November 2nd

“The Republic, Mrs. Hunter, is government formed of the People, by the People, and for the People. Why should Anne be so opposed to this?”

They sat in a small, well-appointed private room in the house where Hobb the Wise kept his lodging in Roosterfoot. Across the table from her, her host leaned forward earnestly, his hands clasped together. His deep-set, blue-gray eyes stared into hers, demanding contact and attention. She gave him both.

He is a monster, said the Second Voice. We have an opportunity, now, to carry out Father’s command.

We will not murder him, countered the First. We are not an assassin. And Father did not tell us to commit suicide. If we were to kill Hobb now, we would never leave this building alive.

“When we first met in Uellodon, I asked you what you meant by the ‘people,’” replied Merrily. “You told me then that it was everybody—a community, you called it. But an evil action is still evil whether it’s done by one person or by many. A good action is still good if it’s done by only one person and everyone else tries to stop it.” Queen Anne had coached her responses, of course. The issue of legitimacy was bound to arise with the landowners, even if their main concerns would be more practical. But she hadn’t counted on a one-on-one debate with the First Minister of the Republic.

Hobb smiled slightly with his face; but his thin frame, bald head, and long, spider-like fingers did not smile. “You come from Hog Hurst, in the far north,” he said. “In your home, were there rules?”

She nodded. “Of course.”

“If someone burns down his neighbor’s house, or kills his neighbor, you punish him, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Who made those rules?”

“They were made by the people who settled the village. And we can ask the magistrates in Green Bridge for the Crown’s Law if we need to.”

“And how do you manage the business of living together?” Hobb asked. “Who decides where to build roads, and how to keep up the trading square, and who gets to graze his sheep and cattle on what land?”

“There’s a Board of Selectmen to settle disputes and spend the village purse on keeping up the streets, and the docks, and the trading square,” she answered. “Most families contribute to the purse. But people decide what to do with their own land.”

“What makes it ‘their own’ land?”

She stared at him, hesitating. “The law,” she answered finally, and wished that Wigglus were there to give a better answer.

“Is Hog Hurst a place of tyranny and injustice?”

“It is not.”

“Let me summarize,” said Hobb dryly. “Your home is a community that created its own rules and settles disputes with reference to those rules. You have an elected Board of Selectmen that manages public money, punishes crimes, and engages in the public business of the village. You tell me it is a just place, and I believe you. But the Republic, which has an elected National Assembly that creates rules, settles disputes, and punishes crimes, is not just? And a single monarch that imposes her arbitrary will on the people through force is just?”

She stared at him, feeling a flush of embarrassment creep into her cheeks.

“But enough high theory, Mrs. Hunter,” said Hobb smoothly. “The world doesn’t turn on theory; it turns according to its nature. Just so with men. The landowners of the Roosterfoot Moot don’t want civil war. It’s bad for their businesses and farms and fortunes. They will pick the side that they think is going to win, and Queen Anne is not going to win. The Republic has the King’s Heavy Arms, the Republican Guard, the treasury, and the National Assembly. King Leeland himself is a continuity with the past that so many people revere, and the Crown Prince represents the future. They are all with us. What do you have? A pretty girl in a fancy suit of armor. You must reach a settlement with us, and give the Moot the compromise they need.”

Merrily rose to her feet.

Now is the time to do our duty to God and to Father, came the Second Voice. It was growing in strength.

The First Voice, waning, could only reply: I wish Jonny were here. But he wasn’t. Maybe he never would be again.

“The landowners will see that the Queen is right,” she stated, projecting more confidence than she felt.

Hobb remained seated, and shrugged. “Perhaps,” he said without any visible concern. “Talk to them. They have accepted your diplomatic credentials already, and will at least meet with you. Decide for yourself. There are factions, of course, and interests. I assume you’ve been briefed. Thomas Howe seems to have the ears of those who are for the King. If you think you can persuade someone, start with him.”

Now is the time, said the Second Voice, and it took control. He is alone, and frail.

She walked around the table, approaching the still-seated Hobb. She wouldn’t need a weapon. His neck was thin, and his arms bony.

A man carrying a tray with a teapot and cups was came into the room behind her, and Merrily froze. He had a bald head, and rather pasty white skin, and his eyes had an oddly red cast to them. She felt a shiver of recognition and a wash of cognitive dissonance, but couldn’t pin down the reason.

Frustrated by the intrusion, Merrily turned to leave the room. The servant bowed his head respectfully and stepped aside.

“Mrs. Hunter,” came the voice of the First Minister behind her. She turned back, keeping a tight grip on her competing emotions.

Hobb had risen to his feet, and his shoulders were slumped forward. He leaned on the table with his hands and looked down. He suddenly looked weary, old, and frustrated.

“We should not be fighting, you and I. The enemies of Uelland are all around us. The Holy Empire has not given up on reconquering its lost colonies, not in eight centuries. The Svegnians, Carolese, Brassens, the predatory trading companies… our fighting helps all of them. They are the true enemies, not King Leeland, and not Anne. And the Ecclesia lurks behind all, working without rest to drag us back into slavery and madness. If you would come to Uellodon and see the Republic for yourself, I think you would change your mind. I mean you personally, Mrs. Hunter. Circumstances were ill there during your last… adventure. We were recovering from insurrection, invasion, and famine. Those problems have been solved. Come, as my guest, and see what we have built.”

I would sooner cross the Wastic Sea on a log, remarked the Second Voice.

But then there was a third voice. I would like to see this Republic, it said.

✽✽✽

Merrily sat on a simple, narrow bench in the dim belfry of the Cathedral of Saint Bob. Below her, the four massive bronze bells hung still. They would not ring the hour for some time yet. Next to Merrily on the bench sat Father.

They looked out to the west at the setting sun. It illuminated the towers and walls of Farley Island, set some distance out in the river and linked to the mainland city of Green Bridge by the long spans of Three Fish Bridge. The soft, yellow light did not ease the livid scars on Father’s face; rather, they threw them into greater contrast.

“What are you afraid of, Merrily?” he asked.

She stared out to the west, not looking at him.

“I’m afraid I’ve made mistakes,” she mumbled. “That when I had a chance to make the right choice, I didn’t; leaving home, going to Triad, getting married… And that when I’m at the next choice, I’ll make another mistake. I’ll never be able to go back and fix it.”

