He was close enough; I could have strangled him. He seemed to become aware of this, and walked away, grinning at me. He poured green wine into a second cup, not gold like the first, but polished wood, good enough for a slave.

“Will you drink?”

“Not with you.”

“Ah, but we have had all that. My hounds never bite me more than once. I was considering you might break horses for me, but I can always send you to tend the hot pipes in the cellar.”

He upended the wooden cup, and let the green wine spill on the flags of his palace floor. Certain city customs he adhered to; drink poured for an underling was no longer fit for a prince.

“You have regained foolishness with health,” he said, not angry, merely bored by my reluctance to serve him.

He pressed an iron knob in the wall. The knob was shaped like a dragon’s head, another marvel. This building was less carious than Kortis’ stronghold; the sack and the war fires had spared it. He had more people, too; the mansions that towered away down the sloping streets behind had had an appearance of habitation, lights and dim murmurings, talk and music and the distant clamor of a smithy rising up on the pre-morning air, together with various smokes.

“There is another small reason why I have brought you here,” Erran said, “beyond your usefulness, beyond the mild pleasure of outwitting Kortis and the rest who obey the ancient codes like fools. This other reason I shall show you.”

On this cue, the tapestries folded aside. A man held wide the carved door, and Demizdor came into the room.

I had not expected her presence here. I had no reason to.

She had had space to steel herself for this confrontation. She walked to Erran, bowed to him, and stood, slim and proud and immobile, the immemorial stance of Demizdor, the pose in which I had so often seen her. She did not hide her face in the deer-mask—etiquette did not permit it, presumably, before a gold lord—but she kept that face like white enamel. She wore a dress with tight sleeves and a nipped-in waist, dyed Erran’s dark ocher, which was an ugly, barren shade on her.

I surprised myself then. I found that no longer did I feel anything unique or disturbing for this woman. My liking had healed like the scarless wounds. She had been too much trouble for too little recompense, and she had spit venom on my name one time too many. Yet it was not quite that. My lovesickness was dead enough that I could even pity her, for, without the love, I saw to the roots of her now, where the maggots were biting at her heart.

Erran was scrutinizing me with interest.

“This lady,” he said, “sought me yesterday. Her beauty is unrivaled in Eshkorek, and her person currently unengaged. She has promised she will remain with me if I will spare your life.”