Praecum nodded nervously at one of his men, then began rubbing his hands nervously.

"That was a quick change of mind," Harriot observed.

"As you said, we're outnumbered."

"Not if the saints are on our side," Harriot replied.

"Do you mock me?"

"Not at all."

The sacritor shook his head. "What can she want here?"

"You haven't heard about Plinse, Nurthwys, and Saeham?"

"Towns in Newland. What about them?"

"You've really no better ear for news than that?"

"I have been quite occupied here, sir."

"So it appears."

"What do you mean?"

Harriot heard clattering on the stairs.

"I think you'll find out in a moment," he remarked. "Here they come."

Harriot had never met Anne Dare, but he knew quite a bit about her. She was seventeen, the youngest daughter of the late William II. Reports by Praefec Hespero and others described her as selfish and willful, intelligent but uninterested in using her intelligence, least of all for politics, for which she had no inclination whatsoever. She had vanished from sight around a year earlier, only to turn up at the Coven Saint Dare, where she was being trained in the arts of the Dark Lady.

Now it seemed she took a great deal of interest in politics. Perhaps it was the slaughter of her sisters and father that had spurred it, or the numerous attempts on her own life. Perhaps it was something the sisters of Saint Cer had done to her.

Whatever the case, this was not the girl he had read about.

He hadn't expected freckles, although he knew she was fair-skinned and red-haired, and those things usually went together. Her nose was large and arched enough that if it were a bit bigger, one might call it a beak, but somehow it fit pleasantly below her sea-green eyes, and though she wasn't classically beautiful like her mother, there was an appeal about her.

She focused her gaze on Praecum. She didn't say anything, but the young man at her side placed his hand on the hilt of his rapier.