He smiled at her, the scars changing shape.

“Is that all?”

She looked up at him sharply. Was he mocking her?

“Doubt is in man’s nature, Merrily,” he said soothingly. “It is what defines the experience of living for most people. Doubt is as much a prison as desire.”

I want to escape the prison, she thought.

“This world will end soon, Merrily,” said Father quietly. “All things will pass into fire and darkness. The prophecies in the scriptures reveal it. The signs are all around us. The only mistake you can make is to distance yourself from God, and from me. Only God can take away your doubt, and only I can deliver you to God.”

I want that; her own voice inside her head, echoing. Is it real?

“I am the way, Merrily,” he said, staring into her eyes. “I am the only way.”

Yes, said the voice. And—no, at the same time, in the same voice.

“Only in total surrender can you overcome your doubt,” he continued, holding her fast with those deep eyes. “The Elect are at peace because they have given all their doubt over to God, who knows all and creates all. They have placed themselves in His hands, to whatever purpose He chooses. You can, too. You know the way. I have already led you to it.”

No, said the first voice. These words are not true. It is a fantasy. A story. He preys on our weakness.

Yes, said the second voice. It must be true. It is the only way to escape from our doubt. He prays to heal our weakness.

He leaned his face close to hers; the pungent smell of corn starch that clung around him filled her nostrils.

“Do you choose to give up your doubt, and your desire, and place yourself in God’s hands?”

The First Voice: NO!

The Second Voice: I choose it.

She wept for a time, and he watched silently. And then she said: “Yes.”

He did not touch her. For them to touch would be sin. She looked out at the last light of the sun with blurry eyes, her nose running and her chest shuddering.

“I’ll miss the sunset,” she said.

“Hmm?”

“When the world ends, and we go to Heaven,” she clarified. “Are there… are there sunsets in Heaven?”

Father smiled gently. “There is no desire, Merrily. There is no flesh to see light or darkness. To perceive a thing is to be different from it, but in God’s Kingdom there is no separation from the Presence. You will not need light and darkness to feel joy; you will feel only the Presence. Now come with me, and we will take you below to be baptized into the Communion.”

✽✽✽

Merrily’s eyes snapped open. She had dozed off in the carriage. It took her a moment to reorient herself to the dull, gray world in the streets of Roosterfoot. The coach helpfully gave a hard jolt, and she bumped her head against the ceiling of the small compartment. For a moment, the pain drove away all the dreams and all the voices inside her.

When she returned to Tabard House, she wrote out a message to General Sir Thomas Howe, taking care to keep her letters neat and precise. She stamped it with the seal that Queen Anne had given her, and sent it out with Mr. Mowatt, the coachman.

At the door to her chamber stood Mr. Stiggins, her last remaining bodyguard. His breastplate was carefully polished, and the Snugg badge was displayed proudly on his shoulder. He stood at precise attention as she approached, the long gun facing up to the ceiling with its butt on the floor. He had a short beard, neatly trimmed.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Stiggins,” she said politely as she entered the door to her quarters.

“Ma’am,” he replied with a sharp nod. He remained at attention. Merrily gave up; Stiggins and Mowatt hadn’t been sent along to keep her company or listen to her problems.

She nervously paced up and down in her bedchamber, wondering how she could possibly convince so many doubtful men. It was hopeless.

Perhaps we should all go to the King, said the Third Voice. He’s so much stronger, and he’s the authority above all others. He’s like a father. It isn’t safe to defy authority. I want us to be safe.

We need your perspective on this matter, remarked the Second Voice acidly, like we need a head with a hole in it.

It’s getting far too crowded in here, agreed the First. There was barely space for the two of us. If we keep adding voices, we’ll never get anything done. There isn’t anyone else, is there?

I passed another girl on the way in, actually, stated the Third Voice. She was going on about the oppression of the patriarchy.

God help us all, groaned the Second.

✽✽✽

Merrily was shocked at how young General Sir Thomas Howe appeared. The Hero of Baldwick was in his early thirties, with thick dark hair untouched by gray and piercing green eyes. He was lanky, but solid. He wore a trim suit of dark gray, and a cravat of gold-dyed silk.

The knight-general—her briefings indicated that he still retained his unusual rank in the command staff of the King’s Heavy Horse—rose politely and gave her a precisely moderate bow. His butler, who had just announced her, left quietly, shutting the door behind him. Howe swung his hand toward one of the overstuffed armchairs that were set in a loose semi-circle in his library. A coal stove radiated welcome heat, driving away the chill of the November rain outside. She looked around curiously; the lush decorations and soft upholstery somehow didn’t fit the character of the man at all.

“It’s rented,” he said with a wry smile, following her gaze. “So is the butler. My home is a farm about ten leagues south of the city. Family’s there. But the delegates are expected to maintain official residences in Roosterfoot during the Moot, and so here we are.”

He waited until Merrily seated herself, then poured her a cup of tea. He fumbled slightly with the teapot, spilling some of it on the surface of the side table.

“Damn,” he muttered. “Never get used to these silly things. Give me a pot of black coffee anytime.”

Merrily watched him closely as he set the teacup down on the table before her, his hands trembling slightly with the effort of keeping the overfull vessel from spilling. The hands were calloused, and the wrists bore a number of faint scars just visible under his white shirt cuffs. He seated himself opposite her in the semi-circle, putting his own teacup on the table, where it remained untouched.

She smiled at him and thanked him. She decided she liked Thomas Howe.

“You’ve come to convince me to declare for the Queen,” he said abruptly. “And you expect that if I do, about half the King’s faction in the Moot will follow along.” She widened her eyes slightly; she’d expected to have to wade through an hour or two of small talk before it got to this.

“Yes,” she said, a bit hesitantly. “King Leeland and the Republic have started down a path that will lead to misery for all of Uelland. The Queen has vowed to restore and protect the freedoms that people of this Kingdom have enjoyed for eight centuries. The Republic has already demonstrated—”

He waved his hand. “Yes. You’re right. I’ve read her speeches. Assuming that’s what she said in person, she’s a hell of an orator. And her criticism of the Republic is well-taken. I’m scared by what I see there.”

Her back straightened in the chair, and she narrowed her eyes slightly.

“Then you’re prepared to declare for the Queen?” she asked.

“No.”

