“You wouldn’t like it. He lives in a little fishing village on the coast. Nice weather, but it stinks of fish most of the time. And as the dwarven kingdom collapses, the outer villages are left undefended. It’s frequently pillaged by invaders who have a bad habit of destroying what they can’t stuff into their ships—that includes people.”

She laughed. “You’re hilarious. I mean, your tone is so . . . I almost believe you.”

His brows rose. “Best to be wary of what you choose to believe in, Highness. It can come to define who you are.” He nodded toward the rescued parchments. “Case in point.”

“Yes . . . yes, you’re absolutely right. Say, what’s your name?”

“Kile.”

“Is that your first name or your last?”

He thought a moment. “Well, it’s certainly not my first, and I doubt it will be my last.”

Again, she laughed, but Kile the Scrivener kept a disturbingly straight face. Once more, she had to wonder if he was serious.

Chapter 6: The Truth of His Story

Chapter Six
The Truth of His Story

Farilane had stared down a nine-foot giant afflicted with a bad temper and a serious history of violence. She’d purposely sailed a ten-foot sloop into a storm that had sunk a fleet. She’d jumped off a cliff into a pool of water she suspected of being deep enough, and she’d challenged a dwarven lord and his kingdom to a fight she’d won by bluffing. The Teshlor Guild had awarded her an honorary Teshlor Shield of Bravery, which meant they thought she was insane. Most of the empire’s subjects agreed, attributing her behavior to too much Instarya blood. Farilane was said to be a scholar who had somehow failed to learn the definition of the word fear. Despite this, she dreaded meeting her own grandfather. The Emperor Estermon the Second was—even in the privacy of her own mind—eccentric.

“Good day, Your Grand Imperial Serene Eminence,” she said, addressing the emperor of the world in the utterly ridiculous manner which he demanded, made all the more ludicrous given that he was on his throne. Not the big ornate chair in the imperial reception hall, but the velvet-trimmed wooden stool that was placed over the golden chamber pot in Estermon the Second’s bedroom.

As usual, a mouthful of platitudes wasn’t enough.

“You say the words, but I hear no sincerity in them.” He said this leaning forward, so that his necklace—a gold chain adorned with a single tiny key—swayed in front of his chest. His imperial robes were bunched around his waist, spilling across his lap and sparing Farilane a singularly unique imperial view. The coincidence of the fabric, she knew, had no relation to her presence.

Beside the emperor stood the Groom of the Stool at crisp attention, a series of towels folded and draped over his forearm. He could have been replaced by a towel rack.