The gates of Frostfall loomed before them like a pair of jaws.

  On either side of the entrance were two gigantic towers. Soldiers in highly polished white armor manned their posts, halberds at the ready. Carved above the gate, in letters sufficiently large to be readable at a hundred paces, were the words:

  By Frost We Rule.

  The queue to enter stretched back nearly a quarter mile.

  "Papers!" A gate captain in white and silver walked the line. "Credentials ready! All weapons to be peace-bonded within city limits! Failure will result in forfeiture and imprisonment!"

  Ser Konrad had already ridden on, disregarding the line of people waiting in turn. The Duke's messenger had a brief conversation with the guards at the gate, and then a way opened.

  "Lord Borin Ironhelm!"

  The gate captain bowed crisply. "Welcome to Frostfall. Your quarters at Highfrost Keep are ready."

  Borin nodded magnanimously, as though he'd anticipated nothing else.

  Captain's glance ran past the Earl to Eirik's smaller entourage. His gaze narrowed fractionally as he consulted a ledger held by one of his adjutants.

  "Lord Eirik Stormcrow of Abercrombie?"

  "That's me."

  The captain studied the ledger, then studied Eirik, then studied the ledger again.

  "Your credentials, my lord?"

  Eirik produced the Duke's invitation. The heavy parchment with its crimson seal passed into the captain's hands. He scrutinized it unnecessarily, turning it around, putting it to the light, matching the stamp to one brought by his adjutant.

  "The seal is authentic," the captain finally declared, as if this has ever been a question. "You'll be housed at the Silver Stag Inn on Merchant's Row."

  An Inn.

  “Your weapons must be peace-bonded.” The captain pointed out a smith who waited with a selection of silver wire. “It is city law. No exceptions.”

  "Even for invited guests of the Duke?" It was Isolde.

  "Especially for invited guests, my lady." The captain smiled. "His Grace values order above all. We prefer to contain the violence to the arena."

  The smiths of his group worked efficiently, wrapping wire of precious silver around sword hilts and axe handles, holding them in place with seals of authority.

  Olaf looked like he was chewing glass as his beloved axe was bonded.

  “Welcome to Frostfall," the captain said, moving aside. “Enjoy the tournament."

  They went out through the gate.

  The noise came first.

  Frostfall was alive in a way Abercrombie never was, no matter how many pilgrims it attracted. The busiest street was swarming with people – vendors selling their wares, nobles in sedan chairs, servants scurrying with parcels, jugglers of flaming torches, and beggars working the crowd. To think a place like this had beggars almost surprised Eirik.

  And through it all, not a single person gave Eirik the slightest notice.

  "Quite humbling, isn't it?" Isolde read his expression.

  "Yes. Quite."

  "Fame in Frostfall is no small feat. You'd need to slay the Duke himself to turn heads here. And even then, only for a day."

  A massive carriage rumbled past, drawn by six white horses in silver harnesses. The vehicle was practically a house on wheels, with glass windows and velvet curtains and a coat of arms Eirik didn't recognize. A dozen mounted knights flanked it.

  "House Valdris," Isolde observed. "Border lords in the South."

  "They're here for the tournament?"

  "They're here to be seen. The tournament is just an excuse." She lowered her voice. "Notice how many retinues are watching each other? Every house is measured. The actual jousting and sword-work is secondary to the real competition happening here."

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  Eirik watched another noble party pass—this one with servants carrying trunks bound in exotic leather, preceded by a herald crying their lord's titles. The list took nearly a minute to complete.

  "And where do we fit in this competition?"

  "We don't. Not yet." Isolde's smile was thin. "We're spectators until someone decides otherwise."

  They followed Ser Konrad through the thickening streets. The Duke's messenger moved through the crowd, not once bothering to glance back at them. His indifference was almost impressive.

  The Silver Stag Inn emerged after twenty minutes of riding.

  It was, as the gate captain had promised, respectable. A three-story building made of wood and whitewashed stone, with a sign featuring a stag circled with silver laurels. Clean windows. A stable yard large enough for their horses. A waiting staff in identical livery.

  It was also obviously and unmistakably not Highfrost Keep.

  Borin's large frame emerged alongside Eirik as they dismounted.

  “Not bad, lad! Not bad at all!” The Earl's booming laughter rang out. “The Silver Stag's a first-class place. Good beds and even better ale. Why, I've stayed here myself when I was still a young warrior making my reputation!” The Earl slapped Eirik on the shoulder with enough force to send him staggering. “You'll be comfortable here.”

  "While you'll be at the Keep."

  "Ah, well." Borin spread his hands in a wide gesture. "Rank has its privileges. But don't worry! I'll check in on you! Make sure you're not getting into trouble!" He laughed at his own wit. "After all, we're practically family now, aren't we?"