“Why not? If you think she’s right—”

“I can’t.” He shook his head firmly. “I took a vow, when I joined the Heavy Horse. Every man in the Heavy Arms takes the same vow—of loyalty and obedience directly and personally to King Leeland. The vow is explicit; there’s no room for misunderstanding or interpretation. If the King orders me to vote in the Moot to declare for the Republic—and he has—then I am bound by honor to do it, whatever I may think.”

Merrily could feel the color draining from her face.

“Surely you have your own opinions, knight-general? Your own view of what is right and wrong?”

“I do,” he agreed. “And the first right is to keep one’s word. Only integrity makes a person powerful-man, woman, soldier, farmer, knight; doesn’t matter. An oath, once given, must be kept, or else no one will or should ever trust that person again.”

She stared at him, wondering what words she could say. She wanted to cry, or to scream, or to run away, but she didn’t.

“Mrs. Hunter,” he said, looking at her earnestly. “You look like I’ve stuck a sword in you. I’m not asking you to give up hope, or for the Queen to give up her principles. There is hope. But that hope lies with you, and with Queen Anne-to compromise with the King, and with the First Minister. As long as the Heavy Arms are bound by personal oath to King Leeland, we will vote, and fight, as he commands. Reach an accommodation with Hobb, Mrs. Hunter. End the rebellion. Don’t make us ride against Green Bridge. You can shape and direct the course of this new Republic from the inside far more effectively than by fighting it from the outside.”

He paused and cast his eyes down. “And I would very much regret having to actually stick a sword in you.”

She stood up, and he rose with her.

“I’ll arrange for you to meet other leaders of the loyalists,” he said gently. “I’ll send a messenger with invitations. Speak with them. Hear what they have to say. There is a vote in one week.”

There was a cacophony of voices inside her, but she simply bowed to him.

“Thank you, knight-general,” she managed. “If you reconsider, I am at Tabard House.”

“There is one other thing, Mrs. Hunter,” said Howe, offering his elbow and showing her to the door of the study. He paused a moment before opening it; he seemed to be hesitating over something. Then leaned his head close to her ear.

“First Minister Hobb is conducting more than diplomacy in Roosterfoot,” he whispered. He pulled back and looked into her eyes. “I have a few officers from my old company with me here in the city. They are quartered near the gates, and they watch. His coach passes out in the evening—always the north gate. General Sir Logwall is with the army at Swallow Hall, to the south, so I doubt Hobb is going there. My men have followed him for a mile or two, but I’ve told them not to reveal themselves or my interest, so they can’t follow far. It may be nothing. Perhaps he fancies the countryside. But I think not; Hobb is a man of purpose. And whatever that purpose is, it takes him away from eyes in the city.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were absolutely loyal to King Leeland?” she asked. “Why tell me this?”

He scowled. “My oath was given to King Leeland the Third, not Hobb the Wise.” Howe nearly spat the name. “He has given me no order bearing on the First Minister, other than to accommodate him. And I don’t like Hobb, nor do I trust him. You are correct, Mrs. Hunter, that he leads us into darkness. Perhaps if you pay attention, you can find out what variety of darkness it is. And perhaps if I bring it to King Leeland, my orders may change.”

He held open the door for her.

✽✽✽

A spindly wooden chair with thin strips of cloth for a seat perched on the wooden deck of the broad rooftop observatory, and on the chair sat Merrily. The city of Green Bridge spread out before her. Beyond it, to the east, were laid out the vibrant fields of early summer. The wheat was still young, and had not yet taken on the amber gold color that would sweep over the farmlands later in the season. Though it was late in the day, the sun was still high in the sky. Tomorrow was Midsummer.

It will all end, soon, said the Second Voice.

But there are no sunsets in Heaven, replied the First Voice.

Next to her, Rolly delicately poured a cup of tea and set it on a tiny instrument table that stood between them. His own chair was broader than hers to support his considerable bulk. They were mismatched, but equally elderly. Around them, the Astronomy Department’s rooftop telescopes were carefully covered with sheets of undyed canvas. It produced in the mind the effect of sitting in a rock garden.

“How were exams?” he asked. “Have you got them back yet?”

She nodded and sipped at the tea. “I did alright. Cyrus took forever, and he wrote snippy comments all over it, but then gave me the highest mark in the class. Glibgrub wrote nicer things with fewer words, and I got a B. I’ll never understand how professors work.”

He snorted. “That’s why I went for mathematics—there’s always a right answer. If you disagree with the professor, you can either figure out where you went wrong or change the rules of the universe to make yourself right.”

Why shouldn’t there be a right answer in history? wondered the First Voice.

“Haven’t yet figured out the trick to changing the universe, of course,” Rolly continued. “But I’m working on it. If you want my advice, Merrily—and you did invite me to tea—be patient with old man Stoat. Learn from him. I can’t believe I’m saying this; the man is a jackass. But he’s not the kind of jackass that kicks you for the fun of it. He, uh, brays to get you going in the right direction… and pulls the cart when you—God, I don’t know where this metaphor is going. Why did you want to see me? I’m sure it wasn’t for my witty dialog.”

She smiled at him. Rolly was safe. She could rely on him never to take a thing too seriously.

Life needs to be taken seriously, said the Second Voice. If you get it wrong, you burn in the Pit for all eternity. That prospect demands a certain gravity.

“I got a letter from Wigglus yesterday,” she said softly, her eyes cast down at the deck at her feet. Then she stood up and moved restlessly over to the parapet.

Do not dwell on him, said the Second Voice. Father says he is an abomination.

He is my friend, and I love him, replied the First.

“How’s his law practice?” asked Rolly. “I always liked Wigglus. Sensible fellow, no pretentions. And he doesn’t compete for the ladies.”

She turned around and looked at Rolly sharply.

He waved his hand with airy dismissal. “Oh, I knew it, Merrily. Come on—everyone knew. You can tell by watching people. He was always with Frederick. They stood close to each other when they didn’t have to. They gazed into each other’s eyes when they thought no one was watching. You could see their heads tilt just a bit, in that way that people do when they want to put their mouths together. It’s the same thing you and Mr. Miller do when you want to tear off each other’s clothes in public. It’s disgusting, but I suppose that’s what love does to the brain. The polite thing is just to ignore it. So—what did Wigglus say that’s got you so worried?”

