His stomach knotted. “No, thank you. I would like some watered wine.”

The wine glass in his vision filled as if by magic, and he carefully reached for it, and just as carefully brought it to where he thought his mouth was. When it actually reached his mouth, he drank it down thirstily. His mouth felt horribly dry.

“The wine, is, as always, very good,” he said.

There was a chorus of voices around him, echoing that sentiment and commending the Emperor’s taste in wine.

Three dishes were presented, then a bell sounded, and everyone fell silent.

And following that, a voice spoke into the silence.

“The first course is complete. The Princes are being unBlinded,” said the voice.

This isn’t a meal, it’s a torment. First, everyone is pressed into the same ordeal, except for the Emperor, who, no doubt, was never Blinded to begin with. Everyone was likely seated next to those they might otherwise know as rivals, even enemies. The higher ranks get to watch everyone else squirm and tire themselves being painfully polite. The lower ranks are reminded, with every course, that their lives depend upon those above them. We’re all fed like hooded falcons. Anyone could be ordered assassinated while Blinded, and all any of us nearby might hear would be something like a cough. So nobody wants to stay silent, because that would be even more unsettling.

He had run out of things to say about the food, and groped for something the mages controlling his speech would consider acceptable that would not reveal who he was. “I have been thinking of starting a mews, for falcons,” he said, praying that no one would be aware that he in fact had no interest in falconry. “Does anyone have recommendations?”

Everyone, it seemed, had recommendations. Opinions were given on the best size of mews, how many birds one should have, the best place to find a good falconer or falconers to care for the birds. Opinions were given about what birds were best for what sorts of hunting. Someone told a joke about how to pick out the most experienced falconer for what sort of bird—it ended with, “ . . . and the best eagle handler is wearing an eye-patch!”

The laughter around him went on for far too long and sounded very strained, as if everyone was trying to laugh as long as they could to avoid making more conversation.

This course was of four dishes. The bell sounded. He held his breath. It was almost over. This would be for “Dukes.” He’d finally be able—

“The second course is ended,” said the voice. “The Dukes will be unBlinded.”

And nothing happened.

He felt a rising panic, and tried to calm himself. Surely this was just because he was a Duke of a very small Duchy indeed. Surely he would just be the last of the Dukes to have this wretched helmet taken off. Surely . . .