Barad joked that the cattle would overhear them, but in truth he liked the space well enough. The group sat around a wooden table. It was set with a display of fresh vegetables arranged in a colorful pattern, with a pot of stew—mostly tubers—and potato bread. The farmer who owned the place was friendly to their cause. He and his sons carried on with their work outside, and with that cover of normalcy to shield them Barad invited the travelers to eat and talk as friends before getting to business. It wasn’t until the conversation eased into a natural lull that he changed the tone.

“What news of the queen?” he eventually asked.

“She lives,” Hunt said. His Acacian—with its clipped formality characteristic of the urban residents of Aos—contrasted with the coarse farm laborer’s garb he currently wore. He looked almost as out of place in it as King Grae and his brother. “That would be bad enough, but she now charms the people with her good works. The streets of Aos are a-buzz with it. When I sailed from Alyth a troupe of players was acting out her magical deeds. I believe they were paid by the city officials to do it, but, still, people were watching.”

“Street performers!” Lady Shenk complained. “They’re as fickle as the weather.”

“Yes, but they’ve voiced our message to the people more often than not,” Barad said. “Elaz, you were closest to the queen recently. Tell us what you observed.”

The former warehouse manager from Nesreh set down his spoon before he spoke. “I did as you asked, Barad. I joined the throng following the queen’s caravan. It was a small group at first, sycophants and beggars, but their numbers grew as tales of her deeds spread. She had made her way across northern Talay, and everywhere she went she left miracles in her wake. She made dry wells gush with water.”

“Through what trick?” Renold asked. He was a scholar newly defected from the academy at Bocoum.

“I know not. I have seen the water flowing in the Bocoum canals. It’s real water. Not a cloud in the sky. The air dry as a desert. And yet she filled them. The landowners were ecstatic. The peasants got drunk on the stuff, jumping and swimming the irrigation canals. I can’t explain it, but everything I’m describing I witnessed. If it wasn’t the queen’s work, I’d think it a great blessing to us all.”

“If it wasn’t the queen’s work, it would be a blessing,” Hunt said, “but we know she does nothing without her own purpose. To fatten a pig, a farmer will feed him well. The pig must think his life a paradise, never knowing he gorges himself so that he will be fatter for the knife later on.”

“You compare the queen to a pig farmer, then?” Ganet asked.

Hunt shrugged.