The invitation came at noon.
The innkeeper carried it up himself, holding it on a folded cloth so his bare fingers never touched the wax.
"This came for you, my lord," he said, and he did not meet Alistair's eyes when he said it.
That alone told Alistair what the seal was, before he had even looked down at it.
The paper sat heavy in his hand. The mark in the pale wax was the council's own, the ring of houses, and there was no name anywhere on it.
No sender, no signature, only an address in the noble quarter, an hour or two evenings from now, and one line beneath it.
A private salon of arms, for gentlemen of standing who keep their forms sharp.
Alistair read it twice, turned it over, and found the back as blank as the front.
He thanked the innkeeper, who was already backing toward the stairs as though the paper might change its mind and follow him down them, and was alone with it.
