Twenty years of caution told Ammas he was mad to be within a hundred miles of Talinara. Yet here he was, and not on the outskirts but ensconced in the city's best inn. The vast crowds of commoners and nobles who had come to pay their final respects to the Empress-Consort had served as a perfect camouflage. The innkeeper hadn't raised an eyebrow at a minor lord from a backwater prefecture traveling with a quiet, hooded scholar in his retinue, even though Denisius's cachet was quite a bit higher than it had once been.

Ammas was fretful nonetheless. Although the capital was so teeming with throngs of travelers that he wouldn't have been surprised to find he was not the only member of the arcane brethren to have come in secret, none of them had been hired by an Imperial Princess to provide illegal services. Worse, he could not scrub away the bitter taste of what had happened the last time he had been in Talinara. Unsurprisingly, he'd been drinking too much wine since he'd arrived.

Barthim and Casimir he had already sent on their way back to Munazyr, and though Casimir hadn't liked to leave Ammas neither of them had protested much. Barthim had no desire to see the capital, and Casimir seemed to understand just what a terrible risk Ammas was taking by going there, a risk that would have been even greater if he'd come with an apprentice in tow. The temptation to accompany them, to take the southern road out of Gallowsport rather than the northern one, had been great, but in the end he could not consider his service to Carala fulfilled until he saw her safe in her home. That he once would have been satisfied with seeing her off on a carriage out of Munazyr was of no moment; too much had changed between them since then.

Pouring himself a second glass of wine (and trying not to feel a twinge of guilt at the sound of the city clocks striking noon), Ammas reflected that he could at least be grateful his health had steadily improved since that awful night in Gallowsport. The pains in his chest and head had mostly subsided, and his left eye had returned to normal. The walking stick he continued to carry mostly as an affectation, although if he walked for long stretches he did find himself leaning on it more than he otherwise might . . . and it made a good weapon should he be challenged in the streets of the capital.

Sharply a knock rapped at the door. With some difficulty, Ammas clambered out of his chair. He couldn't imagine who might be knocking; the inn was empty except for the innkeeper's wife and their youngest children, its many patrons having gone to the Cathedral of the Graces (or to the surrounding blocks, more likely). One hand on the hilt of his dagger, Ammas opened the door a crack, wondering if the innkeeper's wife had come to check on him, perhaps offer a midday meal to her sole guest.

What he saw shocked him so thoroughly he flung the door open wide, caution forgotten. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

Varallo Thray, clad in the garb of a simple merchant, swept into the room, his lips curled in the familiar unctuous smile Ammas remembered from his youth, his eyes as shrewd and calculating as ever. He was older and even gaunter than in Ammas's memories, but there was no mistaking him, whatever he wore.

"I heard a rumor you were in the city, Ammas. It surprised me, but it's a fortuitous thing. Saves me the trouble of traveling to Munazyr. I don't like that journey even when the weather is fine, much less so close to Autumnsend, and the expense of the security needed to escort me to the Straits of Twilight is even worse than you'd think."

"What do you want?" Ammas said rudely. His fingers clenched the hilt of his dagger.

"Only to speak with you," Varallo Thray replied, smiling.

"Have you come to take me into custody? Deliver me up to Emperor like you tried to do last time? I'll cut your gods-forsaken throat before you lay a finger on me."

"Then it's to my good fortune I haven't come to arrest you," Varallo said smoothly, unmindful of the way Ammas glowered or the sight of the cursewright's hand on his dagger. "May I sit?"

"No."

Varallo sighed, turning briefly to close the door. "Oh, very well, Ammas. Take this hard line if you must. I cannot say I expected much different."

"Shouldn't you be at the funeral? I'd say you have a lot of prayers to make if you want to get right with the gods."

"It is inadvisable to have too many members of the Imperial Council gathered in one place, no matter how important a matter of state it may be." Varallo sauntered to the little table where Ammas had been sitting, pouring himself a glass of wine. "And I have little concern over how the gods see me. I have more earthly masters to answer to."

"That's putting it lightly."

Varallo laughed agreeably. Ammas felt himself nearly explode with rage at that infuriating, measured patience.

"Why do you think I'd listen to a single word from you? After everything you've done to my family, after what you let happen to Yvelle, after trying to kill me -- "

"Kill you? I suppose that is one interpretation." Now a flicker of anger seemed to flash in Varallo Thray's eyes, though his voice remained as pleasant and steady as always. "Another interpretation would be that when I saw what our beloved Emperor had done to your father I decided not to turn you over to him, and allowed you to flee the capital unharmed. After what happened in the Silverlamp Theatre the city guard did not need much persuasion to look the other way." At Ammas's look of astonishment the Grand Chancellor's smile broadened. "Or did you think you escaped Talinara through your own ingenuity?"

Ammas, who had always thought himself and his actions that night not ingenious but merely lucky, had never considered the possibility that his survival had been permitted. To Varallo Thray, twenty years after the fact, he had nothing to say when confronted with the idea. He merely stared at the Grand Chancellor, feeling both incensed and monstrously foolish.

"May I sit?" Varallo said again, and this time Ammas nodded. With a contented sigh the Grand Chancellor folded himself into one of the room's harder chairs, taking a long sip of wine.

"I should tell you my knowledge of poisons is extensive," Ammas said conversationally, sitting across from Varallo so gingerly he resembled a cat preparing to pounce through a window to escape a howling dog.

Varallo Thray chuckled. "Of course it is, Ammas. You were -- or I should say you are -- a most skilled member of your trade. No less would do for the Emperor's daughter." Unperturbed, he took another sip of wine.

No small amount of confusion showed on Ammas's face, but still he watched the Grand Chancellor warily. His own wineglass sat at his elbow, mostly full. "So tell me what it is you want."

"Why, to discuss payment for services rendered to the Malachite Throne."

"My services were to Carala, not the Throne."

"They are one and the same."

Ammas had not much liked this line of reasoning when he heard it from Othma Sulivar, and from Varallo Thray he liked it even less. But from Thray it carried the weight of law. "All right. So what sort of payment can I expect for curing the princess of a blood sickness she would never have suffered if not for her own father?"

Varallo Thray's thin smile widened fiendishly, his eyes glittering with humor. "You think to wound me, Ammas, but in fact you strike very close to the heart of the matter. You have saved the Emperor from his own folly. Do not think he doesn't know it."

"I didn't think the Emperor would appreciate that."

"Not in a way he might show. Don't expect to be feted at the Chalcedony Palace anytime soon. But there are other considerations he would offer you."

"Such as?"

"First, there is the matter of the bounty on your head. Not just a bounty for cursewrights in general, but for you in particular. You are still the son of Senrich Mourthia, may he rest in the gods' embrace -- "

"Don't you dare speak of him that way," Ammas spat.

Varallo paused, then continued as though Ammas had not interrupted. "Taken together the bounty was quite high -- just over fourteen thousand gold talents. The Emperor proposes this would be an appropriate fee for curing his daughter of the wolf's blood sickness. And, of course, the bounty would be publicly rescinded. In a sense, you would be claiming it."

Ammas, who could not claim to have made even half the sum Varallo Thray had just named in all his years of exile, merely gawped.