Attolia squeezed his hands. “What alternative do I have?” she said lightly.

“An opportunity to serve you is a gift from the gods,” said the Mede, bowing again.

She stiffened. “What gods?” Attolia asked.

“Yours, mine, what matter?” he said. He’d been joking, confident that the gods were a matter of superstition to her. “Maybe they’ve made a treaty, an example to us all.”

The queen smiled again. “Perhaps they have,” she said. She looked to where the Eddisians had been grouped, seeking out Eugenides. The Medes were moving through the group, separating out the officers and those men not in uniform. When they reached Eugenides, one made a comment that made the others laugh.

“Did you bring any manacles?” Attolia asked Nahuseresh.

“A few pairs,” answered the Mede. “I think they won’t be much use on your one-handed thief,” he reminded her.

Annoyed at her thoughtlessness, Attolia pretended to be amused.

“I brought neck chains,” Nahuseresh said.

“How clever you are. Chain him to two of the soldiers, will you? Two officers.”

“As you wish,” said Nahuseresh, and summoned one of his men with a wave of his hand. Attolia left him and stepped across the slick mud to Eugenides. The Mede soldiers had looped a rope around his upper arms and bound his arms to his sides. He stood slack-shouldered, staring at the ground, as they finished their knots and moved away.

As she approached, Eugenides lifted his head to look over the queen’s shoulder at the Mede. He had guided Attolia in a number of the naval battles, Eugenides knew. He was liked by some of her barons, courteously hated by others, but respected by all of them. He flattered the queen of Attolia and directed the Mede ships that patrolled her coast as well as the soldiers on land. He didn’t take part in the fighting itself, but who could doubt that he would be as competent at killing men as he was at everything else he undertook? So well suited to be a king, all he wanted was a kingdom, and he would condescend to take Attolia. Eugenides hated him.

As the queen approached, Eugenides dropped his eyes. He wanted, desperately, to be sick or to drop to his knees, cover his face with his hands—hand—and cry. If he didn’t look the queen of Attolia in the face, he hoped to avoid doing either.

“Where there’s life there’s hope, Eugenides,” Attolia said as she looked him over. His hair lay in damp tendrils on his forehead. The light rain beaded there and dropped onto his face. There was a spatter of mud across one cheek mixed with heavier drops of blood. She looked carefully for any injury but saw no signs and assumed it was someone else’s blood. She stooped a little to see his eyes better and followed their direction. He was looking at the water runneling the mud by her left foot. She straightened.

“You’ll be chained by the neck to two other prisoners,” she told him. “If you and they live to reach my megaron at Ephrata, the other two will be safely returned, without ransom, to Eddis.” Eugenides didn’t move. His hope of heaven could have been in the dirt at her feet, so fixedly did he stare there. “Do you understand?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered.

“What will you do now?”

“Oh”—he tried unsuccessfully to keep the tremor out of his voice—“grovel, I suppose.”

“I’ve heard you do that before,” said Attolia, briefly amused in spite of herself.

Eugenides swallowed. “That was begging,” he said with a better effort at lightness. “There wasn’t much opportunity for groveling last…time.” He stumbled, then added evenly, “I am very good at groveling.”

“Anything to save your skin?” Attolia asked.

“Nothing is going to save my skin,” Eugenides said flatly.

She gripped his chin between her thumb and forefinger. She felt the breath go out of him at her touch. He resisted for a moment and then gave in, raising his head to look her in the eye. Even in the red glow of the torches his face was pale. The muscles in his jaw jumped as he clenched his teeth. He was afraid.

Attolia wasn’t surprised that the mask that hid his feelings was gone. His training hadn’t been in fear and diplomacy; it had been in silence and stealth. As he looked at her, his eyes were bright with anguish. He had heard of her threats, as she had known he would. She could see that he had no expectations of mercy from her. No hope that she would be something other than ruthless and cruel.

Eugenides was afraid and he was a fool and he knew it. He had forgotten what it felt like to be at the mercy of the queen of Attolia. The blood pounded in his ears, and his entire body was rigid to fight the trembling in his knees. He was sick with it. He remembered that feeling but thought it had been caused then by the pain in his head. Now there was no pain, but the same feeling in the bottom of his stomach. He would beg, he knew, for any mercy she would show, but he thought there would be none. Even if she exacted no revenge for herself, she would exact it for her throne, and for the Mede, to show him that she had committed herself and her country to him. A shudder he couldn’t stop shook the Thief. He would lose his sight, and his hearing, his power of speech before he finally died. Dead is dead, he had told himself over and over. Dead is dead. But worse than dying was knowing that she would be the one to take those things from him. Because she hated him.

He could tell her he loved her. He ached to shout it out loud for the gods and everyone to hear. Little good it would do. Better to trust in the moon’s promises than the word of the Thief of Eddis. He was famous in three countries for his lies. Why should she believe anything he said, when he was standing with Mede swords at his throat?

Attolia felt him tremble under her hand. For two years he had been trying to build his defenses against her, and in a moment she saw them all stripped away. Certain he could not stand against her, Attolia stepped back, forgetting that being defenseless didn’t preclude attack.

Eugenides took a deep breath and let it go slowly. Then he lifted his chin toward Nahuseresh, who was stepping nearer, having delivered his orders to an underling. The Thief leaned closer to the queen to speak almost into her ear. “From shadow queen to puppet queen in one rule,” he whispered. “That’s very impressive. When he rules your country and he tells you he loves you, I hope you believe him.”

He anticipated her blow and leaned back. Her hand only brushed his cheek in an entirely unsatisfying manner. “At least that’s one lie I didn’t tell you,” Eugenides said.

As he opened his mouth to say more, Nahuseresh reached the queen’s shoulder, and the queen struck again, this time boxing Eugenides’s ear hard with her cupped hand. Eugenides staggered, slipped on the slick ground, and fell backward onto his bound arms. His face twisted in pain, and he bridged, arching his back to get his weight off his arms, then rolled onto his side. She hoped the fall would shut him up but considered kicking him to be sure. She had no desire to hear him protesting his undying love, but he was so very stubborn when you finally got down to some substance under all the lies. She wondered if his stubbornness always led him to make any bad situation worse.

“He insulted you?” Nahuseresh asked.

Attolia turned. “Not for the first time,” she said, rubbing her hand, wiping away a speck of mud. She tucked her arm back through the Mede’s and walked away.