I counted four mortal sins in that monologue, observed the Second Voice. How many did you get?

Zero, answered the First.

“What were the four?” she asked aloud.

“What?” Rolly’s look was suddenly confused.

“Oh—sorry. Thinking of something else. He’s—he’s alright. Says the courts have been busy. Lots of people want to hire him and his partners to defend them against the new laws. He’s rented an office next to the High Court.”

“That doesn’t sound bad. Not bad enough to put one of those worried frowns on Merrily Hunter’s face.”

Her gaze drifted past him, down to the elegant stone buildings of Farley Island, far below them. She thought for a time, while he waited patiently for her to speak.

“I miss him,” she said finally. “I haven’t… sung anything or made music since he’s been gone. And I’m worried about him, too. He said in his letter that the National Assembly has passed all kinds of new laws. It’s illegal, now, to give material support to an enemy of the Republic. That sounds good, sort of, but the law says that the King gets to determine who’s an enemy of the Republic. Some of the other lawyers have been threatened with criminal charges. He made a joke of it in the letter—said the courts have been writing all kinds of colorful opinions and refusing to apply the laws. But that can’t go on. And I worry that he’s leaving things out to make me feel better, or in case the letter was read by someone else.”

She turned away and looked back to the west, and to the forests over the river. To her surprise, she was blinking back tears.

This is attachment, said the Second Voice. It is desire—for companionship, for what we feel Wigglus gave to us when he was here, for him to tell us we are good and worthy and wise. We desire that, and that is why we hurt. Attachment and desire are temptations of the mortal world, and tools of the Dark One. To find peace, we must release that desire and surrender ourself to God’s will.

Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

It didn’t help.

And then Rolly was next to her, standing and looking out over the parapet. He put an arm around her shoulders and held her gently while she cried. They were there for many minutes as her shoulders shook and her breath came in short gasps. When it had passed, he handed her a scrap of cloth to dry her eyes and blow her nose.

“If there is a God,” said Rolly, “then she is a painter, and all of this life we live is her painting. It isn’t flat, and it isn’t made of paint. It goes on and on in three and four and five dimensions, through time and possibility and outcome. All the threads are real, even though we can only see just a tiny little bit. If there is a God, then she gave us this rooftop to stand on in this branch, and a view out over the farmlands, and a good meal to eat downstairs in the Pinny Purse, and money to pay for it with. And in this part of her painting, she drew you apart from Mr. Snort. But she gave you Jonathan, and Professor Stoat, and Queen Anne, and everyone else you care about. And I suppose… I suppose she gave you me, in this moment, for whatever that’s worth.”

Don’t say anything, said the First Voice. Don’t say it. I don’t want to hear about how he’s wrong and evil, and that God is a Father, and the world has a beginning in light and an ending in fire and justice, or any of the rest of it. Just be quiet, alright?

The Second Voice was quiet.

“Come on,” said Rolly. “It’s getting late. Let’s go to supper, and then I need to come back up here with Professor Tentimes. Come with me, and I’ll show you her new star.”

✽✽✽

Merrily rubbed the sleep from her eyes and sat up on the bed. She had drifted off for a few minutes, staring out at the cold November rain and the dark overcast of the sky. Her next meeting was in an hour, with Mrs. Heweston of the Republican faction. She wearily stood up and leaned over the writing desk, looking over her briefing notes by the dim light of two oil lamps. Heweston: Old family, owned a broad swath of mixed-use farmland to the south, rented out to tenants. Staunchly conservative, but no one really knew what that meant anymore.

In five days of meetings, of polite tea, of strained luncheons, Merrily had striven to absorb the worries and ambitions of the gentry and lesser nobles of central Uelland. Precious few of those conversations had produced movement in the votes. Mr. Towling-Snoot had seemed swayed on the second day, and she’d taken heart; but Messrs. Grufflimb, Croowglyn, and Timtum had rebuffed her in quick succession, citing General Howe’s opposition. Yesterday, Garret Bragg had suggested he might change his position in exchange for certain favors from her, and she had politely excused herself while desperately trying, and probably failing, to give the impression that she might be more receptive after the vote. This morning she’d chalked up a victory with Fanny Asquith, recent heiress to a large estate just west of the Haalsterne; but no one else took seriously Miss Asquith’s opinion on any matter but that of her future husband. By Merrily’s own count, the Queen’s faction had fifteen votes and the Republicans had twenty, with eleven on the fence.

She had been followed around the city, of course. Merrily had expected nothing less. She’d rigged up a thin mirror on the carriage door, and used it to watch behind the little vehicle without peering out. Hobb’s spies, not particularly subtle, were comprised of the same two or three roughly-dressed horsemen who regularly trailed along behind her. She’d quickly concluded that their goal was intimidation as much as surveillance.

Her eyes drooped again, and she rubbed them, peering at the sheet of notes in the dim light of the bedroom lamps and fighting off sleep that threatened to overwhelm her again. Daytime meetings had not been Merrily’s only occupation. She had sent Mr. Mowatt to rent a room opposite Hobb’s residence, in which she posted a rotating cast of young boys and girls from the streets who were keen to earn a few pennies every day by reporting on the comings and goings of the First Minister’s elegant black carriage. Merrily herself took up the post in the evenings, entering through a back door of the apartment building. Each night before leaving Tabard House, she dressed in the shabby clothes of a male laborer, her face stained a light brown with a distilled lotion of cinnamon and butter. A false beard—one of the best available in Green Bridge, thanks to a generous line of credit from the Queen—rounded off the disguise.

Three nights out of five, the carriage had left the front gate of the residence shortly after sunset, Hobb himself recognizable in the window by his bald head and thin, almost cadaverous face. Each night it went out, the carriage returned well after midnight, its curtains drawn. The fatigue and boredom she endured to observe the First Minister’s patterns wore on Merrily’s patience, until last night she had decided to follow him. When the carriage emerged, she quickly slipped downstairs to where Winston waited, saddled and ready. She followed the carriage through the streets to the north gate of the city, where it departed into the night.

She walked Winston through the market square, scanning nonchalantly for men who might be waiting to intercept or tail her. Hobb’s spies might not be subtle, but Merrily didn’t trust them to be totally incompetent. She did not ride near the gate itself, but instead crossed the square and rode into a narrow lane on the other side. She turned Winston around a corner into an alley and slipped off, waiting to see if she was followed.

