As the palace's chief chamberlain, he'd seen his share of bizarre royal gifts over the years, and he'd seldom paid much attention to them, if the truth be told. That was no longer true, however, and he'd looked this one over closely.

"Wyverns?" Lakeland repeated, eyebrows arching. "All the way from Corisande?"

"All the way from Corisande," Halahdrom confirmed. "According to the cover note, they're a gift from Earl Anvil Rock for the boy's birthday. Apparently he was just starting to fly his own wyverns for small game before his father packed him off to us." The chamberlain chuckled. "Be a few years before he's ready to fly any of these, though! The damned things are big enough to pick him up and fly away."

Lakeland shook his head with a bemused smile. Worrying about the gifts someone might send a boy for his eleventh birthday wasn't something which concerned most first councilors. Of course, most first councilors weren't in Lakeland's position. Bishop Executor Dynzail Vahsphar had made it abundantly clear that he was to be kept fully informed about anything which was delivered to Prince Daivyn or any other member of his household. Bishop Mytchail Zhessop, Vahsphar's intendant, had made it equally clear he intended to hold Lakeland personally responsible for the completeness of those reports.

The whole thing struck the baron as excessive, to say the least. Anybody who tried to poison the boy, for example, was unlikely to do it by sending him sweetmeats from Corisande, and that was the most likely threat he could imagine. Well, the most likely threat from anything anyone might openly send him, at any rate, Lakeland amended a bit more grimly.

Still, Halahdrom might have a point about this particular gift. It seemed evident the boy had to take after his mother, since by all reports Hektor of Corisande had been a tall, powerfully built fellow, and Prince Daivyn was never going to be a large man. Three days short of his eleventh birthday, he was a small, slender boy. Not delicate, just small, with a wiry knit frame that seemed unlikely to ever bulk up with muscle. He was smart, too, almost as smart as that sister of his, and Lakeland suspected that under normal circumstances he probably would have been a lively handful. As it was, he was quiet, often pensive, and he spent a lot of time with his books. Partly that was a natural consequence of the king wyvern's eye his sister, King Zhames' guardsmen, and the members of his own household kept on him. Given what had happened to his father and his older brother, that sort of suffocating surveillance was inevitable, but it had to have a depressing effect on a lad's natural high spirits and sense of mischief. Perhaps that was why neither Lakeland nor Halahdrom had seen any sign of a passion for hunting wyverns in him. It wasn't as if he'd had any opportunity to pursue the sport since arriving here, after all.

"Did any other gifts arrive with them?" he asked.

"No." Halahdrom shook his head, then made a face. "Most of them got here a couple of five-days ago, courtesy of that Charisian 'parole.' These just arrived today, and I think they must've been an afterthought. Either that or somebody figured the Charisians might not pass them through for some reason."

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, they're obviously from Anvil Rock-most of the correspondence is in a secretary's hand, of course, but he sent along a nice little personal note to the boy in his own handwriting, along with a list of devotional readings he'd like the lad to be studying now that he's getting older." The chamberlain shrugged. "We've seen enough of his handwriting by now to know it's really his, and the secretary's writing matches the last several sets of letters we've received, as well. But they didn't come covered by a Charisian guarantee of safe passage, the way the rest of the birthday gifts did." He chuckled. "In fact, they came upriver from Sarmouth by messenger-courtesy of a smuggler, unless I miss my guess."

"That's interesting." Lakeland rubbed his nose. "A smuggler, you say?"

"That's my best guess, at any rate." Halahdrom shrugged. "I've got the fellow waiting outside if you'd like to speak to him directly."

"That might not be a bad idea," Lakeland said, and smiled slightly. "If the fellow's a smuggler-or knows somebody who is, at any rate-we might even be able to get some decent whiskey through that damned blockade!"

