Time to play the bumpkin. “Well, I don’t bone up and mount them, if that’s what you’re implying. But for placing which is bred with which, why yes, I do, Declaine,” Kordas said lazily. “I know the full pedigree of every horse that comes from my stables. I make all the matches myself. It doesn’t do to leave something that important to menials.” He accepted the next dish, which looked like something pickled. It was. “Of course, once they leave my stables, they are out of my hands, and I’ve got no control over what they get bred to, if they get bred at all.” He shrugged. “I do keep track of it, though. Wouldn’t do to have someone claim a nag with a muddled pedigree is something I’m responsible for.”

Now the sly glances around the table suggested he’d presented just the right level of agrarian simplicity. He decided not to elaborate on it and see what his neighbors said.

“I heard,” continued Declaine silkily, “that not more than a week ago, you were actually attending the birth of a horse yourself!”

Well, that got around fast. He was unsurprised. If Merrin, the Emperor, or both wanted the story spread around, it could have come into the Palace in the morning and been known to the entire Court by afternoon.

“Some things are best left to experts, and I am an expert,” he drawled. “Especially when it’s a Valdemar Gold.”

The mention of the Golds awoke something else in the eyes of everyone around him: glints of avarice. Everyone wanted a Gold, apparently. He was just glad that the only ones he’d brought were in the Emperor’s hands. Even if they were fake.

But besides the avarice, there were snickers hidden behind hands. He held his peace, sampled courses, and listened rather than talked. Best not to speak until spoken to, he reckoned.