She shook her head. “You are right—I am not looking forward to it. My teeth will be clenched the whole time I’m there.”

“Poor wife. Remember, though, you were the one who decided to face it by yourself and leave me at home.”

“Don’t mock me, husband,” she told him sternly.

“I don’t mean to. In any case, you handled the negotiation well.”

She recognized a peace offering. “It seemed obvious that Vidian had to have put a few concessions in the escritor’s pocket, or what’s the use of sending a high-ranking churchman instead of a letter? The Sancellan Aedonitis has known for a long time that we wanted another northern escritor, so it made sense that the lector would have given permission ahead of time for Auxis to accept any reasonable candidate. As for the other promise—fairer treatment of all sides by Mother Church—I felt certain Auxis had been told to accept any deal that the lector might be able to slip out of later on.”

“Sweet Elysia, Mother of our Redeemer,” Simon said, keeping his voice down to avoid being heard by the various courtiers and visitors Pasevalles was now herding toward the throne room’s great doors. “You are more cynical about the church than I am!”

“I love God, but I know the church is composed of mere men.”

The king laughed, though not entirely happily. “Well, I give you all the credit, my dear. You told me Auxis could say yes on the lector’s behalf without waiting for an answer from his master, and you were right.”

“It only made sense. Lector Vidian wants the dukedom of Nabban to be held by one of his allies, like Count Dallo, but not by violent rebellion, which will bring in the High Throne. Now he sees that matters have gone too far and is desperate to calm things down, and a large part of that is because his own position is shaky. It’s his own fault for having so obviously favored the Ingadarines that none of the other families trust him.”

Simon looked uncertain. “But even if Dallo and Drusis reach for power and fail, Lector Vidian cannot be . . . what would it be called? ‘Un-elected’? See, there isn’t even a word for it. Lectors serve for life!”

“You’re right, my husband. So he knows that if it came to a civil war in Nabban, someone would likely kill him.”

“What do you mean? Not truly.”

“Yes, truly. What do you think happened to the first Larexes, or old Saqualian? Choked on a fish bone? It is well known in Nabban that his mistress poisoned his oyster stew.” She paused. “In fact, even poor, brave Lector Ranessin died an unnatural death, and I should know, since I was in the Sancellan that night.”

“But Ranessin was killed by Pryrates!”

“It was still a removal for political reasons.” Her mouth twisted. “My father’s reasons, although I pray he did not know how that cursed priest planned to do it. No, my beloved man, power struggles in Nabban are nearly always deadly.” She showed him a smile, although it came with difficulty. “It’s a good thing I’m the one going. It’s also fitting that I’ll be going there on a ship named after my mother, since it was she and my Nabbanai relatives who taught me these things.”

“How did your mother teach you all this? She died when you were only a child.”

“And that taught me that life is precarious. But it was her inner court and my relatives there—especially a few rare bitches among her ladies-in-waiting—who taught me how things are done in Nabban.”

Which is all the more reason I should not go back to that treacherous place, though I must, she thought. But I shall miss my kind-hearted husband so painfully while we are apart. And almost without realizing it, she reached out and took Simon’s strong, familiar hand and squeezed it as though she would never let go.

“Your visitors have all been sent away,” announced Lord Chancellor Pasevalles. “But Osric, Duke of Falshire and Wentmouth is waiting, and you will want to see him. He brings news of who shall attend you on your journey, my queen.”

Miri shared a wordless look of resignation with Simon; neither of them loved Duke Osric, who was doggedly old-fashioned in his ideas and relentlessly humorless. He also had a tendency to hand all the most valuable plums of office to members of his own large, greedy clan. Still, compared to many of the most powerful Erkynlandish nobles, Osric was fairly sensible and hard-working, and he was also Lillia’s and Morgan’s grandfather, which made him family. “By all means,” Simon said, with a creditable appearance of cheer. “Usher him in, please.”

Osric, in company with his clerks as well as half a dozen Erkynguardsmen, strode into the audience room. Thinking about the tangle of Nabbanai politics suddenly made Miriamele wonder which way their own Erkynguard would turn if something happened to the king. Her husband was fantastically popular with them, and they liked bluff Lord Constable Osric as well, but she doubted they felt quite the same about her.

Could I hold this kingdom together, my own grandfather’s empire, without Simon? Or would they push Morgan onto the throne too early?

It was not a pleasant thought.

Osric strode to the throne and dropped to a knee, still agile and strong though he was older than Miri or Simon. The rest of his retinue did the same, eyes firmly fixed on the floor. “Majesties,” said the duke, “may God give you health.”

“Rise, good Wentmouth,” Miri said. “It is good to see you.”

“And you. But are you certain you must make this journey, Majesty?” Osric asked her. “I fear for your safety, I must confess. Nabban is a dangerous place just now.”

She ignored the squeeze Simon gave her hand. “The journey must be made. But with good, strong Erkynlandish soldiers to protect me, I will feel quite safe. Are all the arrangements made?”

“The Princess Hylissa waits, and the boat that will take you to her is ready. All else has been prepared. A long company of the Queen’s Erkynguard will accompany you—as well as the women and others of the queen’s household, of course.”

“And who will command my guard?” she asked.

“Chancellor Pasevalles and I have decided that the night captain, Sir Jurgen of Sturmstad, will be the best choice.”

“I know him but only a little. Is he the dark one?”

“He is very dark of hair and beard, yes. He is of Rimmersgard blood, but his grandfather was Perdruinese, I think,” Osric said. “Still, he was born and raised an Erkynlander and he fought with me at the Ymstrecca. A good, solid man.”

“You will have no cause to complain of Sir Jurgen, Your Majesties,” Pasevalles said. “He is as devoted as I am to seeing the queen safely through her visit to Nabban.”

“So it is all accomplished, then?” But as Miriamele said it, she had a sudden swipe of misgiving, a cold reluctance that she had not felt for years.

“You leave the day after tomorrow, Majesty—St. Endrian’s Day—as you wished. Escritor Auxis and his party will accompany you on the Hylissa, so you will have no lack of company and conversation,” Pasevalles said.

Osric bowed again. “And now, my lady, I must leave you and the king to finish the last preparations. I will see you on St. Endrian’s!”

“May I have a few more words with Your Majesties about arrangements in Nabban?” Pasevalles asked after Osric was gone.

“She will be well guarded, yes?” Simon asked. “And not just by the duke’s men.”

“Absolutely, Majesty. The queen will take many of the Erkynguard with her, some of our best men. Osric has already arranged it.”

“Then am I needed for this discussion?” he asked. “I have a prior engagement.”

Miri could see the unhappiness in Simon’s long face. “What prior engagement could you possibly have?” she asked.

He looked evasive. “Nothing—nothing important. Just some things to be seen to.”

Miriamele felt sure he did not want to hear her making plans for Nabban, that it made him sad. “Go then with God’s grace, my husband, and do your ‘nothing important.’”