“Well,” said Shan, “at least we’ve managed to get everyone out of Kareen’s way today. Is she checkmated, do you think, brother? Or will she pull rank on you?”

“She has none to pull.”

Shan opened his mouth—closed it, as memory rose:

The boy Shan, entering the house by a side door and almost falling over his small cousin Val Con, unexpectedly sitting on the cool stone floor, clutching a martyred orange cat in his arms.

Shan sat on the floor next to the child, extended a hand and ruffled the dark hair.

‘Hello, denubia, what’re you doing here?’

A long pause curing which Val Con studied him out of solemn green eyes. Then, with the terrible succinctness of the very young: ‘Aunt Kareen doesn’t want me.’

“Shan.” Val Con’s voice, here and now.

“Yes?” But even as he asked, he saw them; the Lady leaning on the arm of her elegant escort. “Aaaah, damn. Have they seen us?”

“Hello, kinsmen!” called Pat Rin across the Festival’s babble.

“Why must he always remind me of that?”

“Gently, brother,” murmured Val Con. “Only think of the expense; weigh it against satisfaction gained…”

“You make it sound so simple…” he began; then Lady Kareen and her son were with them and he chopped it off to make his bow.

Val Con also bowed, graceful and brief. “Aunt. Cousin.”

“Nephew,” she said icily and paused to draw a deep breath. Into this slight gap—unexpectedly—stepped Pat Rin.

“What an extraordinary cloak, young cousin. And worn at such an odd hour. Unless you wish to establish a—point—of some kind?”

Val Con considered him, eyebrow askance. “I wish to establish a new fashion in cloaks, kinsman. What better place to introduce it than the Little Festival, where hours are for a time banished?”