“His Grace, Duke Rhinebeck the Third,” Janson announced, “Guardian of the Forest Fortress, Wearer of the Wooden Crown, and Lord of all Angiers.” Rojer dropped to one knee, Gared following suit. The Painted Man, however, only bowed.

“Bend knee to your duke,” Thamos growled, pointing to the Painted Man with his spear.

The Painted Man shook his head. “I mean no disrespect, Your Highness, but I am not Angierian.”

“What nonsense is this?” Prince Mickael demanded. “You are Flinn Cutter of Cutter’s Hollow, Angierian born and raised. Do you mean to say the Hollow no longer considers itself part of the duchy?” Thamos tightened his grip on his spear, leveling it at them, and Rojer swallowed hard, hoping the Painted Man knew what he was doing.

The Painted Man seemed not to notice the threat. He shook his head again. “I mean nothing of the sort, Your Highness. Flinn Cutter was only a name given at the gate for expedience’s sake. I apologize for the deception.” He bowed again.

Janson, who had retreated to a small desk beside the dais, began scribbling furiously.

“Your accent is Milnese,” Shepherd Pether said. “Are you beholden to Euchor, perhaps?”

“I have spent time in Fort Miln, but I am not Milnese, either,” the Painted Man said.

“Then state your name and city,” Thamos said.

“My name is my own,” the Painted Man said, “and I call no city my home.”

“How dare you?!” Thamos sputtered, advancing with his spear. The Painted Man gave him the bemused look a man might give a young boy who put up his fists. Rojer held his breath.

“Enough!” Rhinebeck barked. “Thamos, stand down!” Prince Thamos scowled, but he did as he was told, retreating to the foot of the dais and glowering at the Painted Man.

“Keep your mysteries for now,” Rhinebeck said, raising a hand to forestall any further questions. Prince Mickael glared at his older brother, but kept his tongue.

“You, I remember,” Rhinebeck said to Rojer, apparently hoping to cut some of the tension in the room. “Rojer Inn, Arrick Sweetsong’s brat, who thought my brothel was a nursery.” He chuckled. “They called your master Sweetsong because his voice made women sweet between the legs. Has the apprentice become the master?”

“I only charm corelings with my music, Your Grace,” Rojer replied with a bow, painting a smile on his face and hiding his anger behind a Jongleur’s mask.

Rhinebeck laughed, slapping his knee. “As if a coreling could be taken in like some wood-brained tart! You have Arrick’s humor, I’ll give you that!”

Lord Janson cleared his throat. “Eh?” Rhinebeck asked, turning to look at his secretary.

“The word from Messengers passing through the Hollow is that young Mr. Inn can indeed charm demons with his music, Your Grace,” he said.

The duke’s eyes widened. “Honest word?” Janson nodded.

Rhinebeck coughed to hide his surprise, then turned back to them, looking at Gared. “You are Captain Gared of the Cutters?” he asked.

“Er, just Gared, Y’Worship,” Gared stuttered. “I lead the Cutters, yeh, but I ent no captain. Just handy with an axe, I guess.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, boy,” Rhinebeck said. “No one praises a man who won’t praise himself. If half of what I hear about you is true, I may give you a commission myself.”

Gared opened his mouth to reply, but it was clear he had no idea what the proper response was, so he simply bowed, dipping so low Rojer thought his chin might strike the floor.

Leesha sipped her tea, her eyes flicking over the rim to regard the duchess mum, who watched her in return with similar quiet candor. Araine ’s servants had set a polished silver tea service on the table between them, along with a pile of pastries and thin sandwiches, before vanishing. A silver bell sat beside the platter to summon them back when needed.

Wonda sat rigidly, as if trying to make herself as invisible to the duchess mum as she was to corelings in her Cloak of Unsight. She stared at the plate of sandwiches longingly, but seemed terrified to take one, lest she draw attention to herself.

The duchess mum turned to her. “Girl, if you’re going to dress like a man and carry a spear, stop acting like some timid young debutante whose first suitor has come to court. Eat. Those sandwiches aren’t piled there for show.”

“Sorry, Y’Grace,” Wonda said, bowing awkwardly. She grabbed a fistful of the finger sandwiches and shoved them into her mouth, neglecting napkin and plate alike. Araine rolled her eyes, but she seemed more amused than put off.

The duchess mum then turned to Leesha. “As for you, I can see the questions on your face, so you might as well ask them. I’m not getting any younger while we wait.”

“I’m just…surprised, Your Grace,” Leesha said. “You’re not what I expected.”

Araine laughed. “From what, my frail crone act in front of the men? Creator, girl, Bruna said you were quick, but I’ve my doubts if you couldn’t see through that.”

“I won’t be fooled again, I assure you,” Leesha said, “but I confess, I don’t understand why the act was needed at all. Bruna never pretended to be…”

“Doddering?” Araine asked with a smile as she selected a delicate sandwich from the tray and dipped it smoothly in her tea, eating it in two quick bites. Wonda attempted to mimic her but left the sandwich in her tea too long, and half of it broke off in the cup. Araine snorted as the girl quickly swallowed tea and sandwich alike in one quick gulp.

“As you say, Your Grace,” Leesha said.

The duchess mum looked down her nose at Leesha in that reproachful way she had. It reminded her of Lord Janson’s look, and she wondered if the first minister had learned it from her. “It’s necessary,” Araine said, “because men turn to hardwood around a sharp woman, but around a dullard they are soft as pulp. Live a few more decades, and you’ll find my meaning.”

“I’ll remember that in the audience before His Grace,” Leesha said.

Araine snorted. “Keep up with the dance, girl. This isthe audience. What goes on in the throne room is all just for show. Whatever they may think, my sons no more run this city than your Smitt does the Hollow.”

Leesha choked on a pastry and almost spilled her tea. She looked at Araine in shock.

“It was ill planned to come without Mr. Smitt, though,” Araine tsked. “Bruna hated politics, but she could have taught you the bare rudiments. She knew them well enough. My boys take after their father, and have little use for women at court unless they’re putting food on a table or kneeling under it. They’ve naturally assumed your Mr. Flinn—if that’s even his name—leads the dance now, and will give even that ape Gared and Arrick’s brat more respect than you.”

“The Painted Man doesn’t speak for the Hollow,” Leesha said. “Nor do the others.”

“You think me dim, girl?” Araine asked. “One look at them told me that. It makes no difference, though. All the decisions are already made.”

“Excuse me?” Leesha asked, confused.

“I gave Janson his instructions last night after I read his report, and he’s seeing to them now,” Araine said. “So long as none of those peacocks starts a real fight while they strut and posture in the throne room, the result of the ‘audience ’ will be this:

“You will return to the Hollow to await a team of my best Warders to study your combat wards. Before winter, I want every two-klat Warder in Angiers etching weapons until every wood-brained huntsman who can pull a bow has a quiver of warded arrows and warded spears are cheap at the boardwalk kiosks.

“Thamos and the Wooden Soldiers will accompany the Warders,” Araine went on, “both for their protection and so your Cutters can train them in demon hunting.”

Leesha nodded. “Of course, Your Grace.” Araine smiled patiently at the interruption, and Leesha realized as far as the duchess mum was concerned, these were royal commands and not topics for debate.