“You need not stay here,” he told her. “While I appreciate the company, I am certain you have more important things to attend to. I can find my way out when I am finished, but I do wish to thank you for this meal. You saved my life.”

“I want you to work for me,” she blurted out. “To help me teach Modina to act like an empress.”

Nimbus paused with a spoonful halfway to his mouth.

“You know all about being noble. You even said you were a courtier. You know all the rules and stuff.”

“Protocol and etiquette.”

“Yeah, those too. I don’t know if I can arrange for you to be paid, but I might. The regent said I could take whatever steps necessary. Even if I can’t, I can find you a place to sleep and see that you get meals.”

“At the moment, my lady, that is a fortune, and I would consider it an honor if I could assist Her Eminence in any way.”

“Then it’s settled. You are officially the …”

“Imperial Tutor to Her Eminence, the Empress Modina?” Nimbus supplied.

“Right. And our first job is to teach her to give a speech on the Grand Balcony in three days.”

“That does not sound too difficult. Has she done much public speaking?”

Amilia forced a smile. “A week ago she said the word no.”

CHAPTER 11

RATIBOR

Entering the city of Ratibor at night, Arista thought it the most filthy, wretched place she could ever imagine. Streets lay in random, confusing lines, crisscrossing at intersections as they ran off at various odd angles. Refuse was piled next to every building, and narrow dirt thoroughfares were appalling mires of mud and manure. Wooden planks created a network of haphazard paths and bridges over the muck, forcing people to parade in lines like tightrope walkers. The houses and shops were as miserable as the roads. Constructed to fit in the spaces left by the street’s odd, acute corners, buildings were shaped like wedges of cheese, giving the city a strange, splintered appearance. The windows, shut tight against the city’s stench, were opaque with thick grime repeatedly splashed by passing wagons.

Ratibor reveled in its filth like a poor man who is proud of the calluses on his hands. Arista had heard of its reputation, but until experiencing it firsthand, she had not truly understood. This was a workingman’s town, a struggling city where no quarter was expected or given. Here men bore poverty and misfortune as badges of honor, deriving dubious prestige from contests of woe over tankards of ale.