“We compete with other humans, too. Old and young are at odds, male and female, rich and poor. Must we all be separated until each of us lives in utter isolation? Granted, I’m the last person to argue this position. In many ways, total isolation is my idea of paradise. I also don’t claim to understand the workings of the universe the way you do. And while I don’t believe in gods or any behind-the-scenes planning, I can’t imagine that life is meant to work that way. All life competes with everything else to live, but all life also needs everything else to survive.” She paused, thought about what she just said, and laughed. “I just outlined the best argument I’ve ever heard for the existence of gods: sadism.”

The two stared at her, sharing an expression she’d seen many times. Most people walked away at this point, or more accurately, backed away slowly. Since she was the princess, they usually apologized and feigned the need to refresh their drink or pretended to hear someone call their name. Once, the wealthy wife of a council member apparently couldn’t come up with an easy escape and settled for fainting dead away. If it was an act, Farilane admitted it was a fine performance.

Neither Ethan nor Proust could pretend they had another place to be, nor were they going to faint. Instead, they watched her and waited.

“I’m going to find this horn,” she told them both. “Not to advance my ambitions, as you say, but because it’s very possible that we will one day need it, and because you may be right—I may be the only one who can.”

“At last, we can agree on something,” Proust said. “Might I suggest you begin your search at Dibben Monastery.”

“Dibben? Why?”

“Because Dibben is the chief monastery of the Monks of Maribor, and quite curiously, a monk of that order was present when Nyphron died—at the very moment the horn went missing.”

She took a step back. “How do you know that?”

Proust shook his head. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. But you’re a smart lady. You’ll figure it out. And when you do, in return for the tip, I request a small favor.”

Here it was: the point of the meeting at last. He wanted payment—an audience with the emperor, a title, a building for his deluded followers to congregate in. “What is it?”

“When you go to Dibben, I would like you to take Sheldon with you.”

“Sheldon the Frightened and Greasy?” She hooked a thumb back in the direction the man had disappeared into. “That Sheldon?”