They both look to Treila as she reaches out for the dice. They pass them to her, hoping she’ll break their stalemate.

She rolls. It’s good. She wins the pot of pebbles, then redistributes half across the varied flags of the floor that count as specific wagers. “Depends on the knight, doesn’t it?” she whispers, instead of what she wants to say: This knight will spill as much blood as she pleases.

“And Ser Voyne is so good,” Simmonet proclaims, because he knows nothing, loud enough that the sleepers nearby stir, send glares their way. He flinches, bows his head, continues in a whisper. “Kind and strong—I saw her spar with Ser Leodegardis last week. And she led the charge at Carcabonne.”

Treila says nothing, casts her dice again, and this time loses. She passes them to Edouart, just as she pushes aside the fleeting memory of Ser Voyne as she’d been just after Carcabonne, bruised and bloodied, recovering in Treila’s father’s home. To remember would be foolish.

Edouart looks uncomfortable as he takes the dice. But he doesn’t speak until he’s lost, too, and they’ve gone around a full turn. “Nobody died,” he says at last, “but there were a lot of people hurt.”

“Then they shouldn’t have stolen food,” Simmonet returns.

“Genovefe had her nose cracked. I don’t think she stole anything.”

“But she was there at the riot, right? So . . .”

He is having trouble reconciling reality with his beliefs. She feels a pang of sympathy, followed swiftly by annoyance that he hasn’t crashed headlong into exactly this dilemma twenty times by now. He’s nearly ten. He should know better. He’s not going to see eleven.

But he is trying to be strong and good, the way they describe boys in stories. She can see Edouart is wary of him, and she’s glad; it’s the strong and good ones who cause the most damage, in her experience.

“I overheard,” Simmonet says, trying to change the subject to something that will earn him more approval and engagement, “that they’re going to pick another messenger soon.”

Treila perks up at that for just a moment, then recoils. She would make a fine messenger, but she knows the previous messengers have all sat with King Cardimir and his council before leaving, and Treila cannot risk that.

No, better to stay until a safer opportunity presents itself, or she is desperate enough to take the risk. After all, it’s been five years, and Treila is good at playing a role; maybe Ser Voyne won’t recognize her.

She hasn’t recognized her so far.

“Treila, would you go? Over the wall?” Simmonet asks, scooting closer.

“No, she wouldn’t,” Edouart says, and Treila keeps her expression steady, not scowling like she wants to. What does he know of her? Nothing. Nobody here knows anything of her. “They all die,” he adds.