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The man stares back. “Lyr the whore, from Pellex? Right?”

“Yes?” says Lyr, suddenly feeling very alone in the crowded street.

“Come with me.”

Lyr glances towards the stone archway that leads into the market square. “Please, Sire, I am a kitchen slave. I have to place an order for some fish for my Master’s house. I must do it before the bells ring for noon.”

The man’s jaw clenches. “Do you know what this means?” He points to his glittering helm. In the centre of the polished steel is a crest. A golden bird perched on an arrow.

It means nothing to Lyr. “No,” he says.

“This,” the man says, tapping the crest with a well-shaped fingernail, “is the mark of Prince Atticul, Heir Second and Hope of Azuria, Bain of Heretics. Are you refusing his invitation?”

Lyr swallows. He supposes the market is not going anywhere. If he places the order late he will have to come up with some excuse. And this man is large and has a sword. “No,” he says. “I will come with you, of course.”

The man takes Lyr by the arm. His grip is firm, but not painful. He leads Lyr off the wide street and into a small alleyway. Here the buildings rise up high on each side. All the windows that overlook it are shuttered. This alleyway is notably quieter than the bustling market entrance they have come from.

A short way along the alley is a carriage. It is plain. Black with little adornment. Two horses wait patiently in front of it. A driver is smoking a small clay pipe. He nods to the guard as Lyr is led to the door of the carriage and the guard opens it. “In there.”

Lyr steps up through the door. The inside of the carriage is a plush, intimate space. The seats are upholstered in black leather with brass buttons.

Prince Atticul Darek sits alone inside. He is more clean-shaven than when Lyr last saw him, with only a moustache, oiled to fine points. He wears a very fine embroidered jacket, black with golden thread dancing in swirling patterns all over it.

He is smoking a glass pipe. The smoke is pale green. The musky scent of it fills the carriage. Lyr knows the scent. A sweet calming drug. Moonleaf.

Atticul smiles. “How pleasant to see you again, whore. Please.” he says, gesturing, “sit.”

Lyr sits opposite Atticul. The leather seats are warm through the thin linen of his breeches. Lyr wonders what this is. Is Atticul going to kill him in this carriage? Run him through with a dagger and throw his body into the street? Surely if he wanted Lyr dead he would simply have had his guard do it rather than risk soiling his fine leather seats.

Atticul offers the pipe, “Moonleaf?” he says.

Lyr shakes his head.

Atticul draws the pipe back and puts it to his lips. He takes a long inhale.

He exhales and looks Lyr up and down. He says nothing.

Lyr swallows. “Please, Your Great Highness, what do you want with a wretch such as I? I have an errand to run. I must buy fish for the Feast of Surrus.” Lyr flaps Cook’s note in the air, as if to prove he has a reason to be on his way to the market.

Atticul snatches the paper and reads it. He raises an eyebrow. “The bastard is holding a rite for the Feast of Surrus?”

Lyr nods. “Yes, so you see, I must go about my business.”

Atticul smiles. “I will not keep you, slave. I want you to do something for me.”

“I am yours to command, Your Grace,” says Lyr.

“I want you to tell me about your Master, about Damon Darekul, my bastard brother.”

Lyr finds his turn of phrase strange. Does he think Lyr isn’t aware who his Master is? Who Damon is? Perhaps he presumes Lyr is slow-witted. “Please, Your Highness, I cannot betray my own Master. He is your blood. I am sure he would speak with you on any matter you wish.”

“I doubt he would be free with this information. Damon is sly, a luxorite, that is a crime here. A very serious crime. It is a sin against Zai. Did he fuck you on my ship? Did he take you like a dog with a bitch?”

Lyr feels like his breathing is too heavy. Like simply by breathing he will give something away.

But give what away? Damon barely touched him on the Azuria Ascendant. He certainly did not fuck him. He thinks of Damon holding him in the narrow cot, whispering poetry in his ear while he sweated through the foribunda. Damon’s strong body. His big bare arms. His warm chest plastered to Lyr’s back. His deep voice. His broken Magaar.

“No,” Lyr says. “He did not.”