“He sounds very impressive,” Mirwell said. “But a man cannot be judged by his kennels.”

Now Amilton did smile, but it was fleeting.“If I’d the sense, I’d have seen to my father’s death before he had a chance to announce an heir. I’d be king now, and I would have the control over my brother’s life, instead of he over mine. Then we would see who the exiled one was!”

Mirwell gazed down at his Intrigue board. Little had changed on it since Immerez last reported. He picked up the red king, its enamel paint chipped and scratched, and rotated it in his fingers.

“Hindsight, my prince, will not change the future. There is no use dwelling in it. Your brother does lack certain qualities which are in your favor.”

“Such as?”

“Such as ambition. You and I share that particular quality, and it is always the downfall of one who is as scrupulous as your brother. We will make Sacoridia great, you and I.” He set the red king on the fringes of the green king’s realm.

Ambition was a healthy attribute for a man in his waning years. It kept him thinking young, and prepared his clan for the ages to come. Once Amilton ascended the throne,Adolind and L’Petrie Provinces—the poorest and richest provinces in Sacoridia—would be incorporated into his own. Adolind because it bordered him to the north, and it contained millions of acres of virgin timber—enough to feed paper mills and shipyards for the next few centuries; and L’Petrie for its harbors, fishing fleet, and prosperous trade city—Corsa. It was also on the southeast corner of his border.

There would be little resistance, if any. Both provinces had militia that were laughable at best. And if there was a problem? The Gray One and King Amilton would back him up with their forces.

“You will prevail, my prince,” Mirwell said. “You will prevail.”

That is, he thought, if Immerez stops that Greenie in time.

STEVIC G’LADHEON

Stevic G’ladheon caught wind of a bad omen as he rode his sorrel stallion through the gates of Selium. An undertaker’s cart stood pulled to the side of the street. The ancient nag harnessed to it dozed in the sun oblivious to the flies that swarmed around her tearing eyes, and that which lay beneath the blanket in the cart.

The undertaker, an old man with a stubble beard, leaned against the cart on his forearms. His worn clothing, hole-ridden trousers, and a frayed waistcoat held together by patches, were smeared with mud and dirt as if he had just returned from grave digging. Stevic G’ladheon, whose own clothing was of the richest fabrics and finest make, wrinkled his nose.

A woman in green joined the old man. Her hair, like new copper, was bound in a single braid down her back. A winged horse was embroidered in gold on the left sleeve of her shortcoat, and a saber girded at her side.

“I can smell what’s in that cart from here.”

Stevic smiled grimly at his cargo master, Sevano, who rode next to him on a gray mare. “It’s not what I think of when I think of Selium,” Stevic said. “I’m surprised they let that undertaker through the gates.”

As they rode past the cart, the woman lifted the blanket. She clapped her hand over her mouth and nose. Whether she was shocked to see the corpse of someone she knew, or was reacting to the stench of decay, he couldn’t tell.

“Found ’im on the side of the road,” the undertaker said in a gruff voice. “Had to have been there a while, I reckon. Woulda left ’im there, but I’m not that way. Some fellas would let a corpse rot in the open if someone weren’t there to pay for a proper burial. I can give you a real decent deal on a pine box if you’re inclined.”

“Was there any sign of a horse nearby?” was the surprising response.

“Nothin’ but my old cob here within miles, Cap’n. Now how ’bout that box?”

The woman dropped the blanket and grabbed him by his lapels. His eyes bulged and his arms dangled helplessly at his sides as she shook him. “Did you see anything lying near the body?” she demanded. “A satchel of any kind? Tack?”

“N-no! Nothing . . .”

Stevic and the cargo master hurried past the unpleasant scene at a trot. After a while, Stevic pulled on the reins and looked back. The undertaker had disappeared, and the woman held two arrows at eye level. A frown tugged at the corners of her mouth.

Sevano followed Stevic’s gaze. “Green Rider,” he muttered. “Always like a raven before the storm, bearing ill news wherever one turns up.”

It sometimes seemed true that the king’s messengers bore only bad news: from strife, illness, and death to new taxes. Some likened crossing the path of a Green Rider to meeting disaster. Stevic knew otherwise. Years ago, a Green Rider had brought news of Queen Isen’s approval for the chartering of Clan G’ladheon. The Rider had stayed on to witness the confirmation ceremony, and turned out to be a jolly entertainer during the reception that followed.

Stevic and Sevano rode through the late afternoon bustle of Selium. Crafters hawked their wares in stalls, and tourists milled around street musicians who played ballads for coppers. Steam rose from vents in the roofs of bathhouses. Despite the outrageous rates chalked outside on slates, long lines formed outside, and business was thriving. If not for the hot springs, commerce in the city would be considerably slower.

Students, in their indigo, green, maroon, gold, and brown uniforms, created a motley scene as they wove in and out of the crowds, or sat on the front steps of the art museum. Some shared notes and gossip while others sketched. Some played involved games of Intrigue as pigeons cooed and stalked the steps in search of handouts.