Michael waved to Robin, his squire. “Robin will be happy to guide you in further cutting,” he said. “The empress, that is, Blanche and I have to go through the morning reports.”

As if this was an official cue, all of them turned and bowed or curtsied to Blanche, who inclined her head with regal dignity. She didn’t even smile.

She only sighed. “Beatrice,” she said. “You may have another half-hour if you wish it.” She held out her hand, Michael took it, and they went up to the scriptorum together. On the stairs, she said, “That was . . . so much fun.”

“I’d like all of you to be able to draw and kill anything that threatens you. I can’t imagine any of you forced into protracted sword fights, but against an assassin . . .” Michael let his words trail off.

Blanche nodded. “Not to mention various bogglins, wardens, and other creatures of the Wild coming through my tent.”

Michael shuddered, remembering the fighting at Gilson’s Hole, when they had come within a hair’s breadth of losing the queen, her son, and Blanche. “By Saint George, I hope not.”

Blanche stepped off the steep steps at the top of the tower. “By Saint Mary Magdalene and all the saints, I hope it is as you pray,” she said. “But this time, if it happens again, I will be ready, and I will be in maille, at least.”

“You are pregnant,” Michael said quietly.

“Kaitlin told you?” Blanche asked. “Too early to say for sure. But yes, I would guess as much.” She smiled. “In fact, I’m very sure. But nothing that will incommode me in the next, say, thirty days.”

“I have trouble imagining anything that would incommode you, Your Grace,” Michael said. He grinned.

She grinned back. “Good,” she said, and pushed open the door to the solar. Inside stood two androgynous young people in the black-and-white clothing of imperial messengers. There was also a bird on Master Julius’s fist and another on a perch. Julius held out a tiny scroll and she seized it, her heart suddenly hammering in her chest.

She didn’t breathe a moment as she read . . .

. . . . and then she flushed. “They have finished the Necromancer,” Blanche said aloud, her eyes on the vellum before her. “They will be on the way here. There’s orders for food.”

Michael was reading another message. “And you know where to find food? Here? In Arles?”

“I do,” Blanche said. “There is a convoy coming over the mountains. I intend to send Comnena and the Scholae to bring it in. Just in case.”

Michael nodded.

Blanche handed him her message. It was in code, and he sat down, began to figure the day’s code, and looked up at her. “You can read the code?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“It changes every day!” he protested.

She shrugged. “It is only a little mental book-keeping,” she muttered. “Like tracking laundry marks.”

He whistled.