Khimabu laid one finger beside her cheek, a gesture Tzoja did not immediately recognize. “You flatter me, my dear one. You have charms of your own, as you well know.”

In other words: My husband liked you well enough to bed you. And if you hadn’t borne a child, you would have been back in the slave pens long ago, or worse. Tzoja spread her hands in what she knew was a clumsy version of a Hikeda’ya gesture, but whose meaning was too clear to mistake: How can anyone guess what males will do? “I am grateful,” is what she said out loud.

Khimabu made a tiny gesture. One of the Bound servants left his position against the wall and was at his mistress’ side so quickly he seemed almost to dissolve and reform. “You may serve,” she told him.

The ermine was out again and watching Tzoja, whiskers twitching. She had never liked Khimabu’s pet. Its eyes were too bright, too . . . intrusive. It felt like she was being watched by an unpleasant child. But for once, as she watched it frisking in and out of Khimabu’s sleeves and around the low couch, she was grateful for its presence.

The servants brought dishes to the table, roasted glacier waxwings and the bitter puju bread made from the barley grown in the cold valleys below Stormspike’s eastern flank, cooked in the ashes of a fire until it was as crisp and hard as wood. The Hikeda’ya had a great fondness for it, but Tzoja had never learned to like it. All she ever tasted was the ashes.

As she made appropriate sounds about the arrangement and quality of the food, she took a morsel of puju in her hand and broke off a piece, then pretended to take a bite, rolling it between thumb and fingers until she had made it into a stiff ball. She then dropped it onto the floor as surreptitiously as she could, and kicked it with equal caution toward Khimabu’s couch.

“And the birds look especially delicious,” she said out loud, doing her best not to make it obvious she was also watching the floor. As was the custom, the waxwings were served all but whole, feathers scorched away but feet and heads still attached, the beaks like black thorns, the eyes like burned currants.

The ermine had noticed the morsel of bread, and now balanced on the edge of the couch, nose twitching. It looked up at her with a nasty twinkle, as if it knew what she was doing, but after a moment, as Tzoja pretended to take another bite, it leaped down and snapped up the small tidbit, then slithered back onto the couch.

“As you know, our generous lord, High Magister Viyeki, has been given a great honor by the Mother of All,” said Khimabu. “All blessings upon her, the queen has put fortyfold soldiers at his command to watch over and guard his engineers and laborers.”

“It’s quite wonderful how the queen recognizes my master’s worth,” said Tzoja dutifully. Judging by the still-twitching nose and malicious little bead eyes, the ermine was not suffering from his taste of puju. This time Tzoja took an actual bite, doing her best to hide her dislike of its harsh flavor. “Do you know where he is bound?”

“By the Garden, no!” Khimabu made another graceful gesture, this one signifying that it was beyond her powers to know the counsels of the wise. “He goes at the queen’s bidding and is sworn to secrecy. It is clearly a mission of some importance, though, so we must bear the burden of his absence bravely.” She spread her hands in a double fan. She was changing the subject. “But you have already had to bear the sadness of your daughter’s absence, although that brings high honor to our house as well. Imagine—despite her . . . drawbacks, she is a Queen’s Talon!”

“She was very lucky to be chosen, but of course the queen is never wrong.”

“Never. And Nezeru so young!”

Tzoja had flicked a couple of shreds of the roasted waxwing into the ermine’s hunting range while concentrating on her puju. She did her best to watch without seeming to as the little creature approached, sniffed, and then gobbled them down. Another few moments, then if the animal survived, she could move on to eating some of the bird as well, which to this point she had only pushed around on her platter. “You have been very kind to Nezeru, Lady Khimabu. You have treated her with the kindness you would show your own daughter.” That was a dreadful exaggeration—Khimabu had never been anything other than coldly correct to her husband’s child by another woman—but neither of the two women were paying much attention to what the other appeared to be saying.

“Oh, it is only right to do so. Is she not my husband’s child? Have you not gifted us—gifted our entire household—with her birth?” The bland look on Khimabu’s face was indistinguishable from murderous rage, but that was usually true with the Hikeda’ya. “But you must fear for her, so far away.”

“I do, but I trust in the queen’s wisdom.” As Tzoja watched, the ermine coiled itself on Khimabu’s shoulder and almost seemed to be paying attention to the conversation. The animal did not appear to have been poisoned, though, so Tzoja began picking at her own bird with the scraping-fork the Hikeda’ya preferred to use on cooked meat, taking it in only in small quantities. “My Lord Viyeki once told me that part of the reason for our daughter’s swift advancement was your own family’s support of her, my lady. That was very generous of you.”

Khimabu’s gesture was a strange one, water on flat rock, which usually meant that all would be revealed in the fullness of time. The magister’s wife seemed to notice this herself only after beginning, because she quickly turned it into a more ordinary sign, one that represented a carefully prescribed amount of social gratitude. “That which helps my husband helps me and all my family. Not that my relatives are themselves overlooked or unappreciated. The queen has often been kind enough to take notice of them.”

“Your uncle is high in one of the orders, I’ve been told, but I have never known the details.” Tzoja had always assumed it must be the Order of Sacrifice, since that was the order that had taken Nezeru and awarded her with great responsibility. For once the conversation and her actual curiosity had dovetailed in an acceptable way. “Is it permitted to ask which?”

Khimabu’s eyes positively glittered with what looked to Tzoja like malicious amusement, although her face showed nothing that was not correct. “Of course it is permissible to ask, dear little sister. We share so much already. My uncle Inyakki is one of the chief clerics in the employ of Akhenabi, Lord of the Order of Song.”

A sudden chill ran up Tzoja’s spine. A Singer? Why had she not known that? Why had Viyeki never told her?

As she sat, temporarily dumbfounded, the ermine abruptly scrambled from Khimabu’s shoulder, down the lady’s sleeve and onto the pale leather of the couch beside her. A moment later, it made a little urp noise and began to vomit, spewing out a tiny pile of gristle and sludge and pale liquid.

Tzoja could only stare in horrified fascination, the meat in her own mouth suddenly unchewable because her tongue had gone dry as dust.

“Ah, my little companion seems to have had a bit too much of this rich food,” said Khimabu, a smile in her voice if not on her face. “Have you been stealing from our plates, tiny villain? Have you been making free with everyone’s supper?” She turned her masklike face toward Tzoja. “He is terrible, you know. He will eat anything and everything, without caution—he would poison himself if I did not constantly watch him! Why, what is wrong, Tzoja? You look quite pale for one of your complexion. Please don’t worry for him. He will be fine, soon. I’ll have a servant clean up right now if it puts you off your meal.”

“Actually, I’m afraid I am feeling a bit unwell,” Tzoja said. “I think like your pet, the food is a bit rich for me.”

“Familiar,” said Khimabu.