Nahuseresh pressed down again on the king’s knee, making him gasp in pain.

“The Continent musters its armies in Melenze,” said Bu-seneth. “They promised you aid to ensure that you would march north—to spend your armies against ours. When the Little Peninsula has given its all, only then will they step up to fight. Your cause is lost, Eugenides. You waste the lives of your men by persevering.”

“So you say,” the king spat.

“Let your soldiers go home,” said the general. “The emperor bears them no ill will. Disband your armies now and I promise you, on my honor, that you will still be king while you live and your throne will pass to the emperor only after your death.”

“No!” protested Nahuseresh, outraged. “I am to rule Attolia!”

Bu-seneth knew that a change in tone, a surprising moment of compassion, can break down the most resistant prisoner. He repeated the offer. “You have no heir—you’ve seen that your wife cannot bear you one. Be king under our emperor, defy the Continental Powers that have betrayed you. Sign the surrender, Eugenides, and I will send Nahuseresh home rolled in a rug.”

“You would not dare,” said Nahuseresh.

Bu-seneth had been sitting on a stool by the brazier. Slowly he rose to his feet. I’d been drawn out from my hiding space and any of them could have seen me, but I could not look away from this contest, nor could anyone else. I might have risen to my feet and danced without drawing their attention.

“Do you think anyone cares about your ambitions?” Bu-seneth asked Nahuseresh. “Do you think your brother cares? He does not. You are not the next ruler of Attolia; you were never meant to be. You are a laughingstock sent here so that you would be out of their way instead of whining uselessly underfoot.”

The king must have had all his wits still about him, because he was shaking with laughter as well as with pain. “Useless,” he choked. “And you called me a fool! How could you not see that it is Erondites who is meant to pull my strings?”

My grandfather’s smirk was all the proof Nahuseresh needed.

“Sign the surrender,” Nahuseresh snarled, kicking the king until Bu-seneth pushed him back. Nahuseresh went on shouting, “The Braels are not coming! The Gants are not coming! You will die and your silly truce will break, your armies will scatter, and we will beat them one by one, burn your fields and destroy every city, every town, burn it all to the ground.”

“No,” said the king, his voice shaking.

“There is no one coming to save you, Eugenides!”

“I don’t believe you,” he said.

He did. I could hear it in his voice and so could Bu-seneth. The general ordered Nahuseresh back like a man directing a dog. Then he returned to persuasion. “I have honed my soldiers on yours, and our battles have served their purpose. My men are ready, and tomorrow we will begin in earnest to destroy your armies. Sign or die, Eugenides; either way, you have lost. Sign and you save their lives. That is all you can accomplish here.”

Nahuseresh yanked the irons out of the fire, sending sparks flying dangerously into the air to fall and singe the carpets. This time, the king did not bear the pain in silence. He screamed. Then he wept. In terrible pain, he did not surrender to save himself; he gave in to save his people. With a shaking hand, he signed at the bottom of the vellum sheet that Erondites held in front of him. He accepted Erondites as prime minister and left his kingdom at his death to the emperor of the Mede.

Bu-seneth, having gotten what he wanted, stepped back uninterested as Nahuseresh vented his humiliation and his rage. Kicking at Eugenides, Nahuseresh shouted, “You will be a puppet and my brother will pull your strings. All you will ever be is a thief. Admit it.” He tried to stamp on the king’s fingers but missed. “Show us what you can steal now!” he snarled as the guards lifted the king onto a stretcher.

Ion Nomenus had taken the signed surrender away to sand the ink. Done with the task, he moved as if without purpose to stand by the doorway, blocking me from view. As they lifted the king, he flicked his hand behind his back and I rolled under the canvas onto the wet grass outside.

It had grown dark and a light rain was falling. I could hear the king sobbing as they carried him past, crying out that he was the king, he was Attolis, he was annux still. Tears streaking my own face, I got to my feet and limped after him. The men holding him saw me and shrugged at one another. I followed them as they took him to a small tent with a cot in it and nothing else. They chained him and left. They did not try to confine me and were right not to bother.

After a while, the sound of the king’s gasping and crying lessened and he fell silent. I lifted my face and saw through the tears in my own eyes that there were none in his. He was looking back at me with a face like an open grave. Then he smiled, and a chill like the ones I felt in Hephestia’s temple shuddered down my back.

He slid his hand free of the manacle around his wrist and probed in the embroidered cuff of the opposite sleeve. He eased out a knife with a triangular blade no longer than his finger and used it to slice through the leather strap around his chest. He put the knife away and worked his way along a row of tiny invisible pockets until he found the key he wanted. He unlocked the chain around his waist and sat up, using his sleeve to wipe his face clear of the last signs of his suffering, silently mocking my amazement.

He made the sign of needle and thread with his fingers, pointed to the gaudy colors on the front of his coat, and tapped the pocket at his wrist. Then he lifted his hand to make the sign for excellent.

That tailor has terrible taste, but he knows where I like my pockets.

He tipped his head at my astonishment and used the sign for my tutor. Relius.

I had guessed that Relius had shown him my signs; that wasn’t what surprised me. Relius was clumsy and slow. Eugenides wasn’t signing like him or even like Melisande. He was communicating as Juridius and I did. Not only was everything he said clear, he knew the sign for my tutor, and I had never taught that to Relius. Why would I have needed to?

Eugenides unlocked the chains around his ankle and poked a finger with distaste through the burned holes in his clothes. He splayed his first two fingers and held them to his chin—making a forked beard. I knew who he meant.

Nahuseresh tells me I am not king. We’ll see if he really prefers the Thief.

Another sign whose meaning was easy to guess.

But you’re hurt.

Not as badly as Nahuseresh thinks.

Your leg—

He shook his head, almost pitying me. His face crumpled and he wiped back and forth under his nose, mimicking his earlier suffering.

My cousins know better than to trust my tears. You should, too.

He raised an eyebrow when I didn’t laugh. Every moment the air seemed tighter, the ringing in my ears seemed higher. I could feel myself shaking as if it were cold. He ruffled my hair, a reassuring gesture that had no effect.

He glanced up. I need a heavier rain. There was a rumble in the sky, then a patter on the canvas above us that gradually increased to a drumming sound.

He indicated I should help him out of his coat. He winced and scowled as I pulled it off him, then he wrapped me in it and put me into his place on the cot. Rolling me to face away from the doorway of the tent and covering me with the blanket the guards had left, he artfully arranged the folds to make me look larger. He patted my shoulder. Wait for me. Then he rolled under the fabric edge of the tent, just as I had rolled out from Bu-seneth’s.