"Beckram, my dear."

He smiled and let his eyes roll over her with admiration she suspected was partially true. He might be young, but she had the figure of a woman half her age. She wondered why the king had selected this one for her. Was he trying to test her? Onev hadn't been so young, though he'd been softer, less clever. It hadn't taken a full year before Jakoven had him killed. She hoped Beckram lasted longer. She wished she could save him, but she'd learned better a long time ago. So she would savor her enjoyment while it lasted and try not to grow too attached. It helped that he never talked of anything but nonsense. The one before Onev had liked sailing. She'd managed to forget his name after he'd disappeared, but she remembered that.

"My love, you make the summersweet blush in shame," he gestured toward her favorite bush.

"Is that what it is?" she asked, startled that she'd just been wondering, and he'd answered her unspoken question. She'd remember him now, she thought, every time she saw the bush.

He laughed. "I think so, but my brother's the one to ask. What did you do to him, anyway? He was really nervous about you this morning."

She fought to keep her public mask on. "Last night we were standing next to each other—I thought he was you. I—" Ridiculous to be embarrassed about it, she told herself. She played her role, and had for longer than this child had been alive. She managed to go on smoothly.

"— pinched his rump. I thought he was going to pass out." She rolled her eyes, though she'd been touched by his innocence.

Beckram laughed again, settling himself at her feet with the boneless grace of youth. "He takes things too seriously." He took one of her feet into his hands and rubbed it gently, with just enough pressure that it didn't tickle.

"Mmm," she said. "That feels good. Where did you learn how to do that?"

He half hesitated, losing his own mask for a moment of startled recognition. "From my cousin, Ward." He said at last. "I was twelve, and my favorite horse had twisted its leg."

No, she thought. She didn't want to know about his family. She didn't want him to be a person. But it was too late, his face was serious, somber almost.

"My brother wants to be a farmer," he said.

"Oh?" Erdrick might be a safe topic. There weren't many people more safe than Erdrick, she thought.

"And if I inherit my father's estates, we've divided up the duties. He shall farm the land, and I shall do the fighting and what politics are necessary." Beckram squinted against the bright sunlight. He looked so at home outdoors, she thought helplessly. He is a child of sunlight, and I am the black widow who has caught him. She made a neutral noise.

"The thing is, that's ruined now."

He didn't sound upset about it, so she expected some blithe comment on how her beauty would trap him here so he'd be no good at warfare. She made a more encouraging sound.

"The king's declared my cousin Ward unfit to be Hurogmeten. When they find him, he's to be incarcerated in the asylum."

"They can't find him?" She remembered Ward. He was simple but kind, a trait she found rare in men. He always danced with the ugliest girls. She couldn't imagine him in the dungeon her husband had created to house the people too important to kill—like the king's youngest brother. Horrible, horrible, she thought. She'd always been afraid that was where she would end up, too. But she'd had a long time to practice her public mask. Her smile never faltered, and her question had carried only polite interest.

"No. But he'll turn up." Beckram hesitated and looked up at her earnestly, all young man, not flirtatious lover. "Could you ask the king to reinstate him? He's stupid but not insane. That was my uncle."

She found herself nodding in agreement, remembering the infamous rages. She fancied her husband had been more than a little afraid of the Hurogmeten.

Beckram continued. "Neither my father nor I want Hurog. It's a nice curiosity to have in the family, but it's damned uncomfortable. I'd rather have my father's current estate, and Erdrick would rather be my manager."

She felt her maid's hands falter in her hair. A terrified stillness grew inside her. Her husband would be curious about such a request; he would want to know what Beckram stood to gain. Even after all these years at court, she could still take a boy's sincerity at face value. But Jakoven would never do that.

"Come now," she said smiling flirtatiously, trying to help him save himself. "There has to be a better reason. You must stand to gain something." She could do it for him, she thought, if he just came up with a better reason. The king had always seen to it that her lovers were well paid for their services.

Beckram shook his head. "I just can't stand to think of him confined to a room. He belongs at Hurog." He gave her a shy smile that made him look half his age. "He's big and slow—but tough." He touched his eye lightly, for no reason she could see. "He knows every rock on Hurog land, the breeding of every animal on the place. It's his home. After living with Uncle Fenwick, I think he deserves it."

Oh, poor boy, she thought, touching his hair gently. The king will never believe that—not giving up personal gain for love of a cousin. He'll suspect you of some plan to overthrow him. Hurog had political power if not wealth, and if she remembered that, Jakoven was sure to as well. If Shavig still had a king of its own, it would have been a man of the Hurog family, something the Shavig lords were very aware of.

But she had been Jakoven's wife for many years. She smiled. "I'll ask him, of course. But don't get your hopes up too high. He seldom changes his mind because of any request I make. Now, go find me something to drink."

He jumped up and bowed low. "Queen of my heart, it will be done."

Sheira, her maid, continued grooming her after he left, and Tehedra fought not to flinch away. It wasn't the girl's fault that she had to report everything to the king. Damn the boy for being stupid and getting himself killed.

Garranon fought to keep from rolling his eyes. If the Oranstone contingent at court had looked all year, they couldn't have found a worse person to plead their case than old Haverness. Morning hearings were seldom pleasant for Garranon, but this was more painful than usual.

"We are yours, my king. Sworn to you by our life's blood," said Haverness.

That oath you take much more seriously than the king, thought Garranon sadly. Haverness had to know what he was letting himself in for. Garranon had explained to the Oranstonians that the king would not help them. He'd tried to warn them that they would only make things worse by pressing. But they'd ignored him.

Haverness of Callis looked like the old warrior he was. He was the only Oranstonian at court with the courage to keep his hair in the fashion of the Oranstone nobles: shaved from temple to ear and cut short everywhere else. Garranon knew Jakoven regarded Haverness as a beaten man, a failure. If Garranon saw instead a hero, it was something he would keep to himself.

Resolutely, Garranon turned his attention elsewhere. The king held morning business in one of the larger antechambers. The Tamerlain was here this morning as she often was; she said that it relieved her boredom now that Menogue was deserted. Her yellow and gold mottled body was almost shocking in comparison to all of the somberly clad nobles. She was bearlike in size and shape, but more gracile, like a giant forest cat. Her head was more catlike, too, with mobile features and sharp, white fangs. Impressive and predatory as the guardian of a god's temple should be, the only discordant note was the extra-long fluffy tail. He wondered why no one stepped on her in the crowded room, as she'd assured him years ago that he was the only one who could see her.