"Daughters are seldom in demand at a court," she murmured, thinking as quickly as she could. "We are only tools for marriage most of the time. A complication in other ways, unless there are also sons to smooth a succession." If Alixana could be direct, so could she. There was an undeniable ripple of excitement within her: she had been here almost half a year, doing nothing, suspended like an insect in Trakesian amber. What she did now might end in death, but she realized she was prepared to court that.

This time it was Gesius who smiled briefly, she saw. She was conscious of his measuring gaze upon her.

"We are aware, of course, of your difficulties at home," said Valerius. "Indeed, we have spent a winter pondering ways of addressing them."

There was little point, really, in not responding to this, either.

"We have spent a winter," Gisel murmured, "doing the same thing. It might have been appropriate to do so together? We did accept an invitation to come here in order to do that."

"Indeed? Is that so? It is my understanding," said a man dressed in figured silk of a deep green, "that our invitation and an Imperial ship were what saved your life, queen of the Antae." His tone, eastern, patrician, was just barely acceptable in this company. The Master of Offices paused, then added, "You do have a savage history in your tribe, after all."

This she would not countenance. East and the fallen west again? The glorious Sarantine heirs of Rhodias, the primitive barbarians from the northern forests? Not still, not here. Gisel turned her gaze to him.

"Somewhat," she said coldly. "We are a warlike, conquering people. Of course succession here in Sarantium always proceeds in a more orderly fashion. No deaths ever attend upon a change of Emperors, do they?"

She knew what she was saying. There was a little silence. Gisel became aware that glances were being cast-quickly, and then away-towards Styliane Daleina, who had seated herself behind the Empress. She made a point of not looking that way.

The Chancellor gave a dry cough behind his hand. Another of the seated men glanced quickly at him and then gestured briefly. The musician, with alacrity and evident relief, made a hasty obeisance and left the room with his instrument. No one paid him the least attention. Gisel was still glaring at the Master of Offices.

The Emperor said, in a thoughtful voice, "The queen is correct, of course, Faustinus. Indeed, even my uncle's ascension was accompanied by some violence. Styliane's own dear father was killed."

So much cleverness here. This was not a man, Gisel thought, to allow a nuance to slip by, if he could make it his own. She understood this, as it happened: her father had been much the same. It gave her some confidence, though her heart was racing. These were dangerous, subtle people, but she was the daughter of one herself. Perhaps she was one herself? They could kill her, and they might, but they could not strip her of pride and all legacies. She was aware of a bitter irony, however: she was defending her people against an allegation that they were murderous, barbaric, when she herself had been the intended victim of an assassination- in a holy, consecrated place.

"Times of change are seldom without their casualties," said the Chancellor softly, his first words. His voice was thin as paper, very clear.

"The same must be said of war," said Gisel, her tone blunt. She would not let this become an evening discussion of philosophers. She had sailed here for a reason, and it was not merely to save her life, whatever anyone might think or say. Leontes was looking at her, his expression betraying surprise.

"Truly so," said Alixana, nodding her head slowly. "One man burns and dies or thousands upon thousands do. We make our choices, don't we?"

One man bums and dies. Gisel looked quickly at Styliane this time. Nothing to be seen. She knew the story, everyone did. Sarantine Fire in a morning street.

Valerius was shaking his head. "Choices, yes, my love, but they are not arbitrary ones if we are honourable. We serve the god, as we understand him."

"Indeed, my lord," said Leontes crisply, as if trying to draw a sword through the seductive softness of the Empress's voice. "A war in the name of holy Jad is not as other wars." He glanced at Gisel again. "Nor can it be said that the Antae are unfamiliar with invasions."

Of course they weren't. She'd implied as much herself. Her people had conquered the Batiaran peninsula, sacking Rhodias, burning it. Which made it difficult to argue against the idea of an invading army, or ask for mercy. She wasn't doing that. She was trying to steer this towards a truth she knew: if they invaded-and even if this tall, golden general succeeded in the beginning-they would not hold. They would never hold against the Antae, with the Inicii on the borders and Bassania creating another war front as it grasped the implications of a reunited Empire. No, the reclaiming of Rhodias could happen in only one way. And she, in her youth, in her person, a life that could end with a cup of poisoned wine or a silent, secret blade, was that way.

She had such a narrow, twisting path to try to walk here. Leontes, the handsome, pious soldier gazing at her now, was the one who would bring ruin to her country if the Emperor gave him word. In the name of holy Jad, he'd said. Did that make the dead less dead? She could ask them that, but it wasn't the question that mattered now.

"Why have you not spoken with me before?" she said, fighting a sudden, rising panic, looking at Valerius again, the calm, soft-faced man she had invited to marry her. She still had difficulty meeting the gaze of the Empress, though Alixana-of all of them-had been the most welcoming. Nothing here could be taken for what it seemed to be, she kept telling herself. If there was any truth to cling to, it was that.

"We were in negotiation with the usurpers, "Valerius said with brutal frankness. He uses directness as a tool, she thought.

"Ah," she said, hiding discomfiture as best she could. "Were you? How very… prudent."

Valerius shrugged. "An obvious course. It was winter. No armies travel, but couriers do. Foolish not to learn as much as we could about them. And they would have known if we had received you formally here, of course. So we didn't. We did have you watched, guarded against assassination all winter. You must be aware of that. They have spies here-just as you did."

She ignored that last. "They wouldn't have known if we had met like this," she said. Her heart was still pounding.

"We assumed," said the Empress gently, "that you would refuse to be received in any way but as a visiting queen. Which was-and is-your right."

Gisel shook her head. "Should I insist on ceremony when people die?"

"We all do that," said Valerius. "It is all we have at such times, isn't it? Ceremony?"

Gisel looked at him. Their eyes met. She thought suddenly of the cheiromancers and the weary clerics and an old alchemist in a graveyard outside the city walls. Rituals and prayers, when they raised the mound of the dead.

"You should know," the Emperor went on, his voice still mild, "that Eudric in Varena, who calls himself regent now, by the way, has offered an oath of fealty to us and-something new-to begin paying a formal tribute, twice annually. In addition, he has invited us to place advisers in his court, both religious and military."

Details, a great many of them. Gisel closed her eyes. You should know. She hadn't, of course. She was half a world away from her throne and had spent a winter waiting to be seen here in the palace, to have a role to play, to justify her flight. Eudric had won, then. She had always thought he would.

"His conditions," the Emperor continued, "were the predictable ones: that we recognize him as king, and accomplish a single death."