She did not have long to wait. The clop of horses’ hooves came down the lane outside the alley, moving slowly. She led Winston to the other end of the alley and out into the street beyond, then brushed his nose gently and made soothing noises to keep him still. She peered around the corner, looking back down the alley to the little lane.

Two mounted horsemen rode slowly past the other end of the narrow way, looking from side to side carefully. They had no visible weapons, but Merrily could see several lumps beneath their cloaks that could easily be swords or clubs. The two men paused for a moment to look down the alley, and Merrily drew her head back. Then the clop of the horses’ hooves moved off, continuing up the lane.

She pulled herself carefully onto Winston’s back, waited a moment or two, then casually directed the horse back toward the city center. She did not return to the square that night, but instead took a circuitous path back to Tabard House.

Tomorrow, said the First Voice, as she sat now in the gray light of the rainy afternoon. Tomorrow we will follow the First Minister outside the city. Perhaps we will find something that will change the mind of Thomas Howe.

Or perhaps we will find Hobb the Wise alone and without help in some dark corner of the night, added the Second Voice. Perhaps we will carry out Father’s command.

This is madness, said the Third Voice. The Moot will vote, and it must affirm the rightful allegiance of the landowners to the King and the Republic. We will not kill Hobb the Wise. We will go with him to Uellodon. Also, we were followed—so the workman disguise is ineffective.

How the Moot votes, insisted the Second Voice primly, has as much relevance to God’s plan for us as the contents of Mr. Stiggins’ mustache. This debate is an obsession with the irrelevant. Now—pray. It is our duty to God to pray.

Merrily sank to her knees.

✽✽✽

“Do you have children, Mrs. Hunter?”

Mrs. Heweston peered at her through a pair of expensive, gold-rimmed spectacles. They sat in her drawing room before a roaring fire, listening to the howl of the wind and rain outside. On a low table before them, a pair of mugs held hot, spiced cider that Merrily found a welcome change from the endless parade of teacups.

Mrs. Heweston herself was an older woman; perhaps fifty years, perhaps a little more. Her face was lined and creased with the years, but Merrily could see that in her youth she would have been exquisitely beautiful. She wore a gown of gray silk, tastefully trimmed in black and silver. Her gray hair, done up in a severe bun, seemed to be an extension of the dress.

“I don’t, madame,” she answered. “But I’d like to one day.”

“Your husband. Miller. He works for Snugg?”

Merrily nodded, masking her surprise. Mrs. Heweston was the first of her meetings who knew anything about her beyond her songs.

“I heard you sing, once. I was a guest of Lady Triggle in Green Bridge. Your voice was most pleasing. I believe it was Miss Hunter then?”

“It was,” Merrily confirmed. “Mr. Miller and I were married last October.”

“And you have not yet produced a child?” inquired the older woman. Merrily couldn’t quite read her tone; it was somewhere between inquisitive and accusing.

She blushed despite herself.

Thank God we haven’t, said the Second Voice.

I want a baby, said the First petulantly. I want a baby, and no amount of prayer or purity will stop me wanting a baby.

Demography is destiny, proposed the Third Voice. It is our duty to the whole community of Uelland to raise the next generation of citizens.

“Demography is destiny,” she muttered to herself.

“I don’t follow,” said Heweston, eyeing her narrowly.

“What? Oh. I’m sorry, Mrs. Heweston. I only meant that… well. Mr. Miller and I have not had a child yet. But if we could get back to the matter of the Queen’s proposals for Roosterfoot—”

Mrs. Heweston interrupted her. “Mrs. Hunter. One day, I assume, you and your husband will have one or more children. When you do, I think you will find, as I have and my daughters have, that the priorities you hold dear will change—dramatically. When you have brought a child into the world, that child lays a burden on you. It is a burden to create a place of stability and safety, Mrs. Hunter. If you do not yet feel that burden, then you will soon. A family requires stability and safety to raise, and as women it falls on us first to produce them. I have heard people say that this burden is unfair. To those people, I say: It is neither fair nor unfair. It is reality. We have all the cares and ambitions and desires of men, and we have another burden to go with them. The question we ask ourselves as women, when all those other cares have exhausted themselves, is: Have I made the world around me a safe place for my child?”

Merrily stared at her, quite at a loss.

She is irrelevant, said the Second Voice.

She is correct, said the Third Voice.

Mrs. Heweston continued to peer at Merrily, gently prying her apart with those dark, slightly beady eyes.

“If the decisions we make here produce war in our country,” said the older woman eventually, “then we will pile another burden on the backs of tens of thousands of women, who want—who need—first and more than anything else, to keep their families safe. We must not do that, Mrs. Hunter. We must not. Does Queen Anne appreciate that reality?”

Merrily took a breath.

The Republic IS safety, said the Third Voice. It is a system, and an order. We’ll make rules so everyone does what they should, and if they don’t they will be punished. I want our child to live in a place where there are rules to make everyone do the right thing.

But the First Voice would have none of it.

Let me take this one, it said.

“She does, Mrs. Heweston. She surely does. The Queen has a son of her own, who has been away from her for many months. You are well informed, madame, so you must know that General Logwall took Prince Leeland from his mother by force. That’s the character of the Republic, Mrs. Heweston. It’s a machine; not a machine like a mill or a printing press, but a machine made of people. Its work is to decide what is right and then force you to agree. You can’t argue with it once it has done its work, any more than you can argue with a mill or a press. If the National Assembly decides that your son must be taken away from you, then it will take him, and it will tell all your friends and neighbors and family that it was right to take him. If a King hurts you, you can say he is wrong and fight against him, because he’s just a man and men can be wrong. But if a Republic hurts you, it must be right. You voted for your representative, and so did everyone else. You agreed to this. It’s there in the definition of the thing, and you can’t escape it. And when they decide to take your food from you, or your land, or your family, then that must be right too. Is that the safe world you want for your children and your grandchildren? It’s not the world I want for mine.”

Her cheeks were flushed, and she was speaking quickly. She could feel the Third Voice screaming soundlessly in horror, but she ignored it. She forced herself to slow her breathing and lean back in the chair.

Mrs. Heweston’s face was unreadable. She lifted a mug of the hot cider to her lips. Merrily forced herself to follow, and found she was thirsty.

