A group of attendants saw their prey coming down a passage toward them and rushed forward. The Eddisians behind them shouted a warning as the king aimed toward a side table. Remembering how the king had pursued the Pent ambassador, the Attolians blocked the space above the table—only to grab at empty air while he slid by underneath it.

The king came up on the far side and was away again, so confident of his lead he turned and danced a few steps backward. Not content with fooling them once, he did it again. The second time, as they reached under the table, he slid on his belly across the top of it. The third time down that particular hallway, he avoided the pack of attendants blocking his path by dodging into the open door of Baron Laimonides’s apartment and running through the baron’s bedchamber and out the other side.

The guards watched in distress as he jumped onto a marble banister and, standing upright, slid down it. Ejected at the bottom of the slide, he tucked and rolled and came up again. Arms out, he bowed at the waist and ran away while his followers staggered to a halt, puffing and blowing.

“He’ll kill himself,” said Lamion.

“And the queen will kill us,” said a guard.

“Don’t worry,” said Boagus, who wasn’t chasing the king, just staying close enough behind him to enjoy the show. “He was knee-high the first time he did that on the ceremonial stairs in Eddis, in front of the whole court gathered for dinner.”

“The minister beat him with a belt,” chortled Cleon. “Told him to practice sword skills instead of circus tricks.”

Boagus said, “The next night he slid down holding a three-foot sword he got from the armory.”

“And his father beat him for that, too.”

“My god,” said Philologos.

“No,” said Boagus. “His god.”

“Boagus!” We heard the king from far ahead.

“What?”

“Catch me or you pay half!”

The Eddisians shouted with approval and joined in the chase. One of them declared that he would show the Attolians how it was done and reached for his knife, shouting, “First you wing him!”

Aulus knocked his hand away. “You don’t wing the king, you idiot.” The man cackled with embarrassment, as if only then remembering it was not the Thief he was chasing.

The halls were filling with people, helping or hindering or just watching. The king invited Sounis into the chase, but he declined on the grounds that he was much too slow. He did say he’d reward any Sounisian who caught the king with his own barrel of aposta and shouted encouragement at Perminder, running past with the king’s other attendants.

Eddis and Attolia had both left their apartments and were watching from a balcony of one of the interior courts, where they could get the best sense of the state of the chase.

“They will not actually kill him,” Eddis told her as several of her cousins rushed past.

“Not on purpose,” said Attolia dryly.

“It will be over soon,” said Eddis. “Now that he has woken the entire palace.”

On the floor above them, the shouts of the pursuers were growing louder. The king erupted into the air over their heads, arms and legs windmilling as he reached for the outermost ring of the chandelier. It was a longer jump than the previous one, across an open court much larger than a light well, and he didn’t make it. Instead of landing on the chandelier, he barely caught the edge, swinging below it, his legs kicking, lighted candles raining down on all sides.

The king held on a moment more. Then, like the candles, he fell.

Eddis seized Attolia by the hand.

There was the sound of a tremendous splash. The Eddisians, the Attolians, the Sounisians crowded to the railings to look down at the king in the cistern below. It held all the water drained from the roofs of that wing of the palace and was so deep the king had to paddle to keep his head above water.

He flicked the hair from his eyes, the drops of water glinting like gold in the light of the remaining candles. He made his way to the side of the tank, where there were stairs leading out of the cistern. He rose from the water like Atimonia leaving her bath, and after a formal salute to the queens, he slipped into a dark passageway and was gone.

As quiet slowly returned to the palace, Attolia found the king in her bedroom peeling off his wet clothes.

“Unkingly,” she said.

“My god, I hope so,” said the king.

Chapter Six

Only a few hours later, the soldiers began mustering on the Fields of War. The kings and queens of Eddis, Sounis, and Attolia would ride out of the palace, past the cheering crowds, to lead the largest army seen in their lifetimes. In his royal bedchamber, the king of Attolia, annux of Attolia, Sounis, and Eddis, stood staring at his clothes. With no time to devote to fashion, he’d left the creation of his parade suit to his attendants. They were long past the days of spoiling his coats with ink stains and bringing him mismatched stockings.

“Thank you, Ion,” said the king. “It’s a credit to your work and the tailor’s.”

Ion was fussing over the jacket, straightening the wedges of ribbons that were to drape from each shoulder.

The king was only just dressed when the queen arrived. She saw the full glory of the parade suit and waved the attendants still working on his buttons out of the room. After she’d gently closed the door behind them, she drew herself to her full height and swept down in a rare full courtesy to her king.

“Stop,” the king moaned quietly.

Attolia rose, saying, “So elegant, so colorful, so—”

“Don’t—”

“Kingly.”

I knew, because I’d been there when Hilarion and Ion had worked with the tailor, that they had been determined to make a suit that would be admired by all who saw it as the king rode out of the city. I thought it was splendid.

“I look like a pitneen,” said the king.

He did. The colors of the suit were exactly those of the little birds that flocked in the winterberry bushes in the early spring, gorging on the fruit as it fermented. At the Villa Suterpe, I’d found them blinking and incapacitated on the paths. I should have seen the similarity earlier.

“A very regal pitneen,” said Attolia. Her smile fading, she asked, “Was this deliberate?” I caught my breath. I liked Hilarion and Ion both.

“Worse,” said the king. “It is an unsolicited gesture of the deepest, sincerest support, and it’s far too late to make any changes.”

The queen’s expression didn’t alter, but her shoulders quivered.

“For gods’ sakes, throw a cup of wine on me,” begged the king.

Attolia shook her head. “They are right,” she assured him. “It is just the thing that will impress the city as you ride out.”

“They want a pitneen for a king?”

“They want a spectacle. And you are . . .” Her voice trailed off. She was pointing to the cloth in the king’s hand, hanging like an empty sack. “What is that?”

“It’s the hat,” said the king in despair.

“Ohhh,” she breathed as she pulled it from his hand. It was a long, shapeless velvet sack, lightly padded around the opening to stiffen it above his brow. She put it on his head, then carefully draped it down his back, giving him exactly the profile of a bird. She had to sit down.