Halahdrom chuckled, nodded, and departed. A few moments later, he returned with a tall, brown-haired and brown-eyed man in the decent but nondescript dress of a seaman. If the stranger was worried as he was ushered into the first councilor's office he hid it well.

"Ahbraim Zhevons, My Lord," Halahdrom said, speaking rather more formally in the outsider's presence, and Zhevons bobbed a respectful bow.

"So, Master Zhevons," Lakeland said, "I understand you've come to deliver a birthday gift for Prince Daivyn?"

"Aye, My Lord, I have. Or so Sir Klymynt tells me." Zhevons shrugged. "Nobody told me the lad was a prince, you understand. Mind, it seemed likely he wasn't what you might be calling a common lad, given how much somebody was willing to pay to get his present delivered to him. And let me tell you, keeping those damned wyverns-begging your pardon-fed without losing a finger was a harder job than I'd figured on!"

There was a twinkle in the brown eyes, and Lakeland felt his own lips hovering on the brink of a smile.

"So you brought them all the way from Corisande, did you?" he asked.

"Oh, no, My Lord! I, um, made connections in Tarot, as you might say. I've just ... helped them along the last leg."

"Smuggler, are you?" The baron allowed his expression to harden slightly. This fellow might or might not be a smuggler and he might or might not have known young Daivyn was a prince. And this struck the first councilor as an unlikely way to get an assassin into the boy's presence, for that matter. Still....

"That's a hard word." Zhevons didn't sound particularly hurt by it, however. "I'm more of a ... free-trader. I specialize in small cargoes for shippers who'd sometimes sooner avoid any unnecessary paperwork, as you might say, true, but my word's my bond. I always see to any delivery myself, you see, and my rates are reasonable, My Lord." He smiled charmingly. "Very reasonable."

"Somehow I suspect your definition of 'reasonable' and mine may differ just a bit," Lakeland said dryly.

"Oh, I'm sure we could come to an agreement suitable to both of us, always assuming you ever had need of my services, of course."

"Now that I can believe." Lakeland leaned back. "I don't imagine you'd have access to any Chisholmian whiskey, would you, Master Zhevons?"

"No, not personally, I'm afraid. Not since the Grand Inquisitor went and declared his embargo, of course. Still, I'm sure I could lay hands on someone who does. Indirectly, of course."

"Oh, of course," Lakeland agreed. "Well, if you do manage it, I think I can safely say you'd find it worth your while to deliver some of it here in Talkyra."

"I'll bear that in mind, My Lord. Ah, would it be too much of a disappointment to you if it was to arrive here without Delferahkan tax stamps?" Zhevons smiled winningly when Lakeland looked at him. "It's not that I'm trying to rob you or your King of any rightful revenue, My Lord; it's more a matter of principle, so to speak."

"I see." Lakeland's lips quivered. "Very well, Master Zhevons, I'm sure I'll be able to deal with my disappointment somehow."

"I'm glad to hear it, My Lord." Zhevons bowed again, politely, and Lakeland chuckled.

"If you can manage to stay unhanged long enough you'll die a wealthy man, Master Zhevons."

"Kind of you to be saying so, My Lord, but it's my aim to live a wealthy man, if you take my meaning."

"Indeed I do." Lakeland shook his head, then sobered a bit. "I take it that you don't know exactly how this delivery got to Tarot in the first place, though?"

"I've no certain knowledge one way or the other, My Lord, but I do know the fellow who brought it as far as Tarot is a fine seaman who somehow managed to forget to apply for his tax documents when he docked in Corisande. Well, that's what I've heard, at any rate."

"And would this fellow have a name?" Lakeland pressed.

It was obvious Zhevons didn't really like the thought of passing along any additional information. Actually, that made Lakeland think the better of him, since it seemed to indicate a certain honor among thieves ... or among smugglers, at least. But the first councilor wasn't letting him off that lightly, and he sat silently, eyes boring into Zhevons' until, finally, the smuggler shrugged.

