Mouse sat in the back of the Council chamber, listening as intently as she could to the conversation passing around the great oak table that stood in the center of it.

Her mind wanted to drift elsewhere—to the many questions that raced through her head —but she knew that if she allowed it to, it might never come back to her.

Seeing the mallow held in the bruise-faced nobleman’s hand as they stood looking at one another in the dim hallway had struck something within her, as if every implication, every possibility of what the gesture could have meant, began screaming in her mind at once, each fighting to make itself known above the others.

What could it mean, she asked herself, that his gesture had mimicked that of the page?

Mayhaps it was mere coincidence, the act only being given meaning by her encounter with the page girl not an hour before.

She supposed it was possible that the nobleman might, intentionally or otherwise, be a part of the old man’s scheme. But it was also possible, she thought with a chill, that there was some kind of veiled threat in the action, as if the nobleman was hinting that he knew what she and the old man were up to.

She had turned away then, her heart thumping louder and louder within her chest, until she found herself running down the hallway in a state of acute anxiety, not stopping until she had reached the room where she now sat.

She had not meant to go there; even after her encounter with the nobleman, she had intended to seek out Ulrich, but her feet had brought her to the familiar safety of the Council chamber, as if by a will of their own.

It was not her scheme, the old man was forwarding, and in truth, she wanted no part of it. But if anyone were to hear of it, if anyone were to suppose that she were a willing participant in this game of his, it would certainly not end well for Mouse.

She sat now in a hard wooden chair, the blue hound Petricru using her foot as a pillow, and pinched herself any time her mind began to wander. The volley of thoughts and worries was unrelenting, but she was determined to cast them aside, at least for the time being.

Mouse had deliberately chosen a seat away from her usual one, hoping, as she did, to avoid the old man, and though she had succeeded in putting some distance between them, she could not find it satisfactory that anything less than an entire continent should separate them.

Mouse was certain that the little page girl had been dispatched by none other than Ludger, but Johannes, well, her thoughts could not reason through why he should be involved.

She supposed that the one solace in consideration that the nobleman may indeed be aligned with the old man was that if he were, he could not possibly have had anything to do with the murderous attempt at Silver Lake.

Johannes may never be a friend to Mouse, but perhaps he was not the foe that she feared.

Mouse pinched herself on the wrist, reminding herself that this was no time to dwell on such ruminations. No, she must remain present until such a time as she could see things in a clearer light. And for now, she must continue to listen to Lord Cook speak for what felt like the eleventh straight hour of the numerous expenses that would be incurred by this year’s Feast.

“We still cannot afford the same number of grooms as years past,” the High Treasurer was saying now, his complexion agitated from the heat and the exertion of his continued argument, “not to speak of the number of rooms that will be required.”

“We’ve rooms plenty here in the keep, have we not?” asked Lord Eadic evenly, looking over his hooked nosed at the other Councilor.

“Certainly,” replied Lord Cook in a bluster of annoyance, “but the number of available rooms in not the problem. The problem,” he continued, “is that housing more guests will only serve to incur further costs upon the crown in terms of labor and foodstuffs, and none of this comes cheaply.”

“Was this not part of the reason for your last increase in taxes?” Lord Eadic asked, steepling his fingers together and bending them at the knuckle.

“My tax decree?” Lord Cook bellowed incredulously.

He shook his head, his cheeks quivering with the movement.

“Indeed,” he huffed. “The extra coin brought in from the last increase will hardly go far in light of the rising prices.”

It was true that everything from barley to banners, mead to mail had gone up in price, and all would be needed in excess for the festivities that would ensue come Sensommer.

“Perhaps,” the High Treasurer said, seeking to regain himself, “the solution is not to continuously and indiscriminately raise the tax rate; perhaps it is simply time we cast tradition aside and start, as we might have done years ago, levying a tax on dreg cakes.”

At this, the High Treasurer was instantly and uproariously met with the hisses and jeers of all those present within the room as resounding and unanimous opposition to this idea broke out.

“I urge you to consider the potential benefits,” the High Treasurer tried to say, but he would not be heard and instead continued to be berated for his offensive suggestion.

“You are no true Arosian!” the other Councilors could be heard to shout. “A pincer in that traitorous mouth of his!”

But Lord Cook only grew more red-faced and indignant than before, raising his voice to make himself heard above the din.

“It is hardly fair to the other guilds if we continue to favor the dreg cake bakers and—"

“Hang this traitor for this treasonous speech!” the Empress jeered. “A hundred years have the dreg bakers prospered, and a hundred more!”

“Aye!” cried the other Councilors.

Lord Cook, thought Mouse as she watched the round-faced Councilor bluster in frustration, was very near to bursting. But he had brought this spectacle of outrage upon himself.

After all, dreg cakes were practically as revered as the crown itself in Aros, and decidedly better loved.

Though the history of the dreg cake could not be told for certain, it was likely older than the Feast itself, which was the origin of its great cultural significance.

The legend went that as the fourteen Knights of Toth sat gathered inside of the keep, having been under siege, as they had been, for fourteen days and fourteen nights and on the brink of running out of provisions, they began to gather up all the old bits of dough and fry them so that they might have something to sustain them a bit longer.

