Bifalt tried to credit this protest, but he smelled ale on his brother’s breath. “Did your decision concern a second flagon or a third? How much is enough?”

Instead of answering, Lome turned his head to Jaspid. After squinting for a moment, he looked down at Jaspid’s grip on his arm. With his free hand, he tried to remove Jaspid’s grasp.

Sighing, Jaspid let Lome succeed.

The younger Prince flexed his arm as if Jaspid’s fingers had hurt him. He looked back at the alehouse. When he faced Bifalt again, he avoided the King’s glare: a tacit confession.

“You did not send Jaspid,” he slurred, “because you intend to castigate me, Brother. The hour is too early—and the time is too late. You missed your chance. The days when I might have heeded you ended when our father died.

“Since that woman you refuse to love convinced you to spare my life, I have done what you asked. I have attended your council meetings. And I have told you what I think, although you do not listen. What more do you expect from me?”

Bifalt remembered Prince Lome’s opinion of the black ships that had attempted to broach the bay. Your war is in Belleger, Brother. There is no other enemy.

On one point, Lome was right. The King had not listened. He knew better.

As if he expected to be obeyed, King Bifalt said, “I have a task for you, Lome. It is a service no one else can perform. If you do it thoroughly, you will save a host of lives.”

At that, Lome widened his eyes, exaggerating his surprise. “A service, Brother? Please tell me to examine all of our ale for taste and purity. Some of our tavern-keepers offer disgusting brews. They cause sloth and diseases. I am sure of it.

“Or perhaps it is wine that troubles you. I can—”

“Lome!” snapped Bifalt. “Stop this. I do not enjoy your version of wit. I am Belleger’s King, and I am in earnest. Whatever else you think of me, believe that.”

“Oh, I know, Brother.” Lome smirked. “I know.” Still, he avoided Bifalt’s eyes. “You do not have a frivolous bone in your body. It is a curious lack. Perhaps it is like your lack of sorcery, an accident of birth. Or perhaps it resembles your refusal of your Queen-Consort’s bed, a sign that you take yourself too seriously. I—”

“Lome,” said the King again. Grimly, he swallowed an impulse to slap the younger Prince. He knew Lome’s game, Lome’s desire to provoke him. Instead of hitting his brother, he unfolded his arms to poke Lome’s chest with one rigid finger. “You. I need you. You must save the folk of the Hand.”

Prince Lome tried to continue. “I—” But now his surprise was not exaggerated. “You—?” He gulped several times. “Say that again. You what?”