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made a good accounting of himself when he reported of Winslow’s rescuer on Walker’s Row and for the swift action he took on Succession Day in deploying the watch. That last had saved the Vermillion District and Artisan Quarter from much destruction. For such work, and quick thinking, Ainslen intended to see Costace raised to marshal. The king gave the lieutenant a nod of assent, and Costace stepped aside.
    The procession of three men and three women glided down the carpeted colonnade, such was the grace with which the Heleganese moved. They reminded Ainslen of a derin stalking its prey: striding with ease yet ready to kill at a moment’s notice. The best Blades, the ones that had earned their names, carried themselves in a similar manner.
    Clothed in dark woolens, the men in trousers and jackets, the women in dresses that tapered to the waist before flaring out again, they stared straight ahead as if no one else existed but the king. Rich fur lined the openings of their garb, around the armholes and neckline. Their choice of color made their pasty faces stand out, faces, that while set in determination, also showed signs of weariness. The translucent nimbus of sintu surrounded each of them, but they were not drawing on the first soul cycle. This was their natural state.
    Accomplished melders, then. Powerful too.
    He suppressed a smile at their confidence; it brimmed to the point of arrogance. Not once had they acknowledged the score of Blades arrayed to his left and right. They had eyes only for him. The buzz of conversation around the room lowered, and then ceased completely. In a synchronous move, the Heleganese bowed, right knees almost touching the floor.
    “Rise.” Ainslen beckoned to them. “Be welcome as servants to the Kasinian Empire.” Two of them stiffened: a man in dark blue and a woman in storm cloud grey.
    The Heleganese drew themselves to their full height. None of them stood beyond six feet, typical for their race, but they might as well have been giants. A man in nutmeg-colored garb, a scar running from the corner of his mouth to his cheek, took one step ahead of the others. The warning shift by the Blades did not elicit so much as a bat of an eyelid from him.
    “Your Highness, thank you for the warm welcome.” Shorter than the others by a head, the man had a thick accent yet spoke fluent Kasinian. “We six are the Voices, the chosen representatives of the many tribes that inhabit Helegan.” He dipped his head once. “I am Kulabi Danaheem.” Kulabi indicated the man in dark blue who had eyes to match his clothes. “This is Tyoti Torenteen.” He gestured to the last man in charcoal with too big ears and a bulbous nose. “Anuvas Morteneen.” Both men nodded. “Garavi Deshintoh.” The woman in grey. “Janisi Lentonoh.” A silver-haired woman, aged lines around her eyes, curtsied. The others gave her an astonished look before fixing their faces back to seriousness. “And lastly, Padama Halava.” Padama was a hard woman. The king could tell from the set of her sky-blue eyes so much like ice, and the lack of expression. She offered him a mere tilt of her head.
    Already, Ainslen disliked this bunch. Kulabi’s practiced formality was too flowery by half, the others too silent, eyes seeming to see little when in fact they caught everything. These were dangerous people. It was best to give them a hint of what they faced and save them both the trouble of bloodshed. Better to find a use in a man first before you were forced to kill him.
    “So,” Ainslen said, “you Heleganese have remained distant for centuries, paying your tributes, but not involving yourselves much in politics. Ever since the day your spirit assassins tried to kill Jemare, and I stopped them. To what do I owe this honor?” He lounged back into the Soul Throne.
    Kulabi glanced at the others. Shocked expressions showed on all but Tyoti and Garavi. Tyoti made a complicated set of gestures with his hands, a dangerous glint in