However, instead of eating these “dreg cakes,” as they were so called, one of the knights struck upon the idea that if they were to throw the cakes over the castle walls, they might taunt the enemy and trick them into believing that their provisions within the walls were so great, so abundant that they need not ration them. If they could convince their enemies that they had enough food within that they could afford to simply throw it away, they might yet prevail, despite their numbers being few and their food being all but used up.

In the end, their tactic worked, and the enemy gave up their siege. This historic event was the birth of the Feast of the Fourteen, and in reverence of the dreg cake and the role it played in Knights’ victory, it was declared a free right of the people, and as such, its sale had never been taxed.

Though there was no evidence of this tale being true, the legend persisted, and the dreg cake had long been one of the most popular foods enjoyed throughout the Feast.

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“I am afraid then,” said Lord Cook when at last he could be heard over the shouts of the others, “that I have no further suggestions,”

“I have an idea,” said Lord Toffrey. “Why don’t we should start levying a tax on breathing the crown’s air?” The other Councilors laughed.

“Or taking a shit,” chimed in Lord Ramburt, drawing even more laughter from the room.

The High Treasurer puffed out his cheeks indignantly but made no reply to the jests.

“Or,” said the Empress as the laughter began to die down, “perhaps it is not a question of what we draw the funds from, but whom.”

She looked at the Councilors who sat watching her expectantly.

“Perhaps it is time that the Chatti start giving to the Feast.”

Lord Rambert shifted uncomfortably in his chair while Lord Eadic withdrew his eyes.

“After all,” continued the Empress, “all the other fiefdoms contribute something, whether grain or ale.

“Which is then redistributed among them,” interrupted one of the Councilors.

“Yes, thank you, Lord Rambert,” said the Empress sardonically. “But with ten thousand men on their borders and a delegation in the capital, it seems only fair that they should give equally. They are part of the Arosian Empire, are they not?”

The room was quiet as the Councilors began to shift uneasily in their chairs.

“Your Majesty,” began Lord Rambert, his mustache quivering as he spoke, “we can hardly ask the Chatti to back a celebration of Toth nobles.”

The Empress leaned forward in her chair and looked pointedly at the High Marshall.

“Do you think that it is nobles you see in the lists, Lord Rambert?” the Empress asked.

“No, but—"

“What about in the melee?”

Mouse could see Lord Rambert’s bushy brows twitch under his questioning.

“All Toths,” the Empress said sternly, looking about the now-silent room. “All Toths are celebrated during the Feast of the Fourteen.”

“And yet no one below a yeoman may compete,” Lord Rambert said, apparently giving little care as to whether his impertinence on the matter might cost him his seat.

The Empress’s dark eyes flashed at the High Marshall before she leaned back into her chair, letting her shoulders slouch as she took up her cup of wine.

“Alright,” she said after a few minutes of silence. “This year shall be a true celebration of Toths.”

The Councilors looked round the table at one another, casting furtive glances at one another.

“How do you mean?” Lord Eadic ventured.

“This year, we celebrate the Toth line,” the Empress said, “not just the Fourteen. Not just the knights, not just the yeomen.” She replaced her cup upon the table. “Anyone who can prove their Toth lineage is welcome to compete in the tournament.”

The room had become so quiet that Peticru’s soft snores could no doubt be heard on the other end of it.

“Majesty, are you quite certain that is a good idea?” asked Lord Rambert, doubtless echoing the thoughts of all those sat around the table.

“Send word round the Empire,” continued the Empress without answering the Councilor, “that any man, woman, or child wishing to compete must needs only prove their Toth heritage and be given the approval of their overlord to participate.” She took her cup back up. “Granted their skills have been assessed and deemed adequate.”

Another round of nervous looks and uneasy throat clearing followed.

“But, Majesty,” Lord Rambert protested “that could mean hundreds—”

“Then only the best shall compete in the capital,” the Empress said. “Ten in the lists, ten on the range, and what, twenty-four on the field?”

Lord Rambert looked around at the other Councilors to see if any would come to his aid, but they all seemed too dumbstruck by the idea to speak.

“Do you not think the lords will object?” he suggested, his mustache twitching in agitation as he spoke.

“Oh, no,” replied the Empress. “Their lords will be overjoyed. Think of it: the people’s champion, returning home to some little village east of Yarbruck, decked in the honor in glory of the crown, a parade of eminence following him.” She shook her head. “No, I do not think their lords will mind. In fact, they’re like to send enough gifts and provisions with their challengers that we’ll scarcely need pay for a thing ourselves.”

It was not such a bad idea, thought Mouse. In fact, it might actually be rather a good one. Her concerns, however, were likely the same as those of everyone present, specifically, that if for some reason the Empress’s plan were to fail, it would be everyone else who received the blame. And if the plan were to succeed, they might never hear the end of such schemes.

“Lord Ramber, you can see to the arrangements, can you not?” The Empress’s eyes glistened darkly at the High Marshall.

“Me, Your Majesty?” he asked in apparent incredulity.

The Empress smiled.

“You certainly seem to have your skepticism about the matter, and as the enterprise’s greatest critic, perhaps you will prove its greatest administrator.”

