“You would have eluded a man with twice his cunning,” said the king, and that was probably true. “He is in the Gede Valley these last few weeks. I sent him home to his family.” He was admitting that he’d left me lonely on purpose. What a piece of work he was. I don’t know why I like him as much as I do.

“Your Majesty,” I called, and he looked back as he was leaving. “Your youngest attendant needs a better tutor.”

“Thank you, Kamet,” said the king. “I’ll look into it.” And then he was gone.

A week later I was on a ship in the harbor, waiting for it to sail. I was headed west, though Roa lay to the east. I would take a long and circular route as far north as Rince in the Gulf of Brael, then south again on the River Naden and over the mountains to Magyar and Roa. We hoped to throw off any pursuit by my master or by the enraged emperor of the Mede. Melheret would have relayed my extraordinary contributions to the Attolian state, and I could count on the emperor to be vengeful indeed.

For the sake of caution, if nothing else, I would not be traveling in style. On the other hand, I had money for the journey and I was quite confident I could manage. I needn’t impersonate a free man—I was a free man—and no one was expecting me to be a caravan guard.

I would miss the Attolians. I had taken my leave from various people over the previous days with real regret. Setra had no hold on me, nor did I feel I owed anything to the Medes, but to Attolia I felt a growing attachment. I did not know if I would ever return, but I knew I would feel a tie to Attolia for as long as I lived. I would go to Roa and I would copy scrolls and I would be glad to work in her interest for so long as Eugenides could keep her free. I could have been—almost—grateful for the sense of purpose he had given me.

I missed Costis. I was beginning to believe that what I had thought of as pride all my life was no more than a kind of self-deception, and I wished that I could have apologized to him again for my abuse of his better nature. Almost as if wishing made him seem to appear, I noticed that a man on the dock with a duffel on one shoulder was very like Costis in poise and in gait. The man turned onto the gangplank to board the ship, and my heart lifted, though I tried to squash what I thought was a ridiculous hope. He was almost standing right in front of me before I could be certain it was him.

“Come to see me off?” I asked.

“Come to point out that you are far from plying your trade on a dusty street corner,” said Costis.

“So,” I conceded. “You were right and I was wrong.”

It was so very good to see him again. He asked seriously, “Are you worried by the journey?”

“I am sure I will manage, though I am not used to traveling alone,” I admitted.

“Would you like company?”

I didn’t think I had heard him correctly. “What of your king? Your position here?”

“It was his suggestion.”

Eugenides and his “suggestions.”

“He sent me to visit with my family for a few weeks and to say good-bye. I took my sister a wedding present. I am going to look a fool if you say you don’t want me along with you, Kamet.”

“Gods forbid you should look like a fool, Costis.”

“Is that a so then?”

“So it is,” I said.

“Immakuk and Ennikar,” he said.

“Where?” I snapped my head around to scan the dock, and he nudged me with his elbow.

“Idiot. Us,” he said.

“Oh, of course.” I was squinting down at the dock nonetheless, but I saw nothing out of the ordinary there.

Dear Relius,

Forgive the briefness of this note. We have arrived as expected and are settling in. Costis acquires a reputation as a naturalist hiking the surrounding hills all day, bringing home grubby specimens to fill the house. I think he’s beginning to like them. He has mapped most of the observation points he was looking for.

There are a number of scrolls by Enoclitus here that I have never seen before. I cannot help suspecting the king of knowing about them all along.

To your new student, who I have no doubt opened this private message, my greetings, and you should not have done so. It was very wrong. Be sure you use the smaller brass straightedge—the one that hangs next to the armillary sphere—and press the seams in the paper when you refold it so that they are crisp and Relius will not know right away what you have done.

Kamet e dai Annux

ENVOY

Melheret stood at the rail and watched the capital of Attolia disappear behind the bulk of the offshore island that sheltered it. The emperor had recalled his diplomats from Attolia and Melheret was not looking forward to his homecoming.

The imperial fleet should have been moved, no matter how adamantly the emperor’s nephew had insisted that his slave could not know its location. Melheret had said as much, as delicately as he could, knowing he risked offending people far more powerful than he was. Ignorant, narrow-minded counselors had disagreed, arguing that the allied navy was too small to be a threat, and the Emperor was nearing the end of any need for secrecy. Melheret had been right, and they had been wrong, and that was far more dangerous to Melheret than the reverse.

His sense of foreboding only increased as his secretary approached and he held up a hand to caution the man, but it was a hopeless gesture. Ansel blurted out his news for all the sailors around them to hear.

“The figurine of Prokip by Sudesh is gone. Forgive me, Ambassador.”

“How?” asked Melheret, surprised by his own calm.

“I did just as you instructed, sir. I checked its case this morning, I locked it, sir, I know I did. I did not take my eyes off it today, I swear, not once did I look away.”

“And yet you tell me it is gone.”

“I do not know how it could have happened. I just opened the case and found this.” He handed over a message with the ambassador’s name written on it in the king’s hand, familiar to them both.

The ambassador didn’t have to open it to know what it held, but he did anyway. It was a thoroughly civil note wishing him a safe journey home and a reminder that he was always welcome to return. An invitation so warm and so damning it would mean his death if the emperor ever heard of it. It wasn’t on paper. The king had written on thick parchment, deliberately, the ambassador was sure. It didn’t tear easily. He had to wrench it to pieces, growing angrier and angrier with every effort, until he could feel his face suffused with blood and hear himself snarling as he finally gave up and threw all of the pieces over the ship’s rail.

Ansel had backed away in alarm. “Forgive me,” he said again and again from a safe distance.

“Oh, shut up,” said the ambassador wearily. “You’re a free man, I can’t throw you over the side, too.” There was no point in blaming the secretary for the theft. Melheret would have sworn on his life that the figurine had been impossible to steal—locked in a case and the case guarded every minute, but the king of Attolia was still the thief of Eddis.

“You could have waited until I came belowdecks to tell me,” said the ambassador. He looked around at the crowded deck where sailors hastily went back to their work and the other passengers went on pretending to watch the slowly receding shore.