Lysander stopped at the iron gate and studied the carved women guarding each pillar. Beyond it stood the noble who had turned away every bard before him. Lysander adjusted the carved lute slung at his back. He wanted in. He always wanted in. The steward eyed the lute first, then Lysander's face. That was the trick. The instrument did the lying for him. It looked like proof of a name, a school, a lineage he did not have. Lysander offered the same line he had rehearsed: he was not here to play. He was here about a piece of music his lord had been hunting for years. The steward's mouth tightened. Then he stepped aside and pulled the gate open. Iron groaned. Lysander walked through, and the gate shut behind him with a sound he felt in his teeth. He was inside now. He still did not know what the noble was hiding, or what he would ask for once he stood face to face with him. He smiled. That was the best part.