In his mind, Thierry named himself a fool, attaching every imprecation he could conjure. Aloud, he said, from a step behind the provost (as if for shelter), “Your grace, my lords, the letter spoke of advocates, and pleading his cause. There is…there is an opportunity in this.”

“And what will any of that matter?” the queen said scornfully.

“It might, majesty,” said Marina de Seressa.

Queen Bianca turned to her. Thierry began to breathe again. He hadn’t been, he realized.

“Tell me why,” said the queen. Not to him. To the other poet.

With composure, Marina di Seressa said, “His admissions and the provost’s allegations will be spoken aloud at that time. They will be recorded, and eventually shared. Whatever explanations the Duke de Barratin offers, his words and actions become written down. That may matter.”

“Marina, he will buy the best advocates in Orane,” said the queen.

“Even so, your grace. They can be opposed. I believe Messire Villar might be right.”

Thierry hadn’t actually said this, he wanted to protest, he had merely reminded everyone that a hearing had been proposed, but…this had been his thought, yes. If a great deal less precise. He looked at Marina di Seressa. She didn’t smile, but she briefly met his gaze, then turned back to the queen, as was proper and necessary.

—

The hearing in the matter of the assassination of Duke Rollin de Montereau took place three days later in the great hall of the royal palace in Orane. No one wanted this affair to linger, fester. It was too dangerous. One way or another, a response was required.

Again Thierry was present, still in black, as was the provost. Again he did not know why de Vaux wanted him here. Was it a considered plan? An instinct? He had asked, twice, to be dismissed to go back home, or to The Lamb, and his life. He had been refused, though courteously. Perhaps a little less so the second time.

De Vaux was under great strain and Thierry knew it. It was entirely possible, depending on how this hearing went, that the provost could be arrested himself, charged with overreaching, offering a gross indignity to a powerful lord. Treachery to Orane, even.

There had been a mob and a fire at the home of the Duke de Barratin two nights before.

Word of the duke’s flight from the city, and his admission that he’d had the king’s brother slain, had run through Orane about as quickly as one might expect. People had gathered before the Barratin walls and courtyard, and had broken through the gates as darkness fell. A terrible thing. There was widespread destruction and looting, until the provost’s serjeants and royal guards broke it up and then men acted, with difficulty, to quench the flames.