In the moment before the black dwarf turned away, he winked, and Orem found himself inexplicably sure that this fool knew something that Orem needed very much to learn.

"Beauty, dear Beauty," sang the little black man to the Queen,

I bless your little unborn child

On whom all gods but four have smiled:

Though all his life the lad hear lies,

He'll be as wise as I am wise.

Then, laughing uproariously, the fool somersaulted backward and sprawled under the table.

Orem was horrified at the bitter gifts they had given the Queen's child—his child, for that matter, though he was far from having much parental feeling for a creature he could not even imagine yet. All Orem knew was that a great discourtesy had been done, and he fumblingly tried to put it right. He knew no blessings for the unborn except the common one used in Banningside and the farm country, the blessing Halfpriest Dobbick had invariably used. Orem turned to the Queen and said, "Queen Beauty, I'd like to bless the child."

She half-smiled at him; he thought it was assent, not amusement. He blurted out his gift in words that in themselves had little meaning to him, only that they were a proper blessing: "May the child live to serve God."

Orem had meant it as a kindness; the Queen took it as a curse. She slapped his face with such force that he fell to the floor. His cheek was cut open by her ring. What had he said? From his place on the floor he watched as she looked imperiously at the others and said, in a voice dripping with hate, "My Little King's gift has no more power than his pud." Then she turned to her boy-husband. "Command and bless as you like, my Little King; you will only be obeyed by those who laugh at you." Then the Queen turned and started toward the door. She stopped at the threshold. "Urubugala," she said firmly. The black fool suddenly scrambled from under the table, and Orem knew it was his name.

"Come here," the Queen said. Urubugala kept crawling, whining about his sad lot in life. He passed close to Orem, who instinctively retreated from the strange man. Suddenly the fool's black hand snaked out and grabbed Orem viciously by the arm and pulled him close. Orem lost his balance, and in the struggle to get up he found the fool's lips against his ear. "I know you, Orem," came the almost soundless whisper. "I have waited long for you."

A shudder went through Orem, violent as if the floor itself had shaken. Orem ap Avonap, Scanthips, Banningside, Little King—of all the names he was given, only Hart's Hope was given him with the Passage of Names. His priestword would have been given him that way, had he taken oaths.

And perhaps the floor had shaken, for the fool was writhing on the ground, screaming in agony, clutching his head. Is it a show, part of his game of idiocy, or is the pain real?

"His name is Little King, and he will have no other," said the Queen from the door.

She left. Urubugala immediately stopped screaming. He lay panting on the floor a moment, then arose and walked out of the room, following the Queen.

Orem also stood. His cheek hurt, and so did his elbow where he had hit the floor. He was confused; he understood nothing. He turned to the others, the ugly woman and the weak old soldier. They regarded him with pitying eyes. He did not really understand their pity, either.

"What do I do now?" he asked.

They glanced at each other. "You're the Little King," said the soldier. "You can do what you like."

"King." Orem didn't know what to make of it. "I saw Palicrovol once."

"Did you," said the woman. She did not sound interested. "He covers his eyes with golden hemispheres, so the Queen can't use his eyes to see."

The woman chuckled. "Then he does it in vain, doesn't he? For the Queen sees everything."

Except where I go and take away her sight, Orem thought but did not say.

"She sees everything, like an orchestra of visions in the back of her mind. She watches always." The woman laughed. "She sees us now. And she is laughing, I'm sure."

It made Orem afraid, then. How much did she see? She had given him no sign she knew of his tampering with her powers. Yet if she knew nothing of his gift, why had she chosen him? Not love, that much was plain now, and he knew enough to be ashamed in front of these companions of the Queen, ashamed of being so weak and helpless and pathetic. His very shame overcame fear. If she was going to discover his power or somehow limit it, let her do it now. He let his net slip from him, just enough to fill the room, to clear the room of that sickening sweet overlay of Beauty's Searching Eye. When Beauty could not see, he spoke: "What is the boar allowed to do once the sow is serviced?"

Their eyes widened, and for a moment they said nothing, waiting, he supposed, for Queen Beauty to strike him down. Either she had heard and did not care or, as Orem hoped, she had not heard. Had not heard, and so he might have some small pathetic power here, enough that he need not be ashamed.

"Apparently," said the woman, "whatever you want."

The grave rumble of the old man's voice added: "You command everyone. You're the husband

of the Queen. Little King is who you are, and they must obey."

It was a heady thought, and Orem distrusted it. "Tell me your names, then."

"I beg your pardon," said the ugly woman. "We spoke in error. You command everyone but

Urubugala and us."

"And why not you?"

"Because we do not laugh at you."

The implication was obvious. "Then all others will laugh."

They glanced at each other again, and the woman whispered, "It is Beauty's will. And what can

stop Beauty from being obeyed?"

It was not an empty question, not entirely. She was asking him if indeed he knew something that they did not know. But he dared not answer, dared not explain to them just what he was, even if he had known for sure himself. What can stop Beauty from being obeyed? Beauty sees all—except that which she sees not that she sees not. Does she not see me? And does she not see that she sees me

not? Riddles, riddles. I cannot answer them because I do not know.

"The less you command," said the soldier, "the less they will laugh."

"Don't tell him that, Craven," said the ugly woman. "Little King, command all you like. Your life

will be easier if they all laugh. Keep them laughing. The Queen, too, will laugh."

"If the Queen laughs, then will I command her, too?"

Again the moment of startlement at his impudence; again nothing happened. And this time the

ugly woman smiled and the old soldier wheezed. "Who can say?" whispered the soldier.

"Craven. Is that your name?"

The soldier immediately soured. "It is the name the Queen gave to me."

"And you," Orem said to the old woman. "What may I call you?"

"I am called Weasel, surnamed Sootmouth. It is the name the Queen gave me." "I had a name before she named me," said Orem. "Did you?"

"But you must. My name is really—"

But she put a rough and scaly hand to his mouth. "You can't say it. And if you could, it would cost you dearly. Don't try to remember."

And then he made plain to them that he was not the slim-hipped boy he seemed to be. He reached out with his subtle inward tongue and tasted them gently, where their sparks so brightly glowed. In the momentary tasting he could feel how they were bound so cold and grey, their lights smothered under a thousand spells. He did not undo all the spells, only the small spell of forgetfulness there, a common, an easy thing to do; hadn't he done it for Gallowglass?

No sooner done than regretted, however. For they looked at him with widened eyes, eyes that did not see him: they were turned inward, to see what had been lost so long from memory and now had been returned. And they wept. The old soldier Craven with his cold grey tears silently streaking his cheeks, remembering his strength; ugly Weasel Sootmouth with her face contorted more than ever, hideous with grief, remembering her husband.