Then Weasel Sootmouth leaned to him and whispered with her scaly twisted lips close to his ears, "Don't take it seriously, Little King. It's a lie, for entertainment."

At first that did little to soothe Orem's anger. After all, a lie was a lie, whether for entertainment or not. But now the laughter took on a different meaning, and he began to listen not so much to her husband's supposed sins as to the wit of her accusations. She was clever. It was the turn of phrase that provoked the laughter, that and the supposed clumsiness of the husband. At last she finished, and imploringly looked at him and said, "So tell me, my lord Little King, command me—should I take him back into my bed or cut off a good six inches when next he comes to me?"

"That would be too hard a punishment, Lady," Orem answered. "How can you take six from three and hope to have anything left over?"

It was more than the courtiers had hoped for. The crude accents of the country, yes; the high, thin voice of an adolescent; the innocent, guileless face, were all that could be wished. And then to have him match her bawdry—the evening promised excellence. Excellence. The Queen had chosen her bumpkin consort well.

The much-abused husband cried, "I implore you, my lord Little King! Don't make me give up all my liaisons! The chickens give little satisfaction and egg production has fallen off considerably. The cows I can part with. But the sow is my heart, my life, my love!"

"How can I judge from here?" Orem asked. "I have to look you in the eye. Let someone else sit here at the end of the table. Nothing against you, you understand," he told Craven and Weasel. He could sense Weasel's concern for him, that she wanted to be near enough to guide him. With the laughter and conversation loud enough to cover his words, he bent to her and said, "Now I know they laugh at clever foulness." Then he picked up his own plate and silver, held his napkin in his mouth, and marched down to the middle of the table, displacing a particularly colorful dandy to set himself between two of the more outlandish ladies of the court. The husband and wife were both across from him, but several seats away to either hand. He peered at both of them, then laughed. "Lady, I must commend you both for your humility. You, for admitting that your rival was a sow, and he for admitting that no lovelier female would be his paramour. With such humility, I find you suited for each other. You must remain together—such candor deserves nothing less than its equal." The others at table laughed as much at his boyishness and country speech as at his wit—but no more. He would make his way and bear what he had to do.

"Wherever I am is the head of the table," Orem answered. If you had said it, Palicrovol, it would have been a rebuke, and the hearers would have trembled. But in his voice and with his forthright manner, the words were ludicrous; and even if they had not been, so strong was the predisposition to laughter that they would have been amused anyway.

There was one man who was not amused, however, or at least gave no sign of it. A youngish man himself, and something of a favorite with the ladies because he was so dark and somber and strong. The sort of man one always assumes has the parts of a stallion, for which one will forgive him the manners of a hedgehog. His name was Timias. He was of that class of men who, like a flower, bloom once, with thorns, and soon fade, taking some minor post that allows them to haunt the scenes of their conquests. Yet he had a knack for truth that was part of his charm and a hint that he might end up with a more romantic and therefore brief career than others of his sort. One might suppose, uncharitably, that he was envious of the boy who had slept with the Queen. But Orem saw something else in him. Another of Orem's unsung gifts, that: to see in someone what no one else could see.

Timias was sitting on the diagonal from the Little King. The laughter died down and the ladies near him began to bask in the attention the Little King was paying them—after all, silly or not, he was the only king in Inwit. Orem made some silly comments about how much more beautiful the ladies would be without their paint—after all, said he, the country girls did well without it.

"What do they do, then, to be attractive?" asked a lady.

"They wash," said Orem. "And without paint, they aren't as slippery as you ladies—when a man takes hold, they never slip out of his grasp!" How they laughed. It was too good a show to let it lag. He called for water and made a great show of washing the face of a lady—but not the one near him, for he could see that she was in fact quite ugly and her paint was a miracle of salvage. Instead Orem washed the face of the lady across from him, who profited from the cleaning, for she had fine features. And she had criticized him, however tacitly, which gave a little pleasure to his unpainting of her. Who noticed Orem's tact and kindness in the one case, or his petty pleasure in the other? They only laughed, for it was amusing to watch him flout centuries-old traditions and week-old fashions. What a clown. What a rustic. What a boor. Delightful.

It was then that Timias acted—reached out and took the Little King by the wrist before he could follow the laughter of the crowd into washing the false birthmark off the lady's bosom. "You may be an ass," said Timias coldly, "but you needn't leap into the proof with such assurance." All were quiet then, except for murmurs of surprise. Timias wasn't laughing. Timias was spoiling all the fun. Peace, Timias. Let be, Timias. But Orem looked at him, wearing the half-witted smile that in his home country would have been regarded as a sign of frank good will.

Oh, they laughed at that. But Timias only grew colder and darker. "So your cock has filled a Queen, boy? Bloody lot of good may it do you."

It was the sort of remark that was not said, above all not in the Palace, for surely the Queen would hear.

"It's done me some," Orem said quietly. And then he remembered he needed to be amusing. "Shall we have a duel for the lady's honor?"

There were some titters at that. If it hadn't been for Timias's seriousness, there would have been more.

"The lady's honor is above the need of defense," said Timias. It was the courteous way to back down. Insult was one thing, but the thought of dueling the Little King was too dangerous. The Queen would surely not permit it. The chance of Timias losing would be too slight. But Orem would not let him drop the matter gracefully. The Little King was there to be laughed at, wasn't he? So let there be fuel for many a guffaw.

"How can you leave the lady championless, when I say her breast is in need of washing?" He turned to the lady. "What's your name, after all? Belfeva! Such a noble breast, Belfeva, and yet so friendless in this company!" He had learned the diction of the court quickly—it was just another game with words, like the puzzles and riddles he had created in the House of God. What a riotous clown, thought most who were there. How artfully he acts, thought those few who watched wisely. "I accept your challenge even if you don't offer it. And the weapon, what weapon will do, except for—yes, take your bread, sir! And your goblet! Wine-soaked bread at twenty paces."

It was hilarious, of course, just the thought of it. But more: it was impossible for Timias to bear. It's the flaw of the serious and cold—they cannot bear to be made ridiculous. "I'll do no such thing," said Timias.

"Then you'll come to my rooms tomorrow noon," said the Little King. "We have things to talk about, my friend."

"I have nothing to talk about with you." But the assurance in his manner had weakened. Alone of the courtiers, Timias now realized that Orem was cleverer than he appeared, and could turn things his own way more easily than anyone but the victim would know.