The salon was smaller than its address had promised.
It was a long upper room in a noble house in the quarter, the windows shuttered against the evening, the floor scrubbed pale and chalked at the edges to mark the dueling lines.
Twelve men stood across it, no women among them, all of them wearing the soft formal training cloth aristocrats wore to pretend that fencing was a pastime, and not a thing that quietly decided who held which valley.
Lamps ran along the walls, and blunted blades stood racked beside the door.
A salon master in his middle years moved among them, his voice trained to carry without ever once rising.
Alistair came as Tobian, half a step too eager and a shade too well dressed, and he let himself be looked over and dismissed by men who had decided his rank before he reached the top of the stairs.
That suited him well enough, since a man no one watched could watch everyone.
In the corner stood Coren Thrace.
