“You are no butchering monster, Your Majesty,” said the Mede. “Anyone can see that. If you will forgive me, let me say how I honor you. No, do not blush; you must accept your compliments.”

Sounis’s head was bowed but not to hide a blush. “I pray the gods will guide me on my path,” he said, wishing that a convenient hole would open in the stone pavers under his feet and that he could drop through it, or better yet, drop Melheret.

“You are a man of good faith, and I know you will not offend the gods,” said Melheret. It was an obvious preamble to a larger point, but fast-approaching footsteps announced Ion, who swept up to where they were seated.

“Ambassador,” he said, with diplomatic calm, “I must have forgotten your appointment with His Majesty; please forgive me, and let me ask you to arrange another. His Majesty is due to be on his way to his tailors now.” He looked at the Mede with steely determination, and the Mede, unruffled, rose to his feet.

“Please forgive my forwardness in greeting you here, Your Majesty. I have had news from Sounis that I wished to impart, but now is not the time.”

Ion watched him go with what looked like loathing. Then he bowed to Sounis. “Your appointment, Your Majesty?”

“Please.”

Sounis followed his borrowed attendant back to his rooms, thinking over what Melheret had said in parting, that he had news from Sounis. It was bait, and Sounis would have to decide if he would take it. If he did, it would mean another meeting, arranged in a more official way, with the Mede. If he met with the Mede, he might then be expected to meet with all the ambassadors, the prospect of which gave him a headache. He was beginning to think he would never leave Attolia.

“Ion.”

“Your Majesty?” said the attendant. He had delivered Sounis to his own anteroom and had asked permission to withdraw. “Is there something else you require?”

“A word,” said Sounis. He walked through his reception room, where his tailors waited, to his bedchamber without looking back to see if Ion followed.

“Close the door,” he said.

When he heard it shut, he turned around.

“Your Majesty, I apologize,” Ion said.

“Did you arrange the meeting with Melheret?”

“No.”

Sounis waited.

“I did arrange the meeting with Zenia that the ambassador used to his advantage, and I will have to inform the king.”

“And what will he do?”

“Send me away,” said Ion. “This is one too many mistakes to forgive.”

“You would prefer to stay?”

Ion shrugged at the irony of his situation. “I would.”

“You could apologize,” Sounis suggested. “He has a soft spot for idiots. He’s always been very kind to me.”

Ion shook his head. “I do not think he has any such soft spot for me, Your Majesty.”

“Ion,” Sounis said, coming to a decision even he found surprising, “tell him that if he releases you, I would like you to accompany me.”

“Accompany you?”

“To Sounis, as my attendant,” he said.

Ion’s eyebrows rose. “You do me an honor I don’t deserve, Your Majesty.”

Sounis’s insecurities nibbled at him. It was an honor Ion probably didn’t want, either, but Ion unexpectedly smiled. “I would be gratified to serve Your Majesty,” he said sincerely.

“You would rather serve Eugenides,” said Sounis. “Only tell him so, and I will have to find someone else to keep an eye on all my new finery.”

The dinner the next night was formal, all the court at tables, with Sounis and Eddis and the Attolias at the head table with the magus and Eddis’s ambassador. All the other ambassadors were carefully placed beyond the range of polite conversation, to Sounis’s relief. He had declined to meet again with the Mede. At last the talking was done, and the court dined in celebration of a treaty concluded between Sounis and Attolia.

Conversationally, Eugenides said, “What are you doing rescuing my attendants from their own folly?”

“Did you let him go?”

“I’m still thinking about it, shocked as I am to find you raiding my overelegant lapdogs for your own companions.”

“I astonished myself,” said Sounis. “I might perhaps have been prejudiced in my earlier judgment of them.”

Eugenides popped a grape into his mouth and said seriously, “I will rethink my own judgments, then.”

Sounis reached for a serving platter set in front of them both. When Eugenides cleared his throat sharply, Sounis pulled his hand back as if he expected to be bitten.

“Fetch the king of Sounis some lamb,” Attolis said over his shoulder, and someone hurried away to do his bidding. Sounis noticed then that the food on the platter was all cut into bite-sized portions.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realize it was reserved for you.”

The king was smiling out at the room. “It is,” he said calmly.

“I seem to remember once sharing my oatmeal with you,” Sounis remarked.

“I seem to remember stealing your oatmeal,” said the former Thief of Eddis, “but it didn’t have sand in it.”

“Sand?” said Sounis, taken aback.

“Sand, and if my queen notices, she will have someone flayed.”

Attolia was looking their way. Sounis hastily dropped his eyes to his plate. Gen was relaxed against the back of his chair, entirely at his ease. “There is still someone in the kitchen who adores the queen, dislikes Eddisians, and hates me,” he said.

“She just hasn’t met you, I am sure.”

“She has, actually,” said the king of Attolia.

Attolia’s eyebrows were descending as she scrutinized the king. She looked from the platter to his face, and back again. She looked at Sounis. Eugenides sighed and reached for the lamb. To allay her suspicions, he was going to have to eat some of it.

“Let me fall on that blade for you,” said Sounis, and served himself.

“You are a prince among men,” said Eugenides.

“A king,” Sounis corrected him with his mouth full.

In the morning the great plaza in front of Attolia’s palace was emptied of booths and vendors and all their wares. No king departs without ceremony, and the stones were swept of straw and manure, and a dais built, before the morning mist had burned away.

There were prayers by the priests and priestesses of various temples to old gods and new ones. The king of Attolia was known for his dedication to his gods, but careful to make no move to offend any others. The high priestess of Hephestia, a massive woman swathed in red, came last to bless the men who were to be sent to Sounis to fight.

Eddis, sitting on the dais, on a borrowed chair that was far more elegant than the throne she used at home, admired the priestess. She was Attolian by birth and had risen to be high priestess of what was a minor temple in the city. Overnight she had become quite powerful, with a new temple rising on the acropolis above Attolia’s palace. She had great wealth at her fingertips and access to the king’s ear. She could have used that power to diminish other priests and priestesses, but she had chosen not to. When she called out the blessing on the soldiers before her, Eddis could hear the Goddess in the priestess’s voice and wondered if others around her heard it as well. Eddis knew that Eugenides did and that it never failed to spark unease in him. Eddis was tired, and the Goddess’s voice made her long for her mountains. She, too, had spent sleepless nights unmaking and remaking her plans.