The Days seemed relieved by Gaborn’s good humor. He leaned forward conspiratorially. “To tell you the truth, Your Lordship, I think Borenson admires another attribute in dogs. One he did not name.”

“Which is?”

“Loyalty.”

Gaborn laughed harder. “So, Borenson is a dog?”

“No. He only aspires to be one. If I may be so bold, I fear he has all of dog’s finest virtues but loyalty.”

“So you don’t believe he is a good man?”

“He’s an assassin. A butcher, Your Lordship. That is why he is captain of your guard.”

This angered Gaborn. The Days was wrong. The historian smiled drunkenly, took another swig to fortify his courage.

The Days continued, “In fact, none of your friends are very good people, Your Lordship. You don’t value virtue in your friends.”

“What do you mean?” Gaborn asked. He’d always thought his friends had an acceptable level of virtue.

“It is simple, Your Lordship,” the Days said. “Some men pick their friends based on looks, others on wealth or political station, others on common interests. Some choose friends based on their virtue. But you do not value any of these traits, highly.”

It was true, Gaborn had friends among the ugly, the powerless. His friend Eldon Parris sold roasted rabbits in a public market. And Gaborn also enjoyed the company of more than one person who might best be described as a scoundrel.

“Then how do I pick my friends?” Gaborn asked.

“Because you are young, you value men based upon their insights into the human heart, Your Lordship.”

This statement struck Gaborn like a blast of air off a frozen lake. It was stunning, refreshingly honest, and, of course, obviously true.

“I had never noticed. . . .”

The Days laughed. “It’s one of the seven keys to understanding motives. I fear, young master Gaborn, you are lousy at picking friends. Hah! I sometimes imagine how it will be when you are a king: You’ll surround yourselves with eccentrics, and scholars. In no time they’ll have you taking garlic enemas and wearing pointy shoes! Hah!”

“Seven keys? Where did you learn such lore?” Gaborn asked.

“In the Room of Dreams,” the Days said. Then he suddenly sat up straight, recognizing his mistake.

In the House of Understanding, the Room of Dreams was forbidden to Runelords. The secrets one learned there, of human motivations and desires, were considered by scholars to be too powerful to put in the hands of a king.

Gaborn smiled triumphantly at this little tidbit, raised his glass in toast. “To dreams.”

But the Days would not toast with him. The man would most likely never drink in Gaborn’s presence again.