Still, Thu-Kimnibol was taken by surprise, after an evening of drinking and entertainment, when Salaman suddenly said in a blunt way, as they lay comfortably sprawled side by side on ornate divans, “By the Five, I admire your gall! That you should come boldly dancing back to Yissou after the things you said to me the night you left.”

Thu-Kimnibol stiffened. “They still rankle in you, do they? After all these years?”

“You said you’d throw me from the top of the wall. Eh? Eh? Have you forgotten that, Thu-Kimnibol? By the Five, I haven’t! What do you think I made of your words, eh? Did I take them as pleasantries, do you think? Ah, no. No. The wall was much lower, then, but I took them to be a threat against my life. Which was correct, I think.”

“I would never have done it.”

“You could never have done it. Chham and Athimin were watching you the whole time. If you had laid a finger on me they’d have chopped you in pieces.”

Thu-Kimnibol took a long drink of his wine: the sweet strong wine of the district, which he hadn’t tasted in years. Over the top of the cup he glanced at the king. No one else was in the room but some of the evening’s dancers, exhausted, who sprawled like discarded pillows along the far wall. Were Salaman’s odious sons lurking behind the curtains, ready now to burst in and avenge the ancient slight he had given their father? Or would the dancers themselves suddenly come to life, with knives and strangling-cloths?

No. Salaman is simply playing games with him, he decided.

“You threatened me also,” he said. “You told me I’d be stripped of all rank and perquisites, and sent to scrub slops in the marketplace.”

“It was said in anger. If I’d had more of my brains about me, I’d have put a man of your size and strength to work on the wall, not in the market.”

The king’s eyes gleamed. He seemed immensely pleased by his own wit.

Best to ignore the insult. Thu-Kimnibol said only, “Why do you reawaken all this now, Salaman?”

Salaman smiled and stroked his chin. Long white tufts of hair sprouted from it now, giving him an oddly benign and almost comic appearance, probably not his intention. “We haven’t spoken in — what, twenty years? Twenty-five? Shouldn’t we at least try to clear the air between us?”

“Is that what you’re doing? Clearing the air?”

“Of course. Do you think we can simply ignore what happened? Pretend it never took place?” Salaman refilled his wine glass, and Thu-Kimnibol’s. He leaned across and stared at close range. In a low voice he asked, “Did you really want to be king in my place?”

“Never. I wanted only the honors due me as Harruel’s son.”

“They told me you meant to overthrow me.”

“Who did?”

“What does that matter? They’re all dead now. Ah, it was Bruikkos. Do you remember him? And Konya.”

“Yes,” Thu-Kimnibol said. “They came to resent me, when I was grown, because I had higher rank than they did. But what did they expect? They were only warriors. I was a king’s son.”

“And Minbain,” Salaman said.

Thu-Kimnibol blinked. “My mother ?”

“Ah, yes. She came to me, and said, ‘Thu-Kimnibol is restless, Thu-Kimnibol is hungry for power.’ She was afraid that you’d do something foolish and I would have to put you to death, which of course she would have regretted greatly. She said to me, ‘Speak with him, Salaman, ease him, give him at least the pretense of what he wants, so that he’ll do no harm to himself.’”

And the king smiled.

Thu-Kimnibol wondered how much of this was true, and how much simply some dark and devious amusement. Of course, Minbain might well have worried that her son would fatally overreach himself, and had taken steps to avert trouble. But that wouldn’t have been much like her. She’d have spoken to me first, Thu-Kimnibol thought. Well, no way to ask her about it now.

“I’d never have tried to displace you, Salaman. Believe me. I took an oath to you: why would I break it? And I knew that I was too young and hotheaded to be a king, and you were too powerfully entrenched.”

“I believe you.”

“If you had given me the titles and honors I wanted, there’d never have been trouble between us. I tell you that truly, Salaman.”

“Yes,” the king said, in a suddenly altered voice, all anger and harshness gone from it. “It was a mistake, my treating you the way I did.”

Instantly Thu-Kimnibol was on his guard.

“Are you serious?”

“I am always serious, Thu-Kimnibol.”

“So you are. But do kings ever admit their mistakes?”

“This one sometimes does. Not often, but sometimes, yes. This is one such time.” Salaman rose, stretched, laughed. “What I wanted was to goad you, to push you to your limit, to drive you out of Yissou. I thought you were too big for this city, too strong a rival, bound to grow even stronger as the years went on. That was my mistake. I should have cultivated you, honored you, disarmed you. And then put your strength to good use here. I saw that later, but it was too late. Well, you’re welcome here again, cousin.” Then an odd expression, half jovial, half suspicious, came into the king’s eyes. “You haven’t come here to seize my throne after all, have you?”

Thu-Kimnibol gave him a chilly look. But he managed a chuckle and a pale grin.

Salaman thrust out his hand. “Dear old friend. I should never have driven you off. I rejoice in your return, however brief it is.” He yawned. “Shall we get some rest, now?”

“A good idea.”

The king glanced at the sleeping dancers, who had not moved from their scattered places on the floor.

“Would you like one of these girls to warm your bed tonight?”

Again, a surprise. The thought of Naarinta, only a few weeks in the grave, came to him. But it was impolitic to refuse Salaman’s hospitality. And what did it matter, one coupling more or less, this far from home? He was weary. He was on edge, after this strange conversation. A warm young body in his arms in the night, a bit of comfort before the real work began — well, why not? Why not? He didn’t intend to remain chaste the rest of his life. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I think I would.”

“What about this one?” Salaman prodded a girl with chestnut fur with his slippered toe. “Up, child. Up, up, wake up! You will be Prince Thu-Kimnibol’s tonight!”

The king sauntered away, moving slowly, lurching just a little.

Without a word the girl gestured and led Thu-Kimnibol off to his draped and cushioned bedchamber in the rear of the palace. By the dim amber bedlight he studied her with interest. She was short, and looked strong, and was wide through the shoulders for a girl. Her chin was strong, her gray eyes were set far apart. It was a familiar face. A sudden wild suspicion grew in him.

“What’s your name, girl?”

“Weiawala.”

“Named for the king’s mate, were you?”

“The king is my father, sir. He named me after the first of his mates, but actually I’m the daughter of his third. The lady Sinithista is my mother.”

Yes. Yes. Salaman’s daughter. That was what he thought. It was astounding. Salaman, who had refused him a daughter once to be his mate, giving him one now as a plaything for the night. A strangely casual gift; or did Salaman have some deep purpose in mind? Very likely the last merchant caravan from Dawinno had brought him word that Naarinta was close to death. But if he hoped to cement relations between Yissou and Dawinno by some sort of dynastic marriage, this was an odd way indeed of going about it. Then again, Salaman was odd. He must have many daughters by now: too many, perhaps.

No matter. The hour was late. The girl was here.

“Come closer, Weiawala,” he said softly. “Beside me. Here. Yes. Here.”

“He’s preaching to the children,” Curabayn Bangkea said. “My men follow him wherever he goes. They see what he does. He gathers the young ones to him, he answers all their questions, he tells them about life in the Nest. He says it’s wrong to think of the hjjks as enemies. He spins fables for them about the Queen, and the great love She has for all creatures, not only creatures of Her own kind.”