“I think,” said Mrs. Heweston, “that we all will need some more time to consider this.”

✽✽✽

That evening, Merrily opened the curtains on her window and stared out into the dark and rain. On the second floor of a building across the street, a faint, dim crack of light showed an occupied room with its blinds mostly closed. They twitched slightly as she revealed herself in the window.

Good, said the First Voice. They’re watching.

She closed the curtains and summoned Mr. Stiggins, the bodyguard.

“Stiggins,” she said. “Take off your armor.”

Mr. Stiggins looked confused, but obediently unstrapped his breastplate, laid it on the chair, and then undid the arms and legs and laid them on top. He stood in his padded undergarments, looking rather foolish.

“Take off the padding,” she instructed.

“Mrs. Hunter—” he began, but she silenced him with a wave of her hand.

“Off, Stiggins,” she commanded.

He took off the undergarments. Only a thin loincloth and a rather stained undershirt remained.

“Now, Stiggins. I want you to put on this dress.” She indicated one of her riding dresses, laid out neatly on the bed.

Stiggins looked mortified.

I think this may be an abomination, said the Second Voice. What do you two think? Is it an abomination? I’m not sure how the scriptures apply here. He’s pretending to be a woman, but there’s no sex or anything. I feel like this should be an abomination, though.

Shut up, said the First Voice.

Stiggins had not yet obeyed her instructions. He, evidently, considered it some variety of abomination.

“You are being paid, Mr. Stiggins, to follow my orders. Is that correct?”

He nodded in terror.

“Put on the dress,” she said, her voice final.

She had to help him, of course. Mr. Stiggins was categorically unfamiliar with the elements of female attire. There was also the matter of the chest; she stuffed some socks into one of her brassieres and strapped it on him. The dress didn’t fit perfectly, but she quickly let out a few seams, and decided it would do. She selected a wig from her diplomatic chest, tied the guard’s hair back carefully, and settled it on his head. Then she sat him down and applied a thick coat of makeup. After it was finished, she stood back and examined her handiwork carefully.

He looked nothing like her up close, or even credibly like a female of the species, but in a dark night, from across the street, and through a sheer curtain, it would do.

“Well done, Mr. Stiggins,” she said. “Now help me into your armor.”

✽✽✽

That night, across the street from Tabard House, a pair of spies watched through the crack in their curtain as a young woman in a dress paced about in the room across the street. They remained dutifully in place, seeing as Mrs. Hunter had decided to stay in for the time being. They were grateful to be out of the cold rain, which was slowly turning to sleet.

The elegant black coach emerged from the carriage house of the First Minister’s residence and rattled unhurriedly through the streets. A pale, bald head could be seen inside, staring out pensively into the darkness. A single coachman drove the carriage; he was unarmed, and doubtless he hadn’t the slightest immediate concern for his own safety.

Somewhere behind the carriage, a lone mercenary on a brown palfrey trotted along the streets, headed in the same direction. He had a thin mustache and wore an iron helm with high check guards that covered most of his face. He slouched in the saddle, enduring the miserable weather to go about his duties, whatever they were. Roosterfoot was a nervous sort of place, and one more armed guard in the street drew little enough attention.

Three men in rough clothes and heavy cloaks rode some distance behind the carriage. They saw the mercenary, just as they saw scores of other soldiers, workmen, farmers, and craftsman. The little parade rode on toward the city gates.

And then, incongruously, at the gate there was chaos.

A small herd of cattle had, it seemed, broken free from their pens and were wandering aimlessly through the market square, ignoring their handlers’ frantic imprecations to relocate. Though the hour was late and the weather foul, a handful of vendors still haunted the square, their motivations ranging from greed to desperation. Carts and stands containing merchandise of all kinds had been tangled and fouled by the cows, and the proprietors were arguing volubly with anyone they could locate who might be responsible. The regular traffic of carts, carriages, horsemen, and pedestrians were fighting and shouting to get through the press of cows, overturned carts, and angry merchants. A handful of lawyers circulated through it all, hungrily drawn by the prospect of an especially damaged seller of goods or an unlucky pedestrian who might slip on one of the rapidly accumulating lumps of pungent brown on the ground.

Into this swirling melee of curses, cow shit, sleet, and attorneys disappeared the elegant black carriage.

The three rough men on horseback who had followed the carriage entered after it.

The tired mercenary paused at the edge of the maelstrom, apparently taking stock of the tactical situation. Then he circled around the edge of the market square, understandably keeping a close eye on the action within. He reached the city gate itself, where two confused guards who had been about to close up for the night had abandoned their posts to join in the shouting and fist-waving.

An elegant black carriage emerged from the melee and disappeared through the gate. Several moments later, the mercenary followed.

A small village lay just outside the walls, catering to travelers and merchants who found the gates shut, or else found it more convenient to conduct business in a quiet spot just out of town. The black carriage turned off the main street, into a side lane behind a squat, shabby public house. And there it stopped, and waited.

The mercenary rode past the lane, not looking in. He turned the brown palfrey after the row of small cottages beyond the public house, then swiftly dismounted and tied up the horse. He slipped around behind the cottages, then crept through the rain and darkness to stare at the black carriage from behind a large and uncomfortably prickly holly bush.

The door opened slightly, and the light of the carriage’s oil lamp showed that a pale hand had emerged. The hand gestured insistently in the direction of the mercenary, plainly commanding: Approach.

The holly bush was silent.

A bald head emerged into the rain, looking directly at the holly bush.

“Mrs. Hunter!” said a voice. “Come and get out of the weather!”

The bush twitched, and Merrily stood up. She looked rather sheepishly at the bald man in the carriage. It was difficult to see his features through the dark and sleet, but it looked like Hobb. She walked hesitantly forward, not quite sure how one was supposed to walk when one’s cover has been completely disintegrated. Eventually she settled into a confident saunter, and approached the carriage.

The man’s head had disappeared inside, but the door was still open slightly. She stepped in, removing Mr. Stiggins’ helmet.

The man inside was not Hobb the Wise, First Minister of Uelland. It was the bald, pasty-skinned servant who had brought tea at the First Minister’s residence. His eyes were pale, and seemed, by the dim light of the lamp outside, to have a slightly red cast.

Merrily sat up straight in shock. She recognized him, and not from Hobb’s residence.

