When the music stopped, the audience broke into sustained applause. Some rose to their feet, Conley among them. The keysman turned round, sweat dripping from his lank hair, green eyes searing with energy. He raised his hands swiftly, and the applause stopped: expectancy. He returned to his instrument, touched one note, then burst into an encore of such stinging virtuosity it left Conley breathless.
        She turned to Roween. "I didn't know the Davians could produce music like that! It was so, so strong, forceful." She tried to find words that could express her experience, could only fail, frustrated.
        "I never heard of Kryslod before, but that was better than what I've found hereabouts previous," Roween answered. "Most cellars, music's either experimental or just background. This was like a concert."
        A hat was passed to the table, already heavy with coins. Roween dropped in a couple more, but as she made to pass it on, Conley added another half dozen. She still didn't understand tipping?
        "What do you think of the drink, Con?"
        Conley looked like she'd forgotten the question.
        "The drink, do you like it?
        She took a sip. "Fizzy, a touch fruity, yes; what is it?"
        "It's this sort of punch they do here in Vadessa, mainly juice with some kind of soda. If you want to fortify it, there's some spirit in the bottle." She pointed.
        Conley eyed the bottle, picked it up, took a sniff. She quickly moved it from her nose. "Strong..."
        "Yes, there's enough there for two, but I'm not having any. If you add half to the fizz, it's supposed to mix up real smooth. Vaska. Locals love it."
        Someone dragged a chair behind them, slid it to their table backwards. A man swung onto it, rested his hands on the back, propped his head on his fingers.
        It was the key player. He was staring at Conley.
        At that point, Roween felt she ceased to exist as far as Conley was concerned. He said hellos, said she fascinated him, Conley stumbled a reply, told him her name, that she couldn't believe his music, the effect it had on her, so potent, so moving. He nodded inscrutably, described what he was trying to achieve, showed her how he rippled an eighth, asked her about herself. She outlined her modest skills with magic, he nodded, intently, compared their arts, the techniques, the dexterity, the profundity. Roween's embarrassment grew: she hated watching seductions.
        "Conley," she interrupted, "I'll return to the hostel now, you know where it is?"
        "Yes, oh, sorry Ro, yes, I know, see you later, thanks." She winked, and returned to her conversation, pouring the rest of the vaska into her flagon.

        Roween had smiled and waved as she left, but Conley hadn't noticed. It was as well, it had felt so artificial. Conley was the tall, graceful, attractive one, with the educated accent, tinkling laugh, expensive clothes, academic title. She, Roween, was the short, clumsy, tongue-tied nobody with clothes that didn't fit and eyes that didn't look in the same direction. She hadn't fancied him anyway. Pseud.
        It was mid-morning when Conley returned, glowing. Roween smiled and waved, gave her best woman-of-the world look, and this time Conley smiled back.
        "You eaten, Con?" she asked, then sighed. Bye bye woman-of- the-world pretensions.
        "Yes, I breakfasted with Anya. Ro, he's just, just different."
        So am I, but where does that ever get me? "So you stayed the night then?"
        Conley's reply was a wry grin.
        "Seeing him again this evening?"
        Conley extended her hand, looked at her nails, ruby-flecked gold. "Perhaps, perhaps not. He's an artist, a performer, he may decide to work if the muse takes him."
        If only you knew how inane that sounded... "So what did you talk about?"
        "Oh, this and that. Music, magic, politics, aesthetics, life. Did you know he left his parents when he was nine and ran away to study at the Vadessa Conservatory?"
        No, I didn't, and I didn't want to, either. "Did he say what he thought about Breska and Mitya?"
        Conley seemed a little peeved that Roween wasn't much enthusiastic. "No, he did not, he's a republican, he wants Davia to be a democracy. What's that got to do with anything?"
        When Justan takes over, quite a lot... "Nothing really, just interested. So you went back to his place?"

        That evening, Conley visited the cellar alone. She returned the next morning. Roween was wondering whether she should switch to a single room or not, cheaper.
        "Do you feel anything for him, Con?"
        "He's alright, bit bound up with his work, beautiful eyes though. Intense lover. No, I'm fond of him I guess, but we'll be gone from here soon, suppose that's part of the reason he approached me, knew I was a stranger, that I'd be passing through. He doesn't like ties. Me neither."
        "Back again tonight?"
        "I said I would." She sensed Roween's agitation. "Sorry, is this worrying you? I don't have to go, I could stay if you liked. Maybe you want to come along too? He has lots of friends, one's sure to want to make up a foursome."
        Which friend would that be, the hunchback or the octogenarian? "No, it's alright, Con, you have your fun; hot, you deserve it well enough."
        That night, Conley kept her tryst with Anya. Roween visited the local Vadessan guard station.

        Conley almost tore off the door of their room. "Ro! Have you heard? Justan proposed to Mitya last night, Breska had a heart attack when he heard the news! Everyone's talking about it, it's all over the streets!"
        Roween didn't look up, was looking at a map of the city. "I hadn't heard, no, but it doesn't surprise me. It was always clear Justan would have to work through Mitya if he wanted Davia as an ally. Thought he might have kept Breska around, though, husked up or something. Now he'll have to delay the wedding."
        "The funeral's in three days, and they're having a joint wedding/coronation ceremony next week."
        "Convenient he'd made all the arrangements in advance, isn't it?" She wondered if he'd used magic on Mitya, or whether it was unnecessary - Davian nobles had a tradition of marrying foreigners. Mitya probably saw it as the only way to save her people. Wise woman.
        Conley sat on the end of the bed, excitedly. "The heart attack, that was probably a scaled wallshaker. He'd have had a mage start the gestures sometime last week, wakers on all the time, arranged it so they'd meet the Davian king just when it would be ready. Smuggled the mage in with his entourage, told his brother-in-law-to-be the good news when he got the nod, and seconds later it's so long Breska."
        "With Breska, a remote binder would have been enough." She sighed. "You don't think that's just maybe a misuse of magic?"
        Conley laid back on the bed. "Misuse? I'd say it was the opposite! One weak king replaced by a strong queen. Davia's citizens are spared a civil war, an invasion, all the usual internal strife and upheaval. One man dies instead of thousands. Did you think it was wrong when you killed that innkeep by asking me to cast an illusion on you?"
        "There'll be no war, that's true - not between our country and Davia anyway. The Davians will suffer, though, believe that; they'll have lost any shred of real independence before New Year. Breska was a feeble ruler, slipped his grip, let his enemies get too powerful. While he reigned, opposition could grow, ferment, and it did. Unless the new rulers act quickly, some people could cause a lot of trouble - at best spreading unrest, undermining their authority, and at worst galvanising the people into a popular uprising. There'll be a purge, there always is. But this time, thanks to magic, everything's happened too quick, the revolutionaries will have no time to organise. Anyone subversive will be found before noon, some could be dead already." She glanced to the window and back. "You realise that'll include overt republicans, ones with a coterie of impressionable admirers."
        Conley sat upright. "Anya," she said, "I left him about an hour ago."
        Roween beat her to the door. "Foreigners are going to have a hard time of it, too. People will disappear, Davians will think we had something to do with it. We have to move on, immediately."
        Conley looked down at her. Roween suddenly felt very small, slight; she could easily be pushed aside, had no way of stopping the taller woman from seeking Kryslod, trying to help him escape.
        She stood her ground. "No, Con, leave him. It'll be too late. He'll know how things stand; if he's really in any danger he'll be gone by now, soon as he heard. We must leave, too. You don't care for him, any more than he cares for you, it was just a fling. Be practical!"

        They rode out through the northern gate. Spiked on the battlements were the usual heads of traitors, thieves, murderers. One looked like Kryslod, might have been him, maybe someone else, hard to tell. Conley shed a tear.
        "Forget him, Con, you were just using each other."
        "He's already forgotten. It's his music..."