PROLOGUE

THE king of Attolia was passing through his city, on his way to the port to greet ambassadors newly arrived from distant parts of the world. The king was a newcomer and a foreigner, king only by virtue of a political marriage to the queen of Attolia and still unfamiliar to most Attolians. They massed along the Sacred Way to see him for themselves, as well as to cheer their queen, who rode beside him in the open coach. One member of the crowd, a young man with a broken nose, a lip twisted by scar tissue, and dirty clothes that combined to suggest a person of violent and criminal habits, had a particular need to get close. He was in the company of an older man, unscarred, but no less shabby, who boosted him up the side of a stone street marker that labeled the intersection of the Sacred Way and one of the larger cross streets.

“Lift your right foot up another few inches. There’s a chip out of the corner. Yes, that’s it. Are you secure? Can you see?”

“Yes, I am set, and I can see. Stop nagging,” said the younger man. With one foot on a narrow ledge and the other pressed against the chipped indentation, he was high enough to wrap his left hand around the narrow top of the marker. From this vantage point, he could see easily over the heads of the people gathered in the streets, and with a good grip for one hand, he had the other free. They had chosen the marker the day before because it offered a view up a long straight stretch of the Sacred Way and he would have plenty of time to aim.

The crowds were growing thicker. The talk was loud, some of it the usual complaints about the cost of cooking oil and good wine, and the behavior of the young these days; some of it about the new king. One and all disparaged his Eddisian background, but a few grudging supporters mentioned his rumored love for their queen in his favor. Such romantic stories were dismissed as foolish by the more outspoken, but a few expressions softened. Latecomers eyed the position on the street marker, but the older man defended the approach to it with the unwitting assistance of a portly woman and her gaggle of small children. They blocked the access of those who might have thought they could share the high ground or force the occupier of it to relinquish his spot. The only danger came from one or two of the small children who tried to climb up. The younger man stepped on a few fingers and apologized perfunctorily. The woman gave him a dirty look but pulled her children down. As the commotion uphill signaled the approach of the royal procession, the children’s father appeared, pushing his way through the crowd, wiping his hands on his dirty smock as he came. He swept up two of the smallest of the children to his shoulders, and they all watched for the arrival of the carriage bearing the king and queen.

The young man, with his free hand, dipped into his pocket and then lifted his hand to his mouth. He lowered his hand again but this time took a thin tube from the other man standing below.

The king was visible now, sitting upright in the carriage beside the queen. The carriage drew closer. The young man clinging to the street marker took his aim, waited for the right moment, and with a concentrated puff of air, fired the shot.

The pea hit the king on the cheek. He didn’t react, and the small pellet dropped out of sight into his lap. He tilted his head to murmur something to his wife, the queen. His assailant waved and shouted the king’s name, just like everyone else in the crowd, and when the king looked up, his eyes passed over his attacker without pause.

The royal carriage rolled by. The young man dropped from the stele.

“Did you hit him?” the older man asked.

“Yes,” said the younger.

“Did he see you?”

“If he did, he didn’t recognize me.”

His companion looked grim. “We’d better go,” he said just as a woman’s voice said more loudly, “He did what?”

Both of them turned a little too quickly to see the mother of the brood of children with her hand on the littlest one’s shoulder, the boy clutching her skirts. “Who did what now?” asked the father wearily. But the woman wasn’t angry with her son.

“He says that one—up there on the stele—he shot something at the king and hit him in the face,” she said. Her words drew unwelcome attention from those within hearing. Other heads turned toward them.

“I did not—” The young man tried to deny the accusation, but the woman was having none of his protest, and his denial was abbreviated by a stinging smack from the older man, who then seized him by the upper arm and shook him so hard his teeth rattled.

“I cannot believe you!” the man shouted. “And what your mother will say, I don’t know.” He swore with venom and then apologized to the brood mother. “My nephew,” he explained, “he breaks his poor mother’s heart.” The mother nodded warily, only partly satisfied.

“I never—” said the younger man sullenly, only to be shaken again.

“You’ll shut your mouth and come home with me,” snarled his companion.

The youth allowed himself to be dragged off, followed by the approving nods of the witnesses, and complaining bitterly to his “uncle” that he’d done nothing at all wrong. The two men turned down the first cross street they reached and out of sight of the crowd began to walk faster, the older man still pulling the younger along by the arm.

“You know, I don’t think you’re allowed to treat me like this,” the younger pointed out woefully. The older man laughed.

“Gods protect us,” he said, “we can only hope the little monster isn’t telling them right now that I handed you the peashooter.”

They both glanced back. A small crowd of shadowy figures, black against the sunlit street, appeared around the corner behind them, the silhouettes of their skirts and smocks easy to identify.

“He told them,” said the younger man.

“Faster,” said the elder, and the two broke into a run. Pursued by shouts, they raced down the street and around another corner, and skidded to an abrupt halt, face to face with a squad of the Royal Guard.

“Back! Back!” the older man shouted, revealing, in his alarm, a Sounisian accent previously concealed. But their retreat was already cut off by the people behind them. Through that crowd came another squad of soldiers. Murmuring grew at the sight of the Guard, the two men’s transgression exaggerated with each retelling. “It was a poison dart they shot at the king!” they heard a voice shout from the crowd.

There was a narrow space between two apartment houses, but it was only an alcove to a door. The older man pushed the younger in and turned to face the soldiers. The accent of Sounis now clear in his voice, he warned them, “Your king doesn’t want us dead.”

Hours later they sat locked in a dark cell under the palace. At last they heard a door somewhere open with a bang and a light set of footsteps approaching, followed by several more sets of footsteps, all heavier, but moving as fast. The younger man jumped to his feet, but the older, who stepped between him and the door, was first to see the face of the king of Attolia when it opened.

“We are uninjured,” the magus of Sounis quickly reassured him.

“Thank the gods,” said the king. “I thought to find you black and blue.”

“Indeed, we thought the same,” said the magus. He exchanged a look with his companion that made them both laugh, and he welcomed the king into his arms for a mutually crushing embrace.