“You!” she gasped. “I know you! You were on the road outside Uellodon!”

“Good evening, Mrs. Hunter,” said the man in the carriage with her with aplomb.

She looked around in confusion, half expecting to see Hobb climb in the other door.

“He’s not here,” said her companion. “He’s in the other carriage.”

Merrily looked down, feeling foolish, and started to move toward the door.

“Wait,” said the man. “You remember me, yes?”

She looked back at him.

He met us at the gates of Uellodon, said the First Voice. He made the crowd stop attacking us, and he gave us the pendant that is tucked into our chest at Tabard House.

I’m fairly certain he’s some kind of demon, posited the Second Voice.

“Are you a demon?” she asked.

“No,” said the man. “But you’re not the first person to think so. I take no offense. I’ve found my… appearance… causes discomfort to some.”

“Your name…” She trailed off.

He arched an eyebrow. She had seen him before Uellodon, too. In the woods south of Hog Hurst, when she and Jonny and Cyrus had been searching for Michael Rider and his lost book of surveys. He was with two other men, and they had similar names. That meeting had led to goblins, and the great underground finery, and Beatrice Snugg, and Uellodon…

“Your name is Boris,” she said. “At least, that’s the name you gave us.”

He nodded, in apparent satisfaction. “Your memory is as it should be, Merrily Hunter,” he said softly.

“Why are you here?” she demanded. “And where is Hobb?”

“Hobb the Wise has another errand tonight,” said Boris. “And you are here because you followed this carriage and got in.”

“What errand? What is Hobb doing outside Roosterfoot?”

“He is doing the same thing you are doing inside Roosterfoot; he is negotiating. But you are here, and not following him to his negotiations, because it would be… premature… for you to interrupt him.”

Merrily shook her head and reached for the door to the compartment. Her skin was crawling; something was wrong about Boris. She couldn’t see exactly what it was with her eyes, but she could feel it throughout her body. She looked at him closely. What was it? What was wrong with the man?

“It is a hole,” he said in response to her gaze. His voice was soft, and his slight accent impossible to place. “There is a hole in me, and what comes through the hole causes the feeling that made you stare at me just now.”

I told you, said the Second Voice. Demon.

“Where are your friends?” she asked, her voice shaking slightly. “The other two men from the road.”

“They have their own errands,” he said. “In most outcomes, we meet again, before the end. But I do not see where they are now.” His posture was relaxed, his face untroubled. He seemed almost serene.

Merrily sat back on the padded seat, her mind struggling to make sense of both the strange words and the cognitive dissonance of the man in front of her.

“What do you want from me?” she asked finally. “You arranged for me to be here. You talk like some kind of seer, but if you’re not going to give me a straight answer to my questions—then at least tell me why we’re sitting in a carriage in the rain and snow outside Roosterfoot.”

“I am truly sorry for the frustrations I must cause you, Merrily Hunter,” said Boris. He seemed to be genuine, but the ambiguity of his pronouncement teased at her mind. “In truth,” he continued, “I would rather let the world do as it wishes, and the people in it.”

Lies, snapped the Second Voice. He is a demon; a servant of the Dark One. Demons manipulate, and lie, and deceive.

Hush, said the First Voice. I want to listen.

Boris rubbed his eyes wearily, as if fighting some sudden pain. “But I must play the part set out for me,” he said, “as we all must. I have three purposes in tonight’s adventure. One is to prevent you from interrupting Hobb. That I have already done; his carriage passed by us several minutes ago. The second and third are instructions, which you may follow if you wish. They will be to your benefit… probably. I gave you a gift when we met outside the gates of Uellodon, before your choices at the inflection.”

The inflection? wondered the First Voice. What is he talking about? Choices?

Demon! screamed the Second Voice. Demon! Don’t listen to demons!

You people are entirely too excitable, commented the Third. Listen now, and we will decide later what to do with what we hear.

No! Demon! This is not a controversial point! We must not listen to him! We must escape—

“Be silent,” said Boris sternly. And the voices were silent. He continued.

“Wear the circle, Merrily,” he said. “Not where others can see it; but it must be on you.”

“You mean the little thing you gave me at the gates of Uellodon? The circle made of sticks and grass, with the spokes coming out of it and the black stone?”

“Yes,” he confirmed.

She thought for a moment, grateful for the sudden silence in her mind.

“I’ll consider it,” she said. “And what is the second instruction?”

His face grew somber, almost sad. And yet—at the same time, a kind of carnivorous smile played at the edges of his lips.

“When the time comes, Merrily, you must go to the one you love.”

She stared at him.

“That’s it?” she said at last. “All that mystical nonsense, and all you have to tell me is ‘Wear the thing I gave you’ and ‘Go to the one you love’? I’m disappointed in you, Boris.”

He shrugged and opened the door for her.

“I’m afraid life is full of disappointments. But if it is any comfort, I wish you the most joy you can find from it. And…” he hesitated a moment, as she stepped out into the rain.

“Know that she loves you,” he added.

Merrily turned around, hoping to catch something in his face; but the door had already closed, and the light from the lamp showed nothing on the inside of the cab.

The driver on the carriage shook the reins, and it moved out into the darkness.

✽✽✽

At noon the following day, the delegates gathered at the Moothall. Rows of chairs had been set in the center of the chamber, facing inward toward a raised platform with a podium on it. Raked seating filled up the rest of the room. The walls were decorated with rather moth-eaten tapestries in faded earth tones. It smelled of old wood and slightly musty cloth.

There was little ceremony, though the delegates were dressed in formal clothing for the occasion. The men wore dark suits with white, starched shirts and a variety of colorful cravats; their shoes were polished, and many wore top hats as they entered. The women wore gowns in dark, subdued colors. Many observers had gathered as well, and there was a buzz of hushed conversation in the broad hall.

Merrily’s eye caught Mrs. Heweston speaking somberly with two other delegates, both men. The older woman glanced back at her briefly, and Merrily thought she saw a hint of a smile. But nothing else passed between them.

“Good morning, Mrs. Hunter,” said a voice behind her. She turned; it was Hobb the Wise. The tall, slim minister was dressed in a rather rumpled dark gray suit and a dark cravat. There was a slight stubble of white whiskers on his face, and his few wisps of hair were disheveled. But his voice was steady, and his eyes were placid.

“Good morning, First Minister,” said Merrily politely.