"Harys, My Lord," he said with a slight but unmistakable emphasis, looking levelly back at the baron. "Zhoel Harys."

"Ah." Lakeland glanced quickly at Halahdrom, then nodded to Zhevons. "I realize revealing professional confidences cuts against the grain of a ... free-trader such as yourself, Master Zhevons. Nonetheless, I'm sure you understand why we have to exercise at least a little caution where people delivering unexpected gifts to Prince Daivyn are concerned."

"Aye, I can see where that might be the case," Zhevons conceded.

"Well, I believe that's all I really needed to discuss with you," Lakeland said. "I'm serious about the whiskey, though!"

"I'll bear that in mind, My Lord," Zhevons assured him, and bowed again as Halahdrom nodded at the door.

"Wait for me in the hall for a moment, Master Zhevons," he said.

"Of course, My Lord."

"Harys, is it?" Lakeland murmured as the door closed behind the smuggler. "Interesting choice of deliveryman, don't you think, Klymynt?"

"Yes, it is," the chamberlain agreed. "I wonder why they didn't just send him all the way to Sarmouth himself?"

"Oh, come now!" Lakeland shook his head. "Cayleb and Nahrmahn've had the better part of two years on the ground in Corisande by now. I'd say there's a good chance they know exactly who Hektor used to get the Prince and his sister to the mainland. They'd probably really like the opportunity to have a few words with him, especially if Anvil Rock and Coris are still using him, too. But they'd be looking for him here or in Corisande, not in Tarot of all places! So it would make sense for him to use somebody they've never heard of for the last leg."

"I suppose so," Halahdrom agreed. "Of course, if it is Harys, that makes this 'gift' a bit more suspicious, don't you think?"

"It might, and it might not. My thought, though, is that since Anvil Rock apparently had no problem getting permission to send Prince Daivyn's other birthday presents through the blockade with Charisian approval, if there's anything 'suspicious' about this gift, it's probably something he didn't want the Charisians to know about. You haven't found anything out of order about it?"

"Nothing." Halahdrom shook his head. "I even had the wyverns moved into another cage while I checked the bottom of the one they came in for false partitions or compartments."

They looked at one another for a moment while both of them considered the possibility of things like spoken messages which would leave no inconvenient written records behind.

"Well, given the thoroughness of your examination, I think we simply make sure we've got copies of all the correspondence, then report its arrival to Bishop Mytchail, send him the copies, and pass it on to Earl Coris for Prince Daivyn," Lakeland decided. He leaned back in his chair again, meeting Halahdrom's eyes. "And given the Lord Bishop's views on smugglers and the embargo, I see no need to describe our conversation with Master Zhevons to him, do you?"

"A gift from Earl Anvil Rock, is it, My Lord?" Tobys Raimair cocked an eyebrow at Phylyp Ahzgood. "Would it happen the boy was expecting any additional gifts from him?"

"No, it wouldn't," the Earl of Coris replied. "Which is why it occurred to me that it might be as well for you and I to accept delivery before we let it-or the deliveryman-into his presence."

"Oh, aye, I can understand that," Raimair agreed. "Would you like me to ask one of the other lads to step in, as well?"

"I doubt that will be necessary," Coris replied with a slight smile, considering the sword and dirk riding in well-worn sheaths at Raimair's side. "Not for one man who's not even getting into the same room with the boy."

"As you say, My Lord." Raimair bowed, then crossed the room to open the door.

A tall, brown-haired man stepped through it, followed by two of the palace's servants and Brother Bahldwyn Gaimlyn, one of King Zhames' junior secretaries. Between them, the wary footmen carried an ornately gilded traveling cage which contained six large wyverns. The wyverns gazed about with beady, unusually intelligent-looking eyes, and Coris frowned. It seemed an odd choice for a gift from Anvil Rock, who knew perfectly well that Daivyn had never showed the least interest in hunting wyverns. That had been his older brother's passion.

