Astrid nodded and raised a hand in permission, and her niece went on: “Two years ago, they were very close. The rumor then was that Martin was ambitious, and that she was right behind him pushing with all her weight and fitting herself for a consort’s crown. I only met her in passing, but she was . . . impressive. Hard, very intelligent, I thought probably quite ruthless too, though maybe not cruel for the sake of it. Not the I-deserve-it type.”

Gleam nodded. “Yeah, that’s how it was then.”

Astrid rested her chin on her hands again, something stirring in her moon-shot eyes.

“And when was this change? When she had her child?”

“No, a good long while after that. Just lately, since he got back from Bend in May. That’s where he had his conference with Sethaz. He’d done that before but this time . . . there was something different about him. A lot of people noticed it, and apparently the First Lady did more than most. Which makes sense.”

“Let me think.”

Astrid closed her eyes; there was silence except for the tapping of a venetian blind against the frame of an open window in the cool night breeze. The street outside was quiet too, and then the tapping of a Natpol’s truncheon against the walls rattled through the silence as he walked his rounds.

“It’s risky,” she said at last. “But it’s our best chance. We have to get someone into the compound and get more information about this. It’s that or go home, and the fate of the High Kingdom may depend on this.”

Everyone turned and looked at Ritva.

Dulu! Ritva thought. Help!

Ritva had her hair hidden under a kerchief, and she wore a longish brown wool skirt, brown because it hadn’t been dyed. Keep your eyes down, slump a little, don’t swing your legs, hesitate a bit before you move your hands. Those minor things added up; they changed the gestalt that people recognized as much or more than they did faces, especially faces they weren’t very familiar with. The best protection was to look bored, though. Boredom was like a magical force pushing people’s attention away.

“Delivery from Ayers for the President’s mother at the Brick House,” she said to the guards in a singsong monotone.