“How long have they been wed?” Leesha asked, ignoring the comment.

“Over a year now,” Araine said. “The Royal Gatherer brews fertility tea and I have Janson close the brothels when she’s cycling, but still she reddens her wadding each moon.”

Araine brought Leesha through the maze of private halls and stairs used by the women of the royal family. She saw many servants, but not a single man. Finally, they came to a plush bedchamber filled with velvet pillows and Krasian silks. The duchess was standing before one of the great stained-glass windows in the chamber, looking out over the city. She wore a wide dress of green and yellow silk, cut low in the front and laced tight at the waist. Her hair was put up behind a gold and gem-studded tiara, and her face painted exquisitely, ready at any moment in case the duke should summon her to his chambers. She was no more than sixteen summers old.

“Melny, this is Mistress Leesha of Cutter’s Hollow,” Araine introduced.

“Deliverer’s Hollow,” Leesha corrected. Araine gave her a look of bemused tolerance.

“Mistress Leesha is an expert in fertility,” Araine went on, “and will be examining you today. Take off your dress.”

The girl nodded, not hesitating in the least as she reached behind herself for the laces of her corset. It was clear who was in charge among the duke’s women. Her handmaids quickly moved to help with the fastenings, and soon the duchess’ dress was folded beside the bed.

“Examine as you see fit,” Araine muttered while the handmaids worked, too low for anyone else to hear. “The girl’s been poked and prodded more times than a two-klat inn tart.”

Leesha shook her head, feeling sorry for the poor girl, but she bent and opened her herb pouch on the duchess’ vanity, laying out a series of bottles and swabs. She had hoped for this opportunity, and came prepared with the proper chemics.

The young duchess stood meek and silent as Leesha went about her examination, but her heart was thudding in her chest when Leesha listened to it. The girl was likely terrified, afraid of what would happen to her if she failed to produce an heir like the duchesses before her. Leesha wondered if she had even been given a choice in the union, or, as was common throughout Thesa, it was arranged by her parents without a thought to her desires.

She took a sample of the duchess’ urine and swabs of her vaginal fluids, mixing the samples with chemics and leaving them to interact. She felt at the girl’s womb, even going so far as to slip in a finger to examine her cervix. Finally, she smiled at the duchess. “Everything seems in order, Your Highness. Thank you for your cooperation. You can get dressed now.”

“Thank you, mistress,” the duchess said. “I hope you can find what’s wrong with me.”

“I don’t think anything’s ‘wrong’ with you, dear,” Leesha said, “but if something needs correcting, rest assured, we will.” The duchess smiled weakly and nodded. Likely she had heard the same thing from a dozen other Gatherers. She had no reason to think Leesha any different.

The duchess went back to the window as Leesha went over to the vanity to check on her test results. The duchess mum drifted over to her.

“There’s nothing wrong with that girl,” Leesha said. “She’s fit to breed an army.”

Araine handed her a bit of netting full of dried herbs. “The tincture the Royal Gatherer makes to brew her fertility tea.”

Leesha sniffed the packet. “Standard. It certainly doesn’t hurt, but I could brew stronger…not that it matters.”

“You think the problem is with my son,” Araine said.

Leesha shrugged. “The next logical step would be to examine him, Your Grace.”

Araine snorted. “The stubborn ass will barely let a Gatherer look down his throat when he’s caught a chill and coughing up his innards. Little chance he ’ll let you anywhere near his manhood…” she looked Leesha up and down and smiled wryly, “…unless you want to examine him and collect your samples the old-fashioned way.”

Leesha scowled, and Araine laughed.

“I thought not!” she cackled. “we’ll make the girl do it! What else is a young duchess for?”

Minister Janson remained behind after the duchess mum left with Leesha and Wonda. He produced a slim oak box, lacquered smooth, and handed it to Rojer.

“We found this in Arrick’s chambers after his dismissal,” Janson said. “I messaged the Jongleurs’ Guild informing him I had it held in trust, but your master never bothered to retrieve it. I confess, it baffled me; Arrick took everything but the feathers from his mattress when he left, including a few things that weren’t precisely his, but this he left on a table, plain as day.”

Rojer took the case and opened it. Inside, on a bed of green velvet, lay a gold medallion on a heavy braided chain. Molded into relief upon the medallion were crossed spears behind a shield with Duke Rhinebeck’s crest: a leafed crown floating above an ivy-covered throne.

Rojer remembered enough of Arrick’s heraldry lessons to recognize the medallion immediately: the Royal Angierian Medal of Valor. The duke ’s highest honor. Rojer stared at it, amazed. What had Arrick done to earn such a prize, and why would he leave it behind? Beyond even the symbolic value, the medal itself was worth a fortune. In metal-poor Angiers, the braided chain alone was worth a mountain of klats, and the gold…

“His Grace bestowed the medal upon Arrick for his bravery at the fall of Riverbridge,” Janson said, as if reading his thoughts. “It would have been enough if he had saved himself and returned to report the fall to the duke, but to face the corelings and rescue you as well, a boy of only three summers who could not run or hide on his own…” He shook his head.

Rojer felt as if the minister had slapped him. “I can’t imagine why he would have left it behind,” he said hollowly, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Thank you for keeping it safe.” He closed the case and slipped it into the multicolored bag he carried across his shoulders.

“Well,” Janson said, when it became clear Rojer had no more to say. He looked to the Painted Man. “If you’re ready, Mr. Flinn, His Grace is ready to receive your delegation.”

“But Leesha…” Rojer began.

The minister pursed his lips. “His Grace does not care to receive women in his throne room,” he said. “I assure you, Mistress Leesha is in good hands with the duchess mum and her ladies-in-waiting. You can relate the audience to her after His Grace has dismissed you.”

The Painted Man frowned, and he locked stares with the minister. The little man seemed petrified under those hard eyes, but he did not recant. His eyes flicked to the guards by the door.

“Very well,” the Painted Man said at last. “Please lead the way.”

Janson masked a sigh of relief and bowed. “This way, please.”

Duke Rhinebeck was tall for an Angierian, but still shorter than most of the folk of Deliverer’s Hollow. He was thickly set, a man in his mid-fifties, the muscles of youth now run to flab. His gravy-stained doublet was emerald green, and his leggings brown, both of rare, Krasian silk. He wore the lacquered wooden crown of Angiers atop his oiled brown hair, shot through with gray, but his fingers and throat were bedecked with rings and necklaces of Milnese gold.

To the duke’s right and on a lower dais sat his brother, Crown Prince Mickael. Almost as old as the duke if a bit more robust, Prince Mickael was clad in equal finery, his hair held in place with a gold circlet. To the duke’s left sat Shepherd Pether, Rhinebeck’s middle brother. The Shepherd was even fatter than Rhinebeck, despite the austerity implied by his plain brown robe and shaved head. Unlike the rough material most Tenders wore, the Shepherd’s robe was made of fine wool, tied with a belt of yellow silk.

Prince Thamos kept his feet, standing at the bottom of the dais in his ward-lacquered breastplate and greaves. He held his spear at the ready, as did the Wooden Soldiers at the door, though Rojer and the others had been searched and stripped of their weapons before entering the throne room. Even so, beside Gared and the Painted Man, Rojer felt as safe as if he were standing in Deliverer’s Hollow under the bright sun.