He is fortunate his servant interrupted us, growled the Second Voice. We should have killed him.

“Today we will find out what the Moot thinks of its choices,” said Hobb urbanely. He smiled. “Let us be grateful that no one has thought to propose an alliance with the Ecclesia. I think we can both agree that they would be worse than either republicanism or monarchy?”

Merrily smiled, as the voices in her head launched predictably into a profanity-laced screaming match. But the conversation moved on before they could organize a vote.

“I expect we will agree to that,” she said.

Hobb motioned her over to one of the benches for observers, and they both sat down. Hobb’s tall, thin frame hunched over awkwardly; he was not made for benches. He clasped both hands together in front of him and stared at them, as if all the answers lay inside.

“Have you considered my proposal, Mrs. Hunter?” he asked.

Yes! barked the Third Voice.

Absolutely not, said the First.

I’d sooner move to outer Svegnia, agreed the Second.

“To come with you back to Uellodon? I… I suppose I have considered it. But I am sworn to return to Green Bridge and Queen Anne after the Moot.”

“You are a diplomat, yes?” he said. “You are invested with powers plenipotentiary. Exercise your discretion, and come with me on a diplomatic mission. You can explain it all to Anne by pigeon. Tell her you think there’s an opportunity for a breakthrough in negotiations.”

Merrily arched an eyebrow. “Is there?” she asked.

Hobb looked up suddenly, his gaze intense.

“Yes! Yes, there is, Mrs. Hunter. It is essential that we fight, not each other, but the true enemies of the Kingdom. Even now, the Svegnians are massing an invasion force near Growlgub. The Brassens have been nibbling at the border towns in the southeast for months, and the Carolese have cut off all trade from the Gulf. Every day we are focused inward is one more day we risk military disaster. And...”

He trailed off, his tone uncertain.

“And what?”

Hobb the Wise said nothing, but looked at his hands.

“Why do you want me to come to Uellodon, First Minister?” asked Merrily, beginning to grow suspicious.

At that moment the speaker called the Moot to order, and the delegates filed to their seats. Hobb looked up at her, then motioned her outside with his head. They slipped out quietly, donning heavy coats against the rapidly falling snow. Hobb put on a top hat. Together they walked through the white-dusted streets of Roosterfoot, until they reached a small tea house near the Moothall. It was nearly empty; anyone who could afford a cup of tea was crammed into the Moothall watch the delegates and the vote.

They seated themselves, and a serving maid brought a teapot and cups. Hobb leaned his elbows on the table and stared at her with those deep, gray-blue eyes, as if he were trying to see something on the other side of her.

At last, he spoke.

“All my life, Mrs. Hunter, I have striven to apply rationality to the world. The Republic brings order and justice—the products of reason—to a realm where previously there was caprice and the whim of the powerful. But I am sorry to say that at times the world does not cooperate in the application, or even the appearance, of reason.”

“What do you mean by that? Be specific if you would, First Minister. I’m sorry to say my tolerance for vagaries is at a low ebb.”

He looked at her gravely across the table.

“Two years ago this past July, I sent a man out of the Kingdom in search of a… a legend. He was a political enemy; a nuisance, or perhaps more. Who he was doesn’t matter. I sent him to find the lands of the Giant-Men. Don’t laugh Mrs. Hunter. I struggled not to laugh, at the time. He knew he was being sent on a fool’s errand, but he agreed because King Leeland ordered him to go. He was to be absent from the Kingdom until ten years had passed, or he located the lands of the Giant-Men. I thought never to see this man again.”

Hobb poured her a cup of tea, and slid it across the table to her. He poured one for himself as well, blew on it delicately, and then sipped the hot liquid.

“This man has returned,” said Hobb after he swallowed the tea.

“He broke his exile?” asked Merrily.

“No,” replied Hobb, shaking his head slightly. “I once threatened to have him executed if he returned without completing his impossible assignment. How hollow that threat was! No, Mrs. Hunter. He has come back, and he has brought with him a children’s story out of the wastes of the north. He has brought back Giant-Men.”

Merrily stared at him. “Are you having a joke at my expense, First Minister? If so, I think we are both needed back at the Moothall.”

“No, no. Don’t go, Mrs. Hunter. They are real. I have seen them. And… other things. Things too mad to be true. But they are real. They are all real, and they are a terrible threat to all of us.”

“And you want me to come to Uellodon… to see these things?” she asked.

“No!” he said, raising his voice. Then he regained control of himself. “No. Excuse me. I didn’t mean to shout. I hope you will never see them. I want you to come to Uellodon because, Mrs. Hunter, we absolutely must make peace. We must stand together against these Giant-Men, and the… things… that they have with them. If you and I can bring Anne and Leeland together to work out their differences, we have a chance to confront them and drive them back. You have Anne’s ear; she trusts you. Come to Uellodon, speak with the King, and see that the Republic is not the evil you think it is. Then go back to Green Bridge and tell her to come and meet us on neutral ground.”

She looked at him for a long time, listening to the yammering inside her mind. But she found that, after last night, she could detach herself from it more easily. Be silent, she said.

And aloud, she said: “No.”

He didn’t repeat it; he didn’t argue. He just stared at her. Then he spoke again.

“If you will not come for all the reasons I have just offered,” said Hobb quietly, “then perhaps you will consider another reason. Your friend, Mr. Snort, has become involved in an unfortunate domestic situation. He and some other lawyers were involved in an incident at the High Court. Some of the judges resisted a lawful order of the King, and lawyers and bailiffs got involved in it as well. There was an altercation, and an escalation, and—well, I’m afraid the High Court has become cut off from the rest of the city.”

“Cut off?” Merrily said incredulously. “What do you mean? Did it drift out into the Green River?”

Hobb shook his head, smiling thinly. “No. Let me be blunt, Mrs. Hunter. The High Court is under siege. The Republican Guard permit no one in or out, but the attorneys and judges are heavily barricaded, and have supplies. I do not want it to end in violence, but we cannot permit this to continue. Your friend, Mr. Snort, is well respected by both the bench and the bar. If you would come to Uellodon, perhaps you could enter the courthouse and speak with him. You could persuade him and the judges to accept a deal, to come out in return for amnesty. Otherwise I fear there will be a great deal of blood before this is ended.”

She hesitated.

“I…” she began.

At that