Bifalt had not detected any evidence of humility in the man. Lambent still treated him, Belleger’s King, like a presumptuous upstart. And the sorcerer had nothing but contempt for what Commander Forguile, Captain Flisk, and their many laborers were trying to accomplish. Nevertheless Lambent’s reports had been reliable despite his personal shortcomings.

No doubt, he accompanied Wheal now because he had put himself forward as Queen Estie’s representative. Certainly, Wheal had not chosen him. Like the King, if for different reasons, the Royal Surveyor had no patience for Magister Lambent.

The other sorcerer was a young man as slender as wattle and bristling with eagerness. Dredging his memory, King found the Magister’s name: Crawl. His Decimate was fire. Men like the General and Land-Captain Erepos considered him precocious.

In contrast, the Royal Surveyor gave the impression that he would have preferred to be anywhere else doing anything else. He came forward as if he were slogging through a quagmire: a small, earnest man with a head full of maps and little interest in anything else. If he had been required to plan and build a city, he would have been happy until the day he died. But now the library’s war was imminent, and his mood had soured. He groaned to contemplate the destruction of the Open Hand. Unable to satisfy the King’s requirements himself, he had turned to sorcery for help.

Magister Lambent acknowledged Belleger’s monarch with a curt nod. No doubt, he considered that an adequate show of respect. In contrast, Magister Crawl’s bow was tense with anticipation.

King Bifalt ignored both theurgists. “What do you have for me?” he asked the Royal Surveyor. “I do not know how much time remains. We must be ready.”

Wheal sighed. “Majesty,” he began, “we have—”

Magister Lambent interrupted him. “Lightning cannot do what you ask,” he declared imperiously. “Wind. Drought. Pestilence. Earthquake. You will not use them here. They will only harm your city. They cannot match the enemy’s power.”

The Royal Surveyor coughed uncomfortably.

King Bifalt showed Lambent his most unforgiving visage. He held the Magister’s gaze until he saw uncertainty creep into Lambent’s gaze. Then he called, “Malder.”

Malder was the biggest of Bifalt’s bodyguards. A natural brawler, he could kill a man with a hug. A few strides brought him to the King’s side. “Majesty?”

“This Magister”—Bifalt nodded at Lambent—“has forgotten common courtesy. Remind him for me.”

Malder’s grin showed a mouth full of broken teeth. Moving from King Bifalt’s side to Magister Lambent’s, he draped one heavy arm over the sorcerer’s shoulders and began to squeeze.

A look of panic twisted the sorcerer’s features.

Sternly, Malder said, “It is common courtesy, Magister, to address King Bifalt as ‘Majesty.’ It is also courtesy to remain silent until you are asked to speak.

“Do you understand?”

Magister Lambent swallowed convulsively. He nodded as well as he could in Malder’s grasp. “Majesty,” he croaked. “Pardon me.”

Bifalt’s smile was a private one. It did not show on his face. After a moment, he gave Malder permission to let the Magister go.