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The day Ronica arrived, Serilla had been sure of her triumph.

Ronica brought no possessions save the bundles she and her maid carried.

Her servant was a tattoo-faced former slave who treated the Trader woman almost as if they were equals.

The Vestrit woman had little clothing and no jewellery at all.

As plain Ronica had sat eating at the foot of Serilla’s table that evening, the Companion had felt triumphant.

This pitiful creature was no threat: she would become a symbol of the Companion’s charity.

And eventually some slip of hers would betray her fellow conspirators.

Whenever she left the house, Roed followed her.

Nevertheless, since Ronica had moved into Davad’s old bedroom, the woman had not let Serilla have even one day of peace.

She was like a humming gnat in her ear. Just when Serilla should be concentrating all her efforts on consolidating her power, Ronica distracted her at every turn.

What was she doing about clearing the sunken ships from the harbour?

Was there any word of aid from Jamaillia?

Had she sent a bird to Chalced, to protest these acts of war?

Had she tried to gain the support of the Three Ships folk to patrol the streets at night?

Perhaps if the former slaves were offered paying work, they would prefer it to roaming as looting gangs.

Why had Serilla not urged the Bingtown Council to convene and take charge of the city again?

Every day, Ronica pushed at her with questions like these.

In addition, at every opportunity, she reminded Serilla that she was an outsider.

When Serilla ignored her other demands, Ronica went back with monotonous tenacity to insisting that Davad was not a traitor, and that Serilla had no right to his property.

The woman did not seem to respect her at all, let alone afford her the courtesy due a Satrap’s Companion.

It rankled even more because Serilla was not sure enough of her position to bring her authority to bear on the Trader.

Too often she had given in to the woman’s nagging; first, to have Davad buried, and again to surrender some orchard to the traitor’s niece.

She would not give in to her again. It only encouraged her.

Roed had reported to her how the woman spent her mornings.

Despite the dangers of the street, Ronica Vestrit and her maid ventured out each day, to go on foot from door to door, rallying the Traders to convene.

Roed had reported that she was often turned away or treated brusquely by those she called upon, but the woman was insistent.

Like rain on a stone, Serilla thought, she wore down the hardest heart.

Tonight she would gain her largest triumph. The Council would convene.

If the Traders listened to Ronica tonight and decided that Davad had never been at fault, it would seriously undermine Serilla’s authority.

If the Council decided his niece should inherit his estate, Serilla would have to move out of Restart Hall and be forced to ask hospitality of another Trader.

She would lose her privacy and her independence. She could not allow that to happen.

Serilla had gently but firmly opposed the Council’s convening, telling them all it was too early, that it was not safe for the Traders to gather in one place where they could be attacked; but they were no longer listening to her.

Time was all Serilla had needed; time to make her alliances stronger, time to know who could be persuaded with flattery and who needed offers of titles and land.

Time might bring her another bird with tidings from Jamaillia.

One Trader had brought her a bird-message from his trading partner in Jamaillia.

Rumours of the Satrap’s death had reached the city, and riots were imminent.

Could the Satrap send a missive in his own hand to disperse this dangerous gossip?

She had sent back a bird with a message of reassurance that the rumour was false, and a query as to who had received the message about the Satrap’s death, and from whom?

She doubted she would get a reply. What else could she do?

If only she had another day, another week.

A bit more time, and she was sure she could master the Council.

Then, with her superior education and experience of politics and knowledge of diplomacy, she could guide them to peace.

She could make them see what compromises they must accept.

She could unite all the folk of Bingtown and, from that base, treat with the Chalcedeans.

That would establish for all her authority in Bingtown.

Time was all she needed, and Ronica was stealing it from her.

Ronica Vestrit swept into the room. She carried a ledger under her arm.

‘Good morning,’ she greeted Serilla briskly.

As the servant left the room, Ronica glanced after her.

‘Would not it be far simpler for me to announce myself, rather than have me find the servant to knock at the door and say my name?’

