Carava de Bos approached with a small, black wooden tray on which lay three letters, their seals unbroken. De Bos managed the delegation’s clerical functions by day. The night clerk was Rivademar Vircondelet. Each doubled as a spy. Both were prot?g?s of Titus Consent, chief spymaster and record keeper of the Patriarchal forces. And friend of the Captain-General.

De Bos said, “Recently arrived letters, sir. In order of arrival. Also, a gentleman named Renfrow has asked to see you. Shall I make an appointment?”

“You don’t know who he is?”

“He thinks he’s important.”

“And that would be true.”

“Shall I make an appointment?”

“No. Send him in. The rest of you, clear off. Madouc. I don’t want the servants eavesdropping.” Bayard va Still-Patter expected his people to spy. They tried hard. And were ferociously inept.

Renfrow was nondescript. He wore seasoned clothing like nine of ten people in the street, was average in height and unremarkable in his features. His hair betrayed specks of gray. Hecht had been close enough to smell the man’s breath on several occasions but could not recall the color of his eyes.

Hecht watched Renfrow approach. Renfrow was surprised to see Algres Drear. Pella, Hecht sensed, remembered Renfrow from the Knight of Wands a couple years ago.

That boy had a dangerous memory.

Hecht considered the letters. He recognized none of the hands. One seal was that of the Patriarch. The others belonged to the Empress and her sister, respectively.

These morning reviews happened around a table capable of seating a dozen. Hecht folded a couple maps and turned over two reports that had not gone away. Renfrow took it all in at a glance, lingering an instant on the letters from the Imperial sisters.

Hecht said, “Sit. If you’ll be more comfortable. I intend to.” He settled.