Jezal cleared his throat and the heads of the old men snapped round to look at him. 'Could each man not simply be taxed the same proportion of his income, regardless of whether he is a peasant or a nobleman… and then, perhaps…' He trailed off. It had seemed a simple enough idea to him, but now all eleven bureaucrats were staring at him, shocked, quite as if a domestic pet had been ill-advisedly allowed into the room, and it had suddenly decided to speak up on the subject of taxation. At the far end of the table, Bayaz silently examined his fingernails. There was no help there.

'Ah, your Majesty,' ventured Torlichorm in soothing tones, 'such a system would be almost impossible to administer.' And he blinked in a manner that said, 'How do you manage to dress yourself, given your incredible ignorance?'

Jezal flushed to the lips of his ears. 'I see.'

'The subject of taxation,' droned Halleck, 'is a stupendously complex one.' And he gave Jezal a look that said, 'It is far too complex a subject to fit inside your tiny fragment of a mind.'

'It would perhaps be better, your Majesty, if you were to leave the tedious details to your humble servants.' Marovia had an understanding smile that said, 'It would perhaps be better if you kept your mouth shut and avoided embarrassing the grown-ups.'

'Of course.' Jezal retreated shame-facedly into his chair. 'Of course.'

And so it went on, as the morning ground by, as the strips of light from the windows slunk slowly over the heaps of papers across the wide table. Gradually, Jezal began to work out the rules of this game. Horribly complex, and yet horribly simple. The aging players were split roughly into two teams. Arch Lector Sult and High Justice Marovia were the captains, fighting viciously over every subject, no matter how small, each with three supporters who agreed with their every utterance. Lord Hoff, meanwhile, ineffectually assisted by Lord Marshal Varuz, played the role of referee, and struggled to build bridges across the unbridgeable divide between these two entrenched camps.

Jezal's mistake had not been to think that he would not know what to say, though of course, he did not. His mistake had been to think that anyone would want him to say anything. All they cared about was continuing their own profitless struggles. They had become used, perhaps, to conducting the affairs of state with a drooling halfwit at the head of the table. Jezal now realised that they saw in him a like-for-like trade. He began to wonder if they were right.

'If your Majesty could sign here… and here… and here… and there…'