And here now was Harruel’s son, come to Harruel’s city to stand before the Throne of Harruel as Dawinno’s ambassador to Harruel’s successor. The great wheel turned, and in its turnings brought everything to everything. Why was he here? So far he had given no inkling. It had all gone smoothly up till now, at least. In the beginning Salaman had found Thu-Kimnibol’s unexpected arrival ominous and oppressive: a mystery, a threat. But also it was an interesting challenge: can you still handle him, Salaman? Can you hold him in check?

The king said, gesturing amiably, “Will you be seated, Thu-Kimnibol?”

“If it pleases your majesty, I’m comfortable as I am.”

“Whatever you prefer. Will you have wine?”

“After we speak, maybe. It’s early in the day for me to be drinking.”

Salaman wondered, not for the first time, whether Thu-Kimnibol was being shrewd or merely simple. The man was impossible to read. By choosing to remain standing, Thu-Kimnibol had, so it seemed, opted to dominate the room by sheer size and force; but had that been a deliberate choice, or, as he claimed, a matter of preference in comfort? And by refusing wine he had imposed a tension and a stiffness on the meeting that might work to his favor in any hard bargaining. Or was it just that drinking wasn’t to his taste? The sons of drunkards often want to follow a different path.

The king felt the need of regaining the advantage that Thu-Kimnibol, by inadvertence or design, had taken from him so swiftly and easily. It was bad enough that he was so big. Salaman always felt uneasy in the presence of big men, not because he had any great regret at being short-legged himself, but because great slow lumbering fellows like Thu-Kimnibol made him feel overhasty and fevered in his motions, like some small scurrying animal. But aside from all that he could not allow Thu-Kimnibol the additional superiority of controlling the field of discussion.

“You know my sons?” Salaman asked, as the princes began to enter the hall and take their seats.

“I know Chham and Athimin, certainly. And Ganthiav I met when I arrived.”

“This is Poukor. This is Biterulve. And these are Bruikkos and Char Mateh. My son Praheurt is too young to attend this meeting.” The king spread his arms in a great curve, embracing them all. Let them surround Thu-Kimnibol. Let them engulf him. He may be big, but together we can outnumber him.

They lined the room, the seven princes, each of them a close copy of his father down to the cold gray eyes, the stockiness of frame — all but the one called Biterulve, rather less sturdy than the others, and pale of aspect, though he at least had the royal eyes. Salaman was pleased to see some shadow of dismay cross Thu-Kimnibol’s face as these replicas of him assembled. An impressive phalanx, they were. They testified to the force of his spirit: when he coupled with a woman it was his seed that made the mark, his features and form that were born again. Anyone could see that in these sons of his. He was fiercely proud of it.

“A commendable legion you have here,” Thu-Kimnibol said.

“Indeed. They are my great pride. Do you have sons, Thu-Kimnibol?”

“I was never blessed that way by Mueri. And am not likely to be, now. The lady Naarinta—” His voice trailed off. His face turned bleak.

Salaman felt a stab of shock. “Dead? No, cousin! Tell me it’s not so!”

“You knew she was ill?”

“I heard something about it when the merchant caravan was last here. But they said there was some hope of her recovery.”

Thu-Kimnibol shook his head. “She lingered all winter, and weakened in the spring. Not long before I set out for Yissou she died.”

The somber words fell like stones into the room. Salaman was caught unprepared by them. They had managed so far this evening to be purely formal with each other, rigidly playing their official roles, king and ambassador, ambassador and king, like figures on a frieze, for the sake of keeping the troublesome past that lay between them from breaking through and disturbing the niceties of their diplomatic calculations. But now an unexpected moment of mortal reality had interposed itself. “A pity. A very great pity,” Salaman said, after a moment, and sighed. “I prayed for her recovery, you know, when the merchants told me. And I grieve for you, cousin.” He offered Thu-Kimnibol a look of genuine regret. Suddenly the tone of the meeting was altered. This man here, this looming giant, this ancient rival of his, this dangerous son of the dangerous Harruel: he was vulnerable, he had suffered. It became possible to see him as something other than a puzzling and annoying intruder, suddenly. He imagined Thu-Kimnibol at his lady’s deathbed, imagined him clenching his fists and weeping, imagined him howling in rage as he himself had howled when his own first mate Weiawala had died. It made Thu-Kimnibol more real for him. And he remembered, then, how they had stood together, he and Thu-Kimnibol, at the battle against the hjjks, how Thu-Kimnibol, just a child then, still carrying his child-name, even, had fought like a hero that day. A great surge of liking and even love for this man, this man whom he had hated and had driven from his kingdom, flooded his soul. He leaned forward and said in a low hoarse tone, “No prince of your bearing should be without sons. You ought to choose another mate as soon as your mourning’s over, cousin.” Then, with a wink: “Or take two or three. That’s how I’ve done it here.”

“In Dawinno we still allow ourselves only one at a time, cousin,” Thu-Kimnibol replied evenly. “We are very conservative that way.” To Salaman it felt like a rebuke, and some of his good will toward Thu-Kimnibol evaporated as swiftly as it had come. Thu-Kimnibol shrugged and said, “For now the thought of choosing a new mate seems very strange to me. Time will take care of that, I suppose.”

“Time takes care of everything,” Salaman said elaborately, as though uttering oracular wisdom.

He could see that Thu-Kimnibol was growing impatient. Perhaps this talk of sons and mates was troubling to him. Or perhaps his impatience was yet another ploy. He had begun to pace about, stalking the vast room like some ponderous beast, striding past one row of princes, whirling, coming back past the other. Their eyes followed his every movement.

Abruptly Thu-Kimnibol settled on a divan close by the king and said, “Enough of this, cousin. Let me come to my business. Some months back a strange boy appeared in our city. A young man, rather. Riding out of the north, on a vermilion. Barely able to speak our language. Hjjk-noises were all he could manage, and maybe a People word or two. We couldn’t figure out where he had come from or what he wanted or who he was, until Hresh, using the sort of tricks that only Hresh knows, went into his mind with the Wonderstone. And discovered that he was from our city in the first place: stolen, about thirteen years back. When he was just a child.”

“Stolen by the hjjks, you mean?”

“Right. And raised by them in the Nest of Nests. And now they’d sent him back to us as an emissary, to offer us Queen-love and Queen-peace. So Hresh said.”

“Ah,” said Salaman. “We had one of those come to us a little time ago. A girl, she was. She’d spit and rant at us all day in hjjk. We couldn’t make any sense out of it at all.”

“She knew a few words of our language, father,” Chham said.

“Yes. Yes, she did. She’d babble to us about the grandeur of the hjjk Queen, the high godly truth of Her ways. Or similar nonsense. We didn’t pay much attention. How long ago was this, Chham?”

“It was Firstmonth, I think.”

“Firstmonth, yes. And what finally happened? Ah: I remember. She tried to escape, wasn’t it, and make her way back to the hjjks?”

“Yes,” said Chham. “But Poukor caught up with her outside the wall and killed her.”

“ Killedher?” Thu-Kimnibol said, eyes wide, astonishment in his voice.