Hesitantly she turned and saw lounging on a marble bench half-concealed by a flowering rosebush a man with cropped chestnut hair, dressed in rough tradesman's garb that highlighted rather than concealed his powerful physique. Dark brown eyes regarded her with open curiosity, and as he lifted his waterskin to his lips Carala couldn't help noticing the way sweat limned the muscles of his upper arm, where he sported a single tattoo: a pair of stylized feet adorned with wings.

Well, it's the only tattoo I can see, Carala thought. An atavistic shudder twisted her belly.

"Beg your pardon, milady," the man said. "Just taking a little break here in the garden while the boys work. I'm paid to guard, not to haul, and certainly not to paint." He smiled at her, the lines of his face creasing into a handsome series of angles that would have been at home in any of Talinara's salons or music halls alike. The man extended a hand. "Tacen. I'm a guard for Swiftfoot Carting-- Lady Greythorne has us hauling in a forest's worth of new furniture from Ismene. A real pleasure to meet you, milady."

Carala did not extend her hand in return. The man's station was totally unknown; at best he was a commoner, but an indentured worker (and therefore a debtor or even a criminal) was just as likely. She did, however, favor him with a polite smile. "Thank you. I ought return to the Madame Greythorne, though."

"Won't even tell me your name?" The man affected a pained expression and raised the back of one hand to his forehead like a tragedian mourning the loss of his lady love in an opera at the Silverlamp Theatre. "I had no idea my face was so awful, forgive me for showing it in public, milady."

"Your face is very nice," Carala said, unable to stifle a little laugh. "But really, I do have business inside. Madame Greythorne is not a woman one should keep waiting."

"I agree completely," Tacen said with a knowing wink. Carala could feel herself blushing. "But before you go, would you at least tell me your name?"

Carala smiled a trifle crookedly. "The Imperial Princess Carala Deyn. You may call me 'your Imperial highness,' if you need to call me anything."

Tacen's eyes widened in horror and he nearly fell to the floor as he sank into a clumsy bow. "Oh gods -- my apologies, your Imperial highness, I didn't know, please, I meant no offense -- "

Another laugh escaped Carala's lips, but she actually felt a little sorry for Tacen and shook her head, inviting him to stand or sit as he liked with a curl of her fingers. "No offense is taken, Tacen. I do not believe it's actually a crime to address a member of the Imperial family uninvited anymore."

Tacen didn't look entirely sure of that himself, but he offered a relieved smile. It looked even better on his face than the cocky one which had initially greeted her. "Well, thanks, your Imperial highness -- I -- you know, you work in the capital, you hear stories, but you never really expect to see a princess -- I mean, someone from the Palace unless you're, well, actually working near the Palace, so your -- uh -- your Imperial highness, I just -- "

Carala interrupted his stream of babble with a low and pleasant laugh, hiding her mouth behind one gloved hand. Tacen smiled sheepishly. "I think just 'your highness' will do from now on."

"All right. I mean, uh, yes, your highness." Tacen seemed to consider offering a sip from his waterskin but thought better of it, instead awkwardly shifting it from one hand to the other.

Carala turned her back on this, meaning to head back into the house. Part of her -- the paranoid part cultivated by her father, by men like Varallo Thray, and by the knowledge that three of her siblings had committed offenses grave enough to cost them their lives -- was sure this encounter had not been accidental; that one did not merely "bump into" the youngest daughter of Somilius Deyn III. But a more optimistic side of her wanted to keep this as a pleasant memory; a few minutes in an otherwise disagreeable morning where she and a handsome commoner had flirted a little, as though she weren't as much a prisoner of the Chalcedony Palace as any of her brothers and sisters had been, especially the ones who had no obvious role in her father's plans and political needs.

Or the way her mother was, for that matter.

So it was that side of her that responded when Tacen cleared his throat, Carala casting a curious glance back over one shoulder. "I don't want to impose, your highness," Tacen said haltingly, "but do you ever go into the city for a drink? Maybe to the Three Harts? They have spirits from all the way down in Aznia."

"Perhaps I do," Carala replied with a mischievous smile. In fact she not only had never been to the Three Harts, she was not even sure in what district it stood, though she gathered it was one of the city's better taverns.

"Perhaps might a caravan guard find you there tonight, your highness?"

Carala stared at him, unsure if this were a sincere offer or merely a bold lark. "Doubtful, Tacen. I should doubt it very much." With a playful smile she gave him her back and disappeared into the cool hall of Madame Greythorne's house, returning to the day's tedious necessities.

She had fully intended to do nothing at all regarding Tacen's invitation, but her mind kept turning to it over and over again, even as she sat in her apartments that evening before a mostly blank canvas. The faintest outlines of a face she hoped would eventually resemble Denisius's were scratched across its surface, a locket Lord Marhollow had exchanged with her set open on a small table beside the canvas, propped up so she could study his features. Ralessa, a sardonic Nythelian woman about ten years her senior and her favorite handmaiden, kept her company that evening, gossiping about the various goings-on around the city in general and the Palace in particular.