  Eirik watched the Earl remount and ride off towards the looming shadow of Highfrost Keep, his Ironhelm followers streaming after him.

  Birgitte's covered wagon lingered for a moment. A flicker of the curtain, and Eirik glimpsed her white face peering at him from behind it. Then it lurched ahead, following her father.

  "Well," Olaf growled, watching them go. "That's a message if ever I saw one."

  "Several messages," Harkin agreed. "None of them are flattering."

  Fisk had already disappeared inside the inn, no doubt securing the best room available for his various experiments. The Talons were directing their horses toward the stables.

  ael showed no reaction.

  "So," Olaf continued. "The Duke invites ye directly. Bypasses yer Earl, yer Baron, the whole bloody chain. Make a big show of it. And then... sticks ye in an inn?"

  "Yes."

  "That make sense to ye? Because it don't make sense to me."

  Eirik looked up at the Silver Stag's sign, swaying gently in the cold breeze.

  "It makes perfect sense, Olaf. The Duke is testing me."

  “Testing ye how?”

  "He has created a paradox. An open invitation is an honor, yet the accommodations reflect my true standing: that of a minor tenant-lord. Now the question becomes how I will respond." Eirik smiled without mirth. "Do I throw a tantrum? Or do I say nothing and just accept it?"

  Isolde nodded slowly. "A choice between arrogance or submission. Neither one of them is ideal."

  "So what do ye do?" Olaf asked.

  Eirik started toward the inn's entrance. "I treat it as exactly what it appears to be: lodgings. Nothing more, nothing less."

  The common room filled the entire first floor, featuring a long bar, scattered tables, and a roaring fireplace to counter the cold. The aroma of boiled stew fought the smoke of pipes and spilled ale. The patrons included the merchants and the lesser nobility, filling most of the chairs.

  The proprietor, a portly woman with keen eyes and able hands, allocated their accommodations with haste. Eirik got a corner room on the third level, which was private, offering a view of the street below and, in the distance, Highfrost Keep.

  First, Olaf tested the bed by sitting firmly upon it, enough to cause the legs and frame to creak. "Could be worse." he managed.

  Isolde stood in the middle of the room.

  "The tournament officially begins the day after tomorrow," she said. "Opening ceremonies, the presentation of competitors, the Duke's welcoming address. Between now and then, we have time to... acclimatize."

  "Meaning?"

  "Meaning we learn the terrain. Who's here, who they serve, what they want." She moved to the window. "We also need to understand the Duke's tournament structure. Who competes, who watches, what rewards are offered."

  "Ye make it sound like warfare," Olaf grumbled.

  "It is warfare. Just with different weapons." Isolde turned back to Eirik. "I'll need to make some visits. Old acquaintances who might prove useful. I assume you can survive without me for a few hours?"

  Eirik nodded, and she swept out of the room.

  ———

  The afternoon passed as the evening deepened.

  Servants brought food—surprisingly good, actually, a rich stew with fresh bread and hard cheese. Eirik ate with his mind elsewhere.

  No summons came.

  Olaf's expression soured further. "So Borin gets a party invitation and we get..."

  "Stew," Harkin finished. "Very good stew, actually."

  "Right," Eirik said finally, standing. "I'm going out."

  Olaf's head snapped up. "Out? Out where?"

  "Into the city." He reached for his cloak.

  "Ye can't go alone," Olaf protested. "What if—"

  "I won't be alone." Eirik looked at Kael, still silent in his corner. "You wanted to prove yourself useful? Here's your chance."

  The mercenary rose smoothly. "The commander wants a shadow?"

  "If you're planning to betray me, might as well give you the opportunity."

  "An interesting recruitment strategy."

  Olaf looked like he might physically block the door. "Commander, I can't let ye—"

  "You can and you will." Eirik's voice hardened. "I need information, Olaf. And I need to hear it without every word being reported to fifty different spymasters."

  He left before Olaf could argue further.

  The Silver Stag opened onto a side street that fed into the main thoroughfare. Night had transformed Frostfall.

  Torches and lanterns blazed from every surface. The crowds had shifted—fewer merchants and nobles, more common folk. Tavern doors stood open, spilling warmth into the cold air.

  Eirik and Kael moved through the press of bodies. Without any visible sign of rank, Eirik was effectively invisible.

  The sensation was strangely liberating.

  "Where to?" Kael asked quietly. "A local tavern, maybe?"

  "No." Eirik stood. "I've spent the last few days riding through frozen wastelands, eating travel rations, and sleeping on the ground. I need something better than just taverns." He paused, considering. "Something with decent ale and good scenery."

  "The commander has refined tastes."

  "The commander has standards." Eirik pulled his cloak tighter. "You know Frostfall. Where does a man go for quality entertainment without ending up in a gutter or a dungeon?"

  Kael's eyes glinted. "There's a place."