduke brushed his hand down the chairback, and sat down, frowning and wiping his fingers on a handkerchief. “Have that cleaned, once we’re done here,” he said to the remaining footman, and dismissed him, turning his attention decisively back to his adviser. “Well, Claudius, now what do I do? You know Dimi: he’s highly strung and this has to be quite the wildest story he’s ever laid before me, but he’s never once cried fire without something burning. And he’s barely escaped an assassination attempt—two, if that uncanny illness of his were indeed sorcery. But he’s asking for a ducal order suspending six twenty-nine in the Borders—and that will not make my dukes at all happy,” he finished, in tones of wry understatement.
    “Your Grace,” said Casamir Blondell, “surely you do not have to decide immediately. I can investigate further—”
    “No,” the archduke told him, heavily, “I’ve never doubted Vladimer’s judgment in these matters, and I will not start now. And I’ve no reason to doubt any of the barons. But curse it, why’d Vladimer tell di Studier that he’d get this done before he said anything to me? If I don’t do it and there’s trouble, there’ll be yet more bad blood between the Borders and the north.”
    Telmaine chewed the finger of her glove until her teeth bruised skin.
    “Vladimer’s right that di Studier’s done journeyman’s work strengthening the Borders defense, and kept it within the limits of six twenty-nine, or as near as is not worth mentioning. You can be sure I’d have heard otherwise if not. Vladimer trusts the man—as much as Vladimer trusts anyone—and in all honesty I don’t think there’s undue i nfluence working. But di Studier’s still a mage, and”—this to Casamir Blondell—“accused of sorcery.”
    Blondell said nothing. If he felt any chagrin at his false accusation, it did not show on his face. Nor did he retract it.
    “What if you were to address the ducal order for Strumheller to Reynard di Studier?” Claudius said. “You’ve already signed the order of succession in good faith, and there’s every reason not to rescind it until Ishmael di Studier’s legal status is resolved. Even if Vladimer denies the sorcery, there’s still the murder of Tercelle Amberley in question. Her betrothed won’t be satisfied with quashed charges, and if there’s going to be trouble, as Vladimer seems to think, you can’t risk any conflict with the Mycenes.”
    “Reynard di Studier,” the archduke said slowly. “I don’t know the man well; he