“And I’ll tell you something else.” I pointed at Alfödr, my voice shaking slightly. “I didn’t know this was happening, but if I had, I wouldn’t have told you, and I’d have done my best to help them. Because they’re people, not weapons or possessions. And they decide who they belong to.”

“You’ve got a mouth on you.” Alfödr’s lips were a thin line.

“And a brain,” I said unsteadily. “And a heart.”

He turned away, scoffing, rubbing the back of his neck.

My voice rose, shaking. “So what do you intend to do?”

“Prinsessa Anya’s past illicit liaisons have been exiled or imprisoned,” Huginn answered dispassionately.

I’d done and said all I could. I turned desperate eyes on Lang. “Do something.”

But it wasn’t Lang who stepped forward.

Sir Perrault broke in, glowering at Skop. “Your Majesty, your daughter’s honor has been sullied, and we are ashamed.”

My mouth fell open, horrified. Frozen solid, utterly useless to my friend, I stared at Perrault as he continued. “Rest assured, my lord, that if you leave the first mate to our judgment, his punishment will be more than adequate.” The protocol officer’s expression was sober, his brows knitted slightly together, and I suddenly noticed his stance mirrored the one the Asgard boys took—back straight, chin level, hands clasped behind him. Perrault hadn’t spoken in his usual charming tenor, either; he’d been direct, concise, even pitched his voice a note lower than usual.

Like a chameleon, Perrault had shifted colors before my eyes.

He looked and sounded faintly like one of the men of Asgard, like one of Alfödr’s thegns—not imitating them so closely that the king would notice and think himself mocked, but near enough the konge’s own language that he might listen.

Perrault was acting. If it worked, I’d be indebted to him.

Perhaps his New York education was more useful than I’d given him credit for.

“Pappa,” Váli began in protest, but Konge Alfödr held up a hand. He pressed his lips together and jabbed a thick finger at Skop. “Koniag, I leave you to the judgment of your captain and protocol officer. Go.” The word was weighty in his mouth. “Come back, though, and see if you find me so restrained.”

Then the king turned his good eye on me. “Seneschal-elect, everyone here knows their place. If you’re to marry my son, you’ll have to learn yours.”

I couldn’t answer him. I couldn’t do anything. I could only watch as Perrault hauled Skop away by his shirt collar, his eyes on Anya even as the protocol officer dragged him out the door.

50

Alfödr and his entourage left the hall, and I sank onto the nearest bench.

“What happened?”

Torden studied his hands, muscled and pale, like his father’s. “Skop did not listen.”