“Shave when you are washed, my lord.” Anne directed this to the emperor.

The new rules—unofficial but widely understood—were that the emperor did not want to be “majestied” more than once a day by anyone unless in formal situations, which would be defined later. “My lord” was less formal than “Majesty” and many of the company still called him “Ser Gabriel” or just “Cap’n” to the delight of some and astonishment of others.

“Excellent,” Gabriel said. He sank into the tub, which forced him into an odd, knees-up position. Anne poured water over his head, and he sputtered, and Blanche laughed.

“We have your bath coming up the stairs,” Anne said to her naked empress. “Majesty,” she added. Anne had known Blanche when she was the queen’s laundress.

“I could just use his, if he didn’t get it all on the floor,” Blanche said.

Anne clucked.

She handed the water-ewer to Cully, who poured the hot water ruthlessly over his emperor despite faint protests and some screams.

“Majesty,” he said in a tone that suggested something other than reverence.

Anne moved back to the solar and began to lay out razors, soap, a towel . . .

The empress’s water arrived. The emperor emerged from his bath clean and as red as his epithet and put on a clean shirt and braes without any help. They were short on servants, and he was not to be waited on by any but members of his military household.

Kronmir had made that rule. Kronmir, who was that moment out in the scriptorium, copying maps of northern Etrusca for his staff. Who had, just yesterday, caught a patriarchal assassin, a young woman from Mitla who had come with a “diplomatic” party who were currently all under arrest. Kronmir . . .

The emperor walked out into the solar. Anne snapped, “His Majesty,” and the roomful of secretaries, servants, and seamstresses all rose and bowed deeply.

The emperor looked at Anne for a moment, as if he suspected he was being mocked.

“Castle people,” she said quietly.

He sat, and she wrapped a hot towel around his face. She was just seventeen years old; in fact, the day before had been her birth day, or so he thought. Blanche would know.

“The blessings of your birth day,” he said.

Anne grinned. “Thanks, er, my lord.”

“We were busy,” he said.

“So we were,” she agreed. “My lord.” Two years before, she had been a well-born farm girl in the Brogat. Now she was laying a razor to the throat of the Emperor of Man, in a castle in the Arelat. She tried not to think about it too much.

She began to lather him.

He ignored her, as was his right. “Toby?” he asked.

“Duchess Clarissa when you are dressed. Ser Pavalo and Ser Alison are waiting outside and taking breakfast. There are no new messenger birds. The army has passed the morning signal.”