'We are at war!' hissed Sult, giving the High Justice a deadly glare. 'The very sovereignty of our nation is at risk! This is no time for your blather about freedom, Marovia!'

'On the contrary, this is precisely the time!'

The two old men bickered on, straining everyone's frayed nerves to breaking point. Bayaz, meanwhile, had sunk back into his chair and folded his arms, watching Jezal with an expression of calm consideration which was, if anything, even more fearsome than his frown. Jezal felt the worry weighing ever heavier upon him. However you looked at things, he was teetering on the verge of having the briefest and most disastrous reign in Union history.

'I am sorry that I had to send for your Majesty,' piped Gorst, in his girlish little voice.

'Of course, of course.' The clicking of Jezal's polished boot-heels echoed angrily around them.

'There is only so much that I can do.'

'Of course.'

Jezal shoved open the double doors with both hands. Terez sat bolt upright in the midst of the gilded chamber beyond, glaring at him down her nose in that manner with which he had become so infuriatingly familiar. As though he were an insect in her salad. Several Styrian ladies looked up, and then back to their tasks. Chests and boxes cluttered the room, clothes were being neatly packed within. Every impression was given that the Queen of the Union was planning to leave the capital, and without so much as informing her husband.

Jezal ground his already aching teeth. He was tormented by a disloyal Closed Council, a disloyal Open Council, and a disloyal populace. The poisonous disloyalty of his wife was almost too much to bear. 'What the hell is this?'

'I and my ladies can hardly assist you in your war with the Emperor.' Terez turned her flawless head smoothly away from him. 'We are returning to Talins.'

'Impossible!' hissed Jezal. 'A Gurkish army of many thousands is bearing down upon the city! My people are fleeing Adua in droves and those that remain are a whisker from sliding into outright panic! Your leaving now would send entirely the wrong message! I cannot allow it!'

'Her Majesty is in no way involved!' snapped the Countess Shalere, gliding across the polished floor towards him.

As though Jezal had not enough to worry about with the Queen herself, he was now obliged to bandy words with her companions. 'You forget yourself,' he snarled at her.

'It is you who forgets!' She took a step towards him, her face twisted. 'You forget that you are a bastard son, and a scarred one at—'

The back of Jezal's hand cracked sharply into her sneering mouth and sent her reeling back with an ungainly gurgle. She tripped over her dress and collapsed on the floor, one shoe flying from her flailing foot and off into the corner of the room.

'I am a King, and in my own palace. I refuse to be spoken to in this manner by a glorified lady's maid.' The voice came out, flat, cold, and frighteningly commanding. It scarcely sounded like his own, but who else's could it be? He was the only man in the room. 'I see that I have been far too generous with you, and that you have mistaken my generosity for weakness.' The eleven ladies stared at him, and at their fallen comrade, crumpled on the ground with one hand to her bloody mouth. 'If any of your witches should desire to depart these troubled shores, I will arrange passage for them, and even pull an oar myself with a light heart. But you, your Majesty, will be going nowhere.'