“Don’t, Miri. Don’t apologize.”

“But I don’t like crying. It’s an excuse for people to say, ‘She’s just a woman.’”

“I like holding you, though. Stop wriggling.”

“Oh, very well, but just for a moment. It will be time for me to get dressed soon—I have so much to do! And in any case, Jeremias will be in soon, and I don’t particularly like the way he chirps around here in the morning like a fat robin.”

“He is doing his duty, beloved, nothing more.”

“I know. Ooh, your hands are cold.”

“You don’t get away so easily. Besides, you know what they say. ‘Cold hands . . . warm horn.’”

“You! Stop that. We have things to talk about still—many things.”

“And you’re leaving tomorrow. Damn and blast, Miri, don’t push me away!”

“And what will happen if I let you? Afterward, you will smile like a dog in the sun, roll over, and fall back asleep while there are still important matters to discuss.”

“No. I will kiss you first, many times. Because I love you, and I’m going to miss you terribly. Don’t you still love me?”

“Yes, you fool man. Most of the time I love you to distraction. The rest of the time, the distraction comes on its own. But as you know, we have other responsibilities now.”

“Oh, God on His Throne, responsibilities! I hate that word sometimes. And I miss the days when it wasn’t like this. Don’t you wish we could just do what we wished? Go where we wished?”

“I don’t think I could do that, Simon. I don’t think I could forget all the people who count on us. And neither could you, if I remember correctly, not even when you were young. That’s why you risked your life for Josua and had to flee the castle. No, don’t get up. Please. Come, hold me again, but be careful with those cold hands! I have just remembered about the Perdruinese factors.”

“Not them again.”

“Yes, them. If I’d known I was going to Nabban I could have arranged to meet them there, but they are already coming here. They’ll arrive before the end of Tiyagar-month. They say that it is unfair to set the tariff so high for their grain, because the farmers in the south have had a terrible year.”

“So we will lower it.”

“You cannot. Then the Northern Alliance factors will be angry. And our own grain merchants here in Erkynland will not be best pleased, either.”

“Why should we argue with Perdruinese traders in the first place?”

“Because they are part of my grandfather’s kingdom, part of the High Ward, and we have made promises to treat them fairly.”

“No, I mean why should we tell them anything at all? Why not let them decide for themselves what prices to set?”

“Because farmers, shepherds, merchants, traders, they are all strung together like beads on a necklace. Do not pretend to be foolish, Simon. You know this. It is all one great thing, and we must pull the strands at one end to keep them tight at the other, and so on. Back and forth, back and forth.”

“They could do it better for themselves, surely.”

“Then they would not be under the High Ward and would soon go back to fighting and killing each other. Have you forgotten about the old days before my grandfather, when Nabban fought Erkynland and Perdruin, and Erkynland fought Hernsytir, and everyone fought with Rimmersgard and the Thrithings-Men? That was why my grandfather King John brought them together under one throne, and why we must rule over them all. To keep them from killing each other.”

“If the High King and the High Queen must decide what every single grain factor and wool merchant is to do, it seems to me that something is wrong. It also means that all the power is vested in the High Throne.”

“Yes, that’s what it means.”

“What if the person sitting on the throne is, pardon my saying so, more like your father than your grandfather? Or like King Hugh instead of Eolair, or like Drusis instead of his brother Saluceris?”

“Morgan will not be like any of those!”

“No? I hope not too. But what of Morgan’s sons and daughters? What of the others to come? How long until a madman or a fool sits on the High Throne?”

“I’m beginning to think there is at least one fool sitting on it now. Not to mention an ape with no manners. Did I tell you to start pawing me again?”

“I’m sorry. You’re right, Miri, I have no manners. But it feels so sweet when I squeeze you right . . . there.”

“Stop, you monster.”

“Yes. Yes, I am. A monster who is going to miss you so fiercely that I will pray every day and every night for you to hurry back to me. Hurry back to me, wife, so I can do this.”

“Simon, please.”

“Are there any other important details you need to give me? Let’s call in Pasevalles and the clerks to be certain. Surely there is a thread that some weaver in Crannhyr has broken that I should replace. Or is there a fisherman on Firannos Bay who cannot earn his living until I mend his nets for him?”

“That is not a net you are paddling, ape.”

“Nor are you a fisherman. So it works out well for everyone.”

“Pig.”

“Tyrant.”

“Fool. Great clumping fool of a husband. By the sweet Mother of God, I shall miss you.”

“And I shall miss you. No more talk. Kiss me. It will be dawn soon.”

“Oh. Oh, what are you doing there?”

“Nothing but my duty. All this talk of duty has inspired me to send the King’s Hand on a state visit.”

“Simon! You really are like a child, did you know that? An irresponsible boy.”

“Then who is truly the fool, High Queen Miriamele? After all, you are the one who married me. But if you are ordering me to desist . . .”

“Save your temper, husband. I called you a name, but I did not tell you to stop.”

51 Stolen Scales

Count Eolair remembered the name Khendraja’aro from King Simon’s stories, but he had never heard or seen anything to suggest that this bad-tempered relative would be the one giving the orders. The hierarchy of the Zida’ya had seemed quite clear to Eolair during the Storm King’s War: Likimeya and her husband were the royal couple, and their children, Jiriki and Aditu were prince and princess, or at least next in the line of succession. But either he had been wrong or something had happened to change it.

“You say only our old alliance preserves our lives today, Khendraja’aro,” Eolair said. “If so, we are grateful for your restraint, but I confess I am puzzled. Before you send us away, please tell me what I—or my people—have done to earn such words of scorn.”

“You want to know what you mortals have done?” Khendraja’aro asked. “Lied. Betrayed. Murdered. Is that not enough to deserve those words?”

“Why is he saying that?” Morgan demanded. “That’s not true! Count, what does he mean?”

“I don’t know—” Eolair began.

“You saw Likimeya!” cried Yeja’aro. “You saw the mistress of Year-Dancing drowning in the Long Sleep! Your people did that!”

Aditu shot Yeja’aro a look that seemed to Eolair half-anger, half-pity. “Not all mortals know what all mortals do, S’hue-tsa.”

“They were men of this Seoman Snowlock’s own kingdom!” Yeja’aro turned to Khendraja’aro. “Uncle, you said yourself that mortal words are meaningless, useless—that those creatures do not know anything of truth.”

Morgan stirred and seemed about to reply. Eolair reached out and squeezed his arm—a little harder than he had intended, but the last thing they needed was an angry young prince making things worse.