When Carala set down her palette with a sigh for the fourth time, Ralessa abandoned her idle chatter and addressed the princess directly. "What's troubling you, your highness?"

"I'm not sure." She glanced at Ralessa, mulling over whether she should pursue this. "Have you ever been to a tavern called the Three Harts?"

"Oh, yes, your highness. A lovely place. They actually have three sets of these very large hart horns over the hearth, and the owner decorates them for each of the Nine Festivals. And they have lovely music most nights, some of the best minstrels to visit the city play there." Ralessa peered down at her sewing, a knowing grin on her lips. "Why do you ask? Were you thinking of meeting that man?"

Carala looked at her handmaiden, shocked. "I -- no -- how do you know about that?"

"Madame Greythorne's housemaids are a nosy lot. I imagine they're paid to be. Of course, they're paid even more to tell your handmaidens certain things." Ralessa set her sewing aside and patted Carala on the hand reassuringly. "Never fear, your highness. She was paid for her silence, too. And I'm the only one who knows you're seriously thinking about going."

"I never said I was seriously thinking about it!"

"Why wouldn't you be?"

"Ralessa, he's a commoner." She thought of that tattoo on his shoulder, and wondered if it indicated membership in a gang, or worse, one of the criminal guilds that operated in nearly every city of the Throne. Varallo Thray was convinced at least three were here in Talinara itself, though she had never heard if any of them used a pair of winged feet as a token. "Maybe even worse! Besides, I am to be wed. Even if I wanted to -- to sport myself like that -- "

"Are you thinking about bedding him?" Ralessa asked in a casual voice.

"I -- Ralessa!" Carala hoped her handmaiden couldn't tell her deep blush did not result entirely from outrage.

"He's a handsome man. I caught a glimpse of him as we left. Very strong looking. Not like Denisius Gallis, from what I remember."

Now that blush in her cheeks carried with it a sense of shame. Frowning, she glanced at the little cameo portrait of her husband-to-be. No, Denisius didn't look much like Tacen, not with that round and pleasant face, that round face that topped a soft, gentle body that had clearly never known a hard day's work in its owner's life. Not that such a thing was Denisius's fault -- her own brother Vetilius was immensely fatter, and for almost all the same reasons Denisius had grown up as he had. She was quite sure, however, Denisius had never made a habit of hunting alleycats in Marhollow's streets with a slingshot as Vetilius had done until Varallo Thray had impressed upon their father it would be wise to compel the prince to give up his gruesome hobby. Maybe Denisius knew how to use a sword a little better -- maybe -- but if ever it came down to a tavern brawl between a man like Tacen and her intended, she had little doubt who would emerge the victor. Carala shook her head. "The Lord Marhollow is a very decent man. More decent than many my father might have promised me to."

"Isn't his father the Lord Marhollow?"

"Ralessa."

"Meaning no disrespect, your highness."

"Of course not," she replied coolly, fixing the handmaiden with a glare of her hazel eyes. Ralessa looked down with a blush, muttering an apology, but Carala was already considering other issues. "Whatever Denisius is, I would not do that to him. Or to myself, for that matter. Run off with a commoner, that's absurd! It isn't like children's tales, Ralessa -- royals and nobles who do things like that tend to meet rather awful ends."

"Run off with him? Great gods, your highness, I never said you should do that! I don't even think you should bed him, not really. Honestly, though, that's your affair. I doubt Denisius would mind if you did. Those smug lords, they all tell each other they want virgins, but what they really want is a woman who actually knows what to do with herself and them in the wedding bed. Do you think he's never tumbled a chambermaid in his father's castle?"

In fact Carala had a great deal of difficulty imagining such a thing, although she did seem to recall Lorith Gallis teasing his younger brother about going with those mercenaries -- the tall one and the fat one, she couldn't remember their names -- to some place called the Lady's Slipper, and that didn't exactly sound as if it were a theatre. With a frown she turned fully toward her handmaiden. "What are you saying, exactly? Speak plainly, for once!"

Ralessa's face was positively glowing with mirth. "All I am saying, your highness, is that every one of your brothers and sisters have gone down into the city without a guardsman watching their every move. Some of them did it all the time. Did you think Silenio got all those scars on the sparring field or in battle? He used to get in fistfights in taverns every Graceday night!" The handmaiden leaned forward conspiratorially, and Carala met her with a listening eagerness. Once they had come of age, the Imperial children went their separate ways, rarely interacting with each other even if they remained in the Chalcedony Palace. This was a story she had never heard before, although she had suspected it of at least a few of them. Vetilius's little hunting expeditions hadn't been done with their father's sanction, after all. "I even heard he killed a few men. Not that he can brag about it where your father might hear."

Carala had no trouble whatsoever imagining this.

"If it pleases your highness, I can find us some hoods and cloaks. You can borrow one of Elana's dresses; she's about your size. There must be two dozen ways out of the Palace where we won't be seen. We can be down at the Three Harts by ten o'clock. Back here by the small hours, long before dawn." The handmaiden's eyes blazed mischievously. "Or later, if that suits your fancy."