Frederick remembered when he’d first taken on the mantle as the new Great King. The then leaders of the Terran Hanseatic League had completely invented his past, created an identity for him while erasing his previous life. At the time, Frederick had considered it a bargain, reveling in all the comforts and trappings of power.

But even the best of things grew wearisome after a while.

All in all, Frederick thought he had been a good King, a decent King. He was no impostor, no character from a “Prince and Pauper” adventure, because no “real” King Frederick had ever existed. He had created the character, played the role. And quite nicely, he thought.

His predecessor had been King Bartholomew, a kindly and exuberant older man with whom Frederick had gotten along quite well. Bartholomew had been his mentor, like a real King to his real son, and before the old man’s retirement, they had discussed their situation with full candor. At the time, young Frederick had been reluctant to believe the old King was willing to pass on his mantle of rulership without argument, but now Frederick understood Bartholomew perfectly well.

The Hansa had carefully staged Bartholomew’s death, issuing a statement from his personal court physician that he had “died peacefully in his sleep.” Then the previous King had received a new face, a new identity, and had gone off to live on Relleker in comfortable, blissful obscurity for the next two decades or so. Yes, he had given up the Whisper Palace and the throne, but he had gained much more.

Basil sat back and looked up at the old leader. “Don’t worry, Frederick, we’ll take care of everything when you retire.”

“That’s what you promised me, Basil. I trust you.”

The Chairman chuckled. “Not many people say that to me anymore, Frederick. I appreciate it.”

The King poured a second glass of sherry, pretending not to notice Basil’s disapproving look. Over the years, his selfdoubts had begun to eat at him as he watched the Hansa’s devious manipulations. He did not question Basil’s orders, and he cooperated with whatever the Hansa asked him to do. It was out of his hands.

Did even a Great King truly deserve all this adulation? The population of the human-settled worlds treated him like a god. And he, the man who had been forced to take the fictitious name of Frederick, had been chosen only because he possessed a particular body type, a natural charisma, the perfect timbre of voice—and a certain level of malleability.