Face curdled with scorn, the boy-king leapt toward the fish-keep. Though perhaps he meant not at all to hit him, with the stick still in his hand and the motion of poking things still fresh in his arm, he lashed the old man across the soft of his cheek. “The fishes are mine.”

The boy-king was, in fact, no longer a boy. In age, in length of limb, he had reached manhood, and when he stood, he towered over the fish-keep. He’d hit him with the strength of a man.

For a moment, all was stunned shock and surprise.

The fish-keep touched the welt on his cheek. The king touched his own brow. A pink-mottled fish leapt out of the water and landed with a green splash beside them.

The king opened his mouth. He did not think he’d meant to do this. He looked at the welt. One… two… three, four baubles of blood rose from the stripe on the man’s cheek.

The king rubbed his brow again. His insides felt soured and hot. He felt a word, something heavy, inside his mouth. He tried to shape his lips around it, but before he could find its form—something sorry and strange—the old man dropped to his knees and bowed his head.

“Forgive me. I did not recognize you, my king.”

“The fishes are mine,” the king repeated instead.

“The fishes are his,” said Governor-Advisor, arriving, linen sweeping over the stones. He bowed a small bow. “But indeed, if it please the king to leave the fishes—which are not at all of his station—and return to his chambers, he will be receiving advisors who are to discuss the drought and the shortage of wheat, others who are to update on the new roads and walls you have ordered—”

“No,” said the king. “Enough!”

“Of course.” The worm tail twitched. “The crown does not reward the missteps of farmers, still the roads and walls—”

“No!” The king thrashed his stick against the marble. “What do I care for droughts and wheat? We are going to the oracle!”

Governor-Advisor, smiling palely, shook his head. “Permit me to explain. The oracle need not advise on such small things. Hunger is a matter of course for the people. The king shouldn’t untie his purse strings for a few rumbling bellies. Rest yourself. Go back to your chambers. Recline on your pillows. Have a sip of wine, even. A spoonful of cream—”

“No.” The king pushed away the arm of Governor-Advisor. The worm tail darted—a half second of surprise. “Not for wheat or hunger. We are going to the oracle to see”—turning, he widened his eyes—“to see if all my decisions have been wise.”

“Of course your decisions have been wise. The king does not need the oracle to say this is so. However,” he continued, glancing at the king’s soured face, “as you wish. I’ll see to it myself. In autumn, perhaps? We’ll travel when the weather is not too warm.”

“Tomorrow,” said the king. “We travel tomorrow. See to it.” He scowled. “I will not wait.”