“However,” continued Sirjane Marrow, “that is only the most recent action I have taken on your behalf.” His suppressed fury began to leak past his composure as he spoke. “Who do you suppose secreted the papers that led Belleger to the invention of rifles? Repeating rifles, Queen? That knowledge was not left behind by some older, wiser generation. It was given to Belleger at my command.”

Estie’s face must have betrayed her surprise. “Being King Smegin’s daughter,” snarled the librarian, “you will want to know why I gave those papers to Belleger, not to Amika. The Amikan monarchs knew of our existence. Belleger did not. Why, then, did I give preference to your former foes? Being Queen Rubia’s daughter, you will understand my answer.”

A moment of brightness from the western windows streaked the workroom. The sun was close to setting. But Sirjane Marrow had no use for light. If his audience wanted lamps, no one said so. They were accustomed to his indifference, or they were not willing to interrupt him.

“Your father was a petty tyrant,” he explained, “ambitious and cruel, like his father, and his father’s father for generations. I did not trust such monarchs with rifles. They would have ravaged Belleger and done nothing to prepare for our defense.

“For the same reason, I gave Sylan Estervault’s Treatise to your Bifalt. I wanted him to have cannon as well as rifles. With no guns and no sorcery, Amika would have been helpless. He would have been able to unite your realms by force. Then he would prepare for the real war.

“I have never been more astonished,” he admitted, “than I was when your small-minded husband gave Estervault’s book to Commander Forguile.” For an instant, he seemed chastened. “His way of uniting the realms was better than my intentions. Clearly, he is not always small-minded. For that, he merits my respect.”

“I agree,” put in Queen Estie sternly. She needed to say something. “My experience of him is not like yours. I can assure you that he is never small-minded.”

Measured against the sheer number of lives that Bifalt had been fighting to save, her personal losses were trivial.

But Magister Marrow did not appear to hear her. He was still explaining himself.

“It will not surprise you, Queen, that I dislike your husband. His arrogance offends me. He has not earned the right to pass judgment. Still, I have learned to respect him. For his efforts and forethought, I respect him.”

In some other place, a place where she had authority, Queen Estie would have stopped the librarian then. That is enough, sir. The words she wanted sprang to her mind, almost tumbling over each other for utterance. Do you accuse him of arrogance? King Bifalt of Belleger? You are its epitome. It has made you a tyrant.