"Master ... Zhevons, is it?" Coris asked the brown-haired man.

"Aye, Sir. Ahbraim Zhevons, at your service," the stranger replied in a pleasant tenor voice.

"And you're an associate of Captain Harys?"

"Oh, I'd not go that far, My Lord." Zhevons shook his head, but his eyes met Coris' levelly. "It's more that we're in the same line of business, so to speak. These days, at least."

"I see." Coris glanced at the footmen and Brother Bahldwyn, who were waiting patiently, and wondered which of them was Baron Lakeland's ears for this conversation. Probably all three of them, he decided. Or perhaps one was Lakeland's and one was Mytchail Zhessop's.

"Did Captain Harys pass on any messages to me?" he asked out loud.

"No, My Lord. Can't say he did," Zhevons replied. "Except that he did say as how you might be seeing me or one of my ... ah, business associates with another odd delivery now and again." He smiled easily, but his eyes held Coris' gaze intently. "I think you might say the Captain's of the opinion he might've become just a bit too well known to be serving you the way he has before."

"Yes, I suppose I might," Coris said thoughtfully, and nodded. "Well, in that case, Master Zhevons, thank you for your efficiency."

He reached into his belt pouch, withdrew a five-mark piece, and flipped the golden disk to the smuggler, who caught it with an easy economy of movement and a grin. One of the footmen smiled as well, and Coris hoped the man had made note of the fact that there'd been absolutely no way for anything written to have been exchanged in the process.

"I'm sure these fellows can see you safely on your way, Master Zhevons," he continued. "And I'm sure you can imagine there's a certain young man anxiously awaiting my report on what his mysterious birthday gift might be."

"Oh, that I can, My Lord! I'd no idea he was a prince, of course, but I'm sure every boy that age is much the same under the skin."

The earl smiled again and nodded, and Zhevons sketched a bow and followed the footmen and Brother Bahldwyn out. Coris watched the door close behind him, then turned to Raimair.

"And what do you make of our Master Zhevons, Tobys?"

"Seems a capable sort, My Lord," Raimair replied. "Never heard as how the boy-Prince Daivyn, I mean-was all that fond of wyvern hunting, howsome ever."

"That's because he wasn't ... and isn't," Coris murmured.

"You don't say?" Raimair observed. "Now that makes a man feel just a mite suspicious, especially arriving all unannounced this way, doesn't it just?"

"Perhaps, but Master Zhevons says Captain Harys got them as far as Tarot," Coris said, lifting his eyes to Raimair's face. "Of course, by this time it's entirely possible someone's figured out how we got here from Corisande, so the fact that Zhevons claims he knows Harys doesn't necessarily prove anything. It does strike me as an indicator in its favor, though. And then there's this."

He pulled out the (already opened) envelope which had accompanied the traveling cage. It contained a sheaf of correspondence, and the earl extracted the letters and showed them to Raimair.

"I recognize the handwriting-both Earl Anvil Rock's and his secretary's," he pointed out.

He looked down at them for a moment, then shrugged and walked across to his bookcase. He ran his finger down the spines of the shelved books until he found the one he wanted, then took it from the shelf, sat down at his desk, and unfolded Anvil Rock's letter to Daivyn. The chapter and verse notations Anvil Rock had included in his letter were exactly the sort to which a considerably older kinsman and a regent might want to direct a youthful charge's attention, especially if they had no opportunity for personal contact with the boy. A little somber and weighty for a lad Daivyn's age, perhaps, but the boy was the legitimate ruler of an entire princedom. Something a bit more serious than the sorts of verses most children memorized for catechism might well be in order, given those circumstances.

Coris wasn't particularly interested in looking up the passages indicated to check their content, however. Instead, he was turning pages in the cheap novel (printed in Manchyr) he'd taken from the shelf, selecting page numbers, then lines down the page, then words in the lines. Langhorne 6:21-9, for example, directed him to the sixth page, the twenty-first line, and the ninth word. He tracked down each passage's indicated words, jotting each of them down quickly on a sheet of paper. Then he sat gazing at the sheet for a moment, frowning, before he dropped it into the fire on his sitting room's hearth, stood, and crossed to the traveling cage. Its gilded bars were topped with ornamental finials, and he counted quickly around them from left to right until he got to the thirteenth. He gripped it, careful to keep his fingers out of reach of the wyverns' saw-toothed beaks, and twisted, but it wouldn't budge.

"You've got stronger wrists than I do, Tobys," he said wryly. "See if you can get this thing to screw off. It turns clock-wise to loosen, not counter-clockwise."

Raimahn raised an eyebrow, then reached out. His powerful hand closed on the finial and he grunted with effort. For a moment, nothing happened; then it yielded. Once it started turning, it went on turning easily until he'd screwed it completely off, revealing that the bar was hollow and contained two or three tightly rolled sheets of paper.

"Well, well, well," Coris murmured, reaching in and extracting the sheets.

He unrolled them and began to read, then stopped abruptly. His eyes widened in shock, and he looked quickly at Raimahn.

"My Lord?" the guardsman asked quickly.

"It's ... just not from who I thought it would be from," Coris said.

"Is it bad news, then, My Lord?"

"No, I wouldn't say that." Coris managed a smile, beginning to come back on balance with the practice of decades as a spymaster. It was, he admitted to himself, rather harder this time than it had ever been before, however. "Unexpected news, yes, but not bad. At least, I don't think so."

He looked back down at the note, trying to wrap his mind around all it implied. The handwriting in the correspondence was definitely Anvil Rock's, but if the note in his hand was to be believed, Anvil Rock had never written it. Never even seen it, although exactly how the man who had written it-and had the sheer audacity to personally deliver it to Talkyra-had managed to forge the correspondence so perfectly and gained access to the code book Anvil Rock and Coris had arranged so long ago were certainly ... interesting questions.

"Earl Coris," it began, "First, I beg your pardon for a slight deception on my part. Two of them, to be more accurate. First, I've never actually met Captain Harys, I'm afraid, nor has any portion of Prince Daivyn's 'gift' ever been within a thousand leagues of Corisande. And, second, I'm afraid my name isn't actually Ahbraim Zhevons. It serves me well enough when needed, however, and while I'm aware you've never heard of me, I'm an associate of someone I'm certain you have heard of: Merlin Athrawes. I do the occasional odd job for Seijin Merlin when it would be impolitic for him to handle them himself, and he asked me to deliver these wyverns to you as a gift from Earl Gray Harbor. I'm sure you've noticed they're a bit larger than most messenger wyverns, and there's a reason for that. You see-"

.II.

Tellesberg Palace and Tellesberg Cathedral, City of Tellesberg, Kingdom of Old Charis "God, it's good to be home!" Sharleyan Ahrmahk sighed, curling up against her husband's side and resting her head on his shoulder. She closed her eyes, feeling as if she were expanding the pores of her skin to absorb the gentle night breeze breathing through the bedchamber's open windows. Exotic insects she hadn't heard in too many months sang in the moon-silvered darkness, the brilliant stars of the southern hemisphere hung overhead like ornaments from some cosmic glassblower, and the part of her which had been missing for far too long was back beside her.

"So Tellesberg is 'home' now, is it?" Cayleb teased gently, and she nodded.

"At the moment, at least." She raised her head long enough to kiss him on the cheek, then snuggled back down and wrapped one arm around his chest, all without ever opening her eyes again. "Don't let this go to your head, but home is wherever you are."

His own arm tightened around her and he pressed his cheek against the top of her head, inhaling the sweet scent of her hair and savoring its silken texture.

"Works both ways," he told her. "Except, for me, home is wherever you and Alahnah are."

"Correction accepted, Your Majesty."