“Just what you always wanted, our Highness,” Max said with a sour smirk in his voice. That would have stung had it held less truth. Being the man of the hour was what I’d always wanted. Be careful what you want, then-you may get it.

You may also eventually get breakfast. None of Hoxha’s cooks challenged any of the others to a duel, either, though they constantly seemed on the edge of it. Coffee, fried fowl, fried eggs, fried bread (which surprised me by proving tasty), fried sausage (which surprised me by proving even nastier than I expected, and I thought I was braced for the wurst). Everyone kept on telling me things or shouting questions at me while I ate. I wasn’t king yet, so I couldn’t even order people beheaded.

For that matter, I didn’t know where I would be crowned (or even coronated-yes, Bob was there). I didn’t know where my palace was, either. Peshkepiia didn’t seem the sort of place that had palaces hidden away up back alleys.

I headed for the fortress to find Essad Pasha. And I did: he was heading for the hostel to find me. “Your Highness,” he said, bowing low.

“Your Excellency.” I bowed back. Essad Pasha’s bodyguards and Max bowed to one another. It was all very polite. When men carrying a variety of lethal hardware meet on the street, politeness is to be admired and desired. I went on, “I was coming to ask you about the coronation ceremony.”

“Well, good, because I was coming to tell you about it.” Essad Pasha looked as affable as a senior officer in the army of the Hassockian Empire was likely to look unless he was plotting something really nefarious. “What would you like to know?”

“Where will it be, to begin with?” I said. “And where will I dwell once I wear the crown?”

“And will his Majesty’s harem dwell there as well?” Max added. “He is too much a gentleman to speak of such things on his own, but naturally it is a matter rousing some curiosity on his part.”

Rousing, indeed. If it didn’t rouse some curiosity on Max’s part, and if I didn’t know which part of Max was roused, I would have been very surprised. None of which meant my sword-swallowing aide-de-camp was mistaken. Those questions did rouse my curiosity, among other things.

And Essad Pasha seemed to find all the questions reasonable enough. “You will be crowned, naturally, in the Quadrate God’s fane,” he replied. “That way, your mystical affinity with the land you are to rule will spread north and south, east and west, over the entire kingdom. So may it be.”

“So may it be,” I echoed. After two terms in the Hassockian Army, I thought I knew enough about the Quadrate God’s rituals so I wouldn’t give myself away.

“As for your residence,” Essad Pasha went on, “if you would be so kind as to come with me…”

Off we went, into the back alleys of Peshkepiia. We strode through a market square that had some of the sorriest meat and vegetables and leather goods and, well, everything else, too, that I’d ever seen. It also had the largest assortment of coins passing current that I’d ever seen-probably that anyone has ever seen. Most likely because Shqiperi doesn’t coin for itself, everyone’s money is good here. You see everything from Hassocki piasters to Albionese shillings and even shekels from Vespucciland across the sea. If someone came out of the mountains after digging up a hoard of Aenean silver, that wouldn’t have fazed the merchants. They all had scales-and, no doubt, all had their thumbs on them whenever they thought they could get away with it.

Peshkepiia’s sewage system is largely a matter of rumor. I was repeatedly glad Hassockian Army uniform includes knee-high boots. We did considerable squelching. Some of the things we walked through…Well, I didn’t get a good look at them, and I can’t say I’m sorry I didn’t.

Essad Pasha paused. “Behold, Your Highness-Your Majesty very soon to be-your palace. I hope it pleases you.”

May Eliphalet’s curse smite me with boils if it didn’t. There it was: a real palace-a little one, but without a doubt a palace-right where I’d never dreamt there could be any such thing. It was charming, even elegant, in the sinuous Hassocki style. And if there was a wigmaker’s shop across the muddy street and a horseleech’s establishment next door-somehow that added to the charm instead of taking away from it.

“How did it get here?” I asked. I probably would have asked the same question the same way if I’d seen a daffodil sprouting from a cow flop. Given Peshkepiia’s general atmosphere, that was more likely than this.

“I believe a governor built it some years ago for his lady love,” Essad Pasha answered. “So I was told when I came to Shqiperi, anyhow.”

“Why were you living in the fortress and not here, your Excellency?” Max asked: a much more bluntly sensible query than the one I’d come up with. Max is a useful fellow. You never need to think the worst of anyone while he’s around, since he’ll do it for you.

Essad Pasha coughed once or twice himself-he doesn’t do it as well as Max-and sent me what might have been a look of appeal. I pretended either not to notice it or to misunderstand it. “Yes, why were you?” I asked, as if that were simply the most interesting question I’d ever heard in my life.

He thought about telling some spun-sugar fairy tale. Then, of themselves, his eyes went to Max’s sword. Max’s hand wasn’t on the hilt, but it wasn’t far away. Conscience doth make cowards of us all, as an Albionese poet once said, conscience being the still, small voice that tells us someone may call us a damned liar. That last definition comes from a Schlepsigian actor, acrobat, showman, soldier of fortune, and-briefly-king.

Instead of spinning the fairy tale, Essad Pasha said, “I judged the fortress more secure. But, with a proper guard contingent and with popular goodwill, your Highness-your Majesty soon, as I say-should be more than safe enough here.”

More than safe enough for whom? I wondered. The only thing Essad Pasha knew about popular goodwill was that he’d never had any. “The harem is already installed here?” I asked him.

He brightened. “Oh, yes, your Highness. The quarters are admirable for the purpose. That governor may have built this palace for one favorite, but he entertained the possibility of entertaining more here.” He sent me a manly smirk.

I also pretended not to notice that. For once, I found a relevant question ahead of Max: “The royal treasury is already installed here?”

Essad Pasha looked as if my intrepid aide-de-camp had just sliced off the first two inches of his manhood and was poised to take more (assuming he had more). Again, he seemed poised to lie. Again, he decided lying wasn’t a good idea; I would have no trouble checking. “Ah, not yet,” he said in slightly strangled tones.

“You will attend to that at once, your Excellency, won’t you?” I bore down on the last two words. I didn’t say what would happen if Essad Pasha failed to attend to it at once. Sometimes it’s better to let a man use his imagination. Even someone like Essad Pasha, seemingly born without any such thing, can, when pressed, form the most remarkable pictures in his mind.

“Yes, your Highness.” He sounded resigned if not transported with delight.

“Good,” I said. “For if I am to be king here, I shall be king here. North and south, east and west, this land and all in it are mine. And it will have a proper coinage.” I scratched at my mustaches. I rather fancied my face on silver and gold, I did. Instead of saying so, I went on, “A proper Shqipetari coinage would go a long way towards insuring popular goodwill, eh? And towards insuring a proper guard contingent here, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“Er-so it may.” Now Essad Pasha sounded distinctly less than overjoyed. He must have got used to the idea that Shqiperi’s treasury was his treasury. To have a stranger announce that the kingdom was going to use it-and that the stranger wanted to get his own hands on it-couldn’t have sat well.