‘Simpler, but not proper,’ Serilla pointed out coldly.

‘You’re in Bingtown now,’ Ronica replied evenly.

‘Here we do not believe in wasting time simply for the purpose of impressing others.’ She spoke as if she were instructing a recalcitrant daughter in manners.

Without asking leave, she went to the study table and opened the ledger she had brought.

‘I believe I’ve found something here that may interest you. ’

Serilla walked over to stand by the fire. ‘That I doubt,’ she muttered sourly. Ronica had been far too assiduous in tracking down evidence. Her constant ploys to mislead Serilla were vexatious, and making her own deception wear thin.

‘Do you weary so quickly of playing Satrap?’ Ronica asked her coldly. ‘Or is this, perhaps, the way you believe a ruler is to behave?’

Serilla felt as if she had been slapped. ‘How dare you!’ she began, and then her eyes widened even more. ‘Where did you get that shawl?’ she demanded. Serilla knew she had seen it in Davad’s bedroom, flung over the arm of a chair. How presumptuous of the woman to help herself to it!

For an instant, Ronica’s eyes went wide and dark, as if Serilla had caused her pain.

Then her face softened. She reached up to stroke the soft fabric draped across her shoulders.

‘I made it,’ she said quietly. ‘Years ago, when Dorill was pregnant with her first child. I dyed the wool and wove it myself to be a special gift from one young wife to another. I knew she loved it, but it was touching to find that of all her things, this was what Davad had kept close by him to remember her. She was my friend. I don’t need your permission to borrow her things.

You are the one who is a looter and an intruder here, not I. ’

Serilla stared at her, speechless with fury.

A petty vengeance occurred to her. She wouldn’t look at the woman’s feeble evidence.

She would not give her the satisfaction.

She gritted her teeth and turned away from her.

The fire was dying. That was why she felt suddenly chilled.

Were there no decent servants anywhere in Bingtown?

Angrily Serilla picked up the poker herself to try to stir the coals and logs back to life.

‘Are you going to look at this ledger with me, or not?’ Ronica demanded. She stood, her finger pointing at some entry as if it were of vast importance.

Serilla let her anger boil over. ‘What makes you think I have time for this? Do you think I have nothing better to do than strain my eyes over a dead man’s spidery handwriting?

Open your eyes, old woman, and see what confronts all of Bingtown instead of dwelling on your private obsession.

Your city is dying, and your people do not have the backbone to fight its death.

Despite my orders, gangs of slaves continue to loot and steal.

I have commanded that they be captured and forced to serve in an army to defend the city, but nothing has been done.

The roads are blocked with debris, but no one has moved to clear them.

Businesses are closed and folk huddle behind the doors of their homes like rabbits.

’ She whacked a log with the poker, sending a stream of sparks flying up the chimney.

Ronica crossed the room and knelt down by the hearth.

‘Give me that thing!’ she exclaimed in disgust. Serilla dropped the poker disdainfully beside her.

The Bingtown Trader ignored the insult. Picking it up, she began to lever the ends of the half-burned logs back into the centre of the fire.

‘You are looking at Bingtown from the wrong vantage. Our harbour is what we must hold, first. As for the looting and disorder – I blame you as much as my fellow Traders. They sit about like a great flock of boobies, half of them waiting for you to tell them what to do and the other half waiting for someone else to do it. You have brought division amongst us. But for you proclaiming that you speak with the Satrap’s authority, the Bingtown Council would have taken charge as we always have before.

Now some of the Traders say they must listen to you, and some say they must take care of themselves first, and others, wisely I think, say we should simply convene all the like-minded folk in the town and get to work on things.

What does it matter now if we are Old Traders or New Traders or Three Ships or just plain immigrants?

Our city is a shambles, our trade is ruined, the Chalcedeans pluck all who venture out of Trader Bay, while we squabble amongst ourselves.

’ She rocked back on her heels, and looked in satisfaction at the recovering fire.

‘Tonight, perhaps, we shall finally act on some of that.’