“Your Majesty,” Lord Rambert began to protest, “I am a Marshall.”

“Then it is a glad thing that we are not at war,” smiled the Empress.

She brought her cup to her lips.

“If you require any assistance, I’m sure the other Councilors will be eager to help you. Or perhaps you could call upon my uncle.”

Confusion once again descended upon the table.

“Is Lord Marius to be joining us?” Lord Eadic asked earnestly, leaning forward in his chair.

“Yes, thank you for asking,” said the Empress, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “He writes that he will soon depart Puente Qalina, and I expect we shall see him before Sensommer.”

The news of Marius’s coming was as much a shock to Mouse as to everyone else.

She recalled writing to him during their time at Silver Lake, but she had not realized that he replied. Perhaps, she wondered, the correspondence had arrived as lately as yesterday, when she was locked inside her chambers.

“And, erm, how long do you expect the gentleman may be staying with us?” Lord Eadic asked.

The Empress’s eyes narrowed as a smile spread across her lips.

“Lord Eadic,” she said, “if I did not know better, I might guess that you do not care much for my uncle.”

“Verily,” Lord Eadic shook his head. “I think most highly of Lord Marius. We all do,” he said, looking about at the other Councilors for their assent.

“Good,” said the Empress. “I was worried that there may be some opposition to the notion. It is glad for him that he will be among friends, and I do hope that he will therefore find it no inconvenience to remain with us for some time.”

A look of suppressed perturbation passed over Lord Eadic’s face at this.

It was no secret that Marius of Ahnderland was not well liked within the walls of Kriftel. He had strongly opposed his sister’s marriage to the Arosian Emperor Lothar, objecting to it perhaps even more strongly that he had objected to his kingdom being joined to the Empire.

In fact, there were many that had witnessed Marius’s resentment toward the union who now harbored a secret notion that he might somehow have been involved in the Emperor’s death. Of course, this made little sense, given that the Emperor had died of an illness that had first weakened him in childhood before coming back in his later years to finish the job.

Mouse did not know the man Marius well enough to either like or dislike him. She had spent little time in his company and could not recall ever exchanging a single word with him.

But that did not stop the altogether bizarre idea from occurring to her that had there had been any truth to Ludger’s outlandish claims in regard to her parentage, Marius might be her uncle as well.

Just then, as the Councilors sat uncomfortably upon the news of a most disliked soon to be joining them, a seneschal was announced and let in through the door past the guard.

All eyes turned to the man as he offered a deep bow.

It must be something important, thought Mouse, for the man to be let in during a Council session.

“Your Majesty,” the seneschal said, his face indeed grave, “I must beg your pardon for the interruption. An urgent situation has developed, and I have been dispatched by the Captain of the royal guard to apprise you of its occurrence.”

The Empress looked at the man, clearly unimpressed.

“So tell me,” she said flatly.

The man took a few uncertain steps forward. He was nervous, saw Mouse, and nervousness from a seneschal dispatched by the head of the guard was usually not a good thing.

“I, erm—” The man approached the Empress before leaning over and beginning to whisper into her ear.

“For god’s sake,” the Empress said, smacking the seneschal away with an open hand. “Get your damp breath out of my ear.” She glared at the man in annoyance as he took a few steps backward. “Whatever you have to tell me, you can say in front of my Council.”

“That is,” the man said anxiously, “I’m afraid that I cannot, Your Majesty. I have received instruction to tell you and you alone.”

“Well, you can tell me from there,” the Empress said. “Come any closer and I’ll have your head on the block.”

“Yes, erm, yes, Your Majesty,” the seneschal said, clearing his throat as a few of the Councilors chuckled at his awkwardness.

“The captain has bade me inform you,” the man began uneasily, looking around anxiously at the room of faces staring at him, “that a, erm, a man has been apprehended.”

“What sort of man?” the Empress asked.

“A man,” said the seneschal, doing his best to speak in a low voice, though it was clear that everyone in the room could hear him, “in connection with the, erm, the—the—”

“The what?” asked the Empress impatiently. “The school of stuttering imbeciles?”

“No,” said the seneschal, swallowing. “The assassination attempt.”

The Councilors looked about, murmuring in shock, as the amusement fell away from the Empress’s face, her expression turning grave.

“Who?” she demanded, drawing herself up in her chair. “Who was it?”

“I’m told it’s a boy from the stables,” replied the seneschal. “He was overheard speaking with someone about the alleged assassin and knew not only the man’s profession but also his name. He has been arrested by the men of the guard and is being held in the south tower where he awaits questioning.”

Mouse felt all the blood drain from her face at once, as her fingers dug into the arms of the wooden chair. A boy from the stables, she thought. No, it couldn’t be.

The Empress’s eyes darkened as she took in the gravity of the news.

“Very good,” she said at last. “Do you know the boy’s name?”

No, thought Mouse. Don’t say it. It can’t be.

The seneschal’s pause felt like a lifetime as Mouse sat on the edge of her chair, hoping, praying that he would say any other name than the one she feared he would.

“I believe the boy’s name,” said the seneschal, “is Jasper.”