Jaspid was using his left arm. The rest of his injuries had healed, but his right elbow had not recovered its full strength yet. He was about King Bifalt’s height, and less obviously muscular than his brother. Nevertheless he could have beaten any six Bifalts in direct combat. He was the best fighter in Belleger, undefeated until the devotee of Spirit Lylin had almost killed him. And he was handsome, widely considered the most handsome man in the city; certainly better looking than his brother the King. Perhaps that was an effect of his gift for uncomplicated enjoyment, even delight. Even in his mock battles against five or ten of General Klamath’s soldiers at once, he radiated something like happiness. Unlike Bifalt, Jaspid felt no bitterness toward Lylin. If anything, the Prince had fallen in love with her—or more deeply in love.

He was not happy now. His unguarded features were tight with indignation and disappointment. The man he was dragging out of the alehouse was his younger brother, the third of King Abbator’s sons: Prince Lome.

Lome was a wastrel, a drunk; a man ruled by gall and sarcasm who felt slighted by his position as the youngest son, by his smaller stature and lesser gifts, and—if he ever told himself the truth—by his own refusal to take responsibility for who and what he was. Long ago, he had learned to shroud his aching desire for superiority in a fog of ale, wine, and a vile drink called grot. Recently, however, he had seemed to be changing. Estie had that effect on damaged men. As a result, Bifalt had allowed himself to hope. He needed Lome.

If Prince Jaspid had to haul his brother out of an alehouse by plain force, the King’s hopes were misplaced.

Hells! Bifalt felt fire in his guts again. Lome was necessary. Even Land-Captain Erepos, who was trusted everywhere, could not claim as much authority as a Bellegerin prince.

Jaspid spotted King Bifalt at once. Pulling Lome to his side, the older Prince forced his brother to accompany him off the alehouse porch. Lome’s steps betrayed a stagger as Jaspid brought him down the lane to face Bifalt.

Without a word, the King’s bodyguards withdrew a few paces.

Instinctively, King Bifalt reached for the hilt of his saber. He wanted something solid to grip. But he had left Belleger’s Fist to walk in the Open Hand unarmed.

He did not have it in him to believe he required protection in his own city. His bodyguards were a concession to General Klamath, the Land-Captain, and even the Queen-Consort. Over the years, however, he had grown accustomed to Jeck and Malder, Spliner and Boy. Their presence no longer felt like an intrusion—or a burden. As a result, he had learned the habit of going wherever he wished without his weapons.