“Two hundred,” Leesha said, “at least half of breeding age, and a hundred milking cows.”

Araine scowled, but she nodded. “Done.”

“And seed from Farmer’s Stump and Woodsend,” Leesha added. “It’s planting season, and we have the labor to clear land and grow a full crop, if they have sufficient seed to plant.”

“That’s in everyone’s interest,” Araine agreed. “You’ll get as much as we can spare.”

“How can you know the men will come to these terms?” Leesha asked.

Araine cackled. “My sons couldn’t tie their shoes without Janson, and Janson answers to me. Not only will they decide as he advises, they’ll go to their graves thinking it was all their own ideas.”

Leesha still felt doubtful, but the duchess mum only shrugged at her. “Hear it for yourself, when your men come out and tell you what they ‘negotiated.’ Until then, let’s finish our tea.”

“Why have you come before the ivy throne?” Rhinebeck asked.

“The Krasian advance threatens us all,” the Painted Man said. “Refugees flood the countryside, more than the hamlets can easily absorb, and when they move on Lakton—”

“This is ridiculous,” Prince Mickael cut him off. “At the very least, show your face when addressing the duke.”

“Apologies, Highness,” the Painted Man said with a slight bow. He drew back his hood, and in the sunlight streaming in through the windows, the wards seemed to crawl across his skin like living things. Thamos and Janson, having seen this before, kept composure, but the other princes could not entirely hide their shock.

“Creator,” Pether whispered, drawing a ward in the air before him.

“Since you have no name, I suppose you’ll want us to call you Lord Ward?” Mickael asked, twisting the surprised look on his face into a sneer.

The Painted Man shook his head, smiling wanly. “I’m as peasant as they come, Highness. No lord in any land.”

Mickael snorted. “Circumstances of birth notwithstanding, I find it hard to believe a man who styles himself the Deliverer doesn’t think himself as much a lord as any of royal blood. Or do you think yourself above such things?”

“I’m not the Deliverer, Highness,” the Painted Man said. “I’ve never claimed otherwise.”

“That’s not what your Tender in Cutter’s Hollow believes, by his own reports,” Shepherd Pether noted, waving a sheaf of papers in the air.

“He’s not my Tender,” the Painted Man said, scowling. “He can believe as he wishes.”

“Actually, he can’t,” Janson interrupted, “if he is representing the Tenders of the Creator in Angiers, he owes his loyalty to His Grace the Shepherd and the Council of Tenders. If he is preaching heresy…”

“That’s a fair point, Janson,” Pether said. “we’ll have to look into that.”

“You could perhaps have the Council of Tenders summon and inquisit Tender Jona, Your Grace,” Janson suggested.

“Hear, hear,” Mickael said. He looked to his brother. “You should do that with all haste, brother.” Pether nodded.

“Your former mentor, Tender Hayes, would be fit to replace him in the Hollow and minister the refugees, Your Grace,” Janson suggested. “He has experience working with the poor, and is loyal to the ivy throne. Perhaps you can convince the council to send him?”

“Convince them?!” Pether demanded. “Janson, I am their Shepherd! You tell them I said to send Tender Hayes!”

Janson bowed. “As you say, Your Grace.”

“As for you,” Pether said, turning back to the Painted Man, “why did the Hollowers rename their hamlet Deliverer’s Hollow if you have no sway there?”

“I never wanted the change,” the Painted Man said. “They did it against my wishes.”

Mickael snorted. “Save that ale story for a taproom of drunks. Of course you wanted the change.”

“To what end, Highness?” the Painted Man asked. “It does nothing but further a notion I would rather quash.”

“If that is so, you will have no argument if His Grace sends the town council a royal decree commanding that they change it back, of course,” Janson said.

The Painted Man shrugged.

Rhinebeck nodded. “Do it.”

“As you wish, Your Grace,” Janson said.

“All this is neither East nor West,” Prince Thamos snapped, stamping his spear butt on the floor. He looked at the Painted Man. “We tested your wards. I killed a wood demon myself with that arrow. I want more. And the other combat wards you’ve developed, along with training for my men. What do you want in exchange?”

“It matters not what he wants,” Rhinebeck said. “The Hollowers are my subjects, and I won’t pay for what they owe the ivy throne regardless.”

“As I told Prince Thamos and the Lord Janson, Your Grace,” the Painted Man said, “the corelings are the real enemy. I won’t withhold warded weapons from any who want them.”

Rhinebeck grunted, and Thamos’ eyes took on an eager light.

“I can consult with the Warders’ Guild to select Warders to send to the Hollow, if Your Grace wishes,” Janson said. “Perhaps with a contingent of Wooden Soldiers to guard them?”

“I’ll lead them personally, brother,” Prince Thamos said, turning to look at the duke.

Rhinebeck nodded. “Very well,” he said.

“What of the refugees from Rizon?” the Painted Man asked. “Will you take them in?”

“My city has no room for thousands of refugees,” Rhinebeck said. “Let them succor in the hamlets. We can offer them…what was it again, Janson?” Rhinebeck asked.

“Royal asylum,” Janson said, “and the protection of the crown to any who swear an oath of loyalty to Angiers.” Rhinebeck nodded.

The Painted Man bowed. “That is very generous, Your Grace, but these people are starved and penniless, lacking basic necessities of survival. Surely, in your mercy, you can offer more than that.”

“Very well,” Rhinebeck said. “I’m not heartless. Janson, what can we spare?”

“Well, Your Grace,” Janson said, flipping open a ledger and scanning its contents, “we can forgive the Hollow its delinquent lumber shipments, of course…”

“Of course,” Rhinebeck echoed.

“And while in the Hollow, your Royal Warders can offer their expertise in protecting the refugees in the night,” Janson went on, “as can the Wooden Soldiers.”

“Of course, of course,” Rhinebeck said.

Janson pursed his lips. “Please allow me to review further, Your Grace, and I will present you with detailed lists of what resources we have available.”

“See to it,” Rhinebeck said.

Janson bowed again. “As you command.”

“And what of the Krasian advance?” the Painted Man asked.

“I’ve seen no evidence that the Krasians will advance, apart from your own claims,” Rhinebeck said.

“They will,” the Painted Man assured. “The Evejah demands it.”

“You know a lot about the desert rats and their heathen religion,” Pether said. “Lord Janson says you even lived among them for a time.”

The Painted Man nodded. “That’s correct, Your Grace.”

“Then how can we be sure of where your loyalties lie?” Pether said. “For all we know, you’re a corespawned Evejan convert yourself. Night, if you won’t tell us who you are and where you’re from, how do we even know you’re not a Krasian yourself under all those wards?”

Gared growled, but the Painted Man held up a finger, and the giant Cutter fell silent. “I assure you, that isn’t the case,” the Painted Man said. “My loyalty is to Thesa.”

Rhinebeck smiled. “Prove it.”

The Painted Man tilted his head curiously. “How shall I prove it, Your Grace?”

“My herald is out in the hamlets,” Rhinebeck said, “and cannot travel as swiftly as you, in any event. Go to Fort Miln for me and speak to Duke Euchor. Invoke the Pact.”

“The Pact, Your Grace?” the Painted Man asked. Rhinebeck looked to Janson, who cleared his throat.

“The Pact of the Free Cities,” the minister said. “In the year zero, after the first wardwalls were finally built and a semblance of order restored to the ravaged countryside, the surviving dukes of Thesa signed a mutual nonaggression pact called the Pact of the Free Cities. In it, they recognized the death of the king of Thesa and the end of his line, and accepted one another’s sovereignty over their territories. The pact bans the taking of territory by force, and promises the unity of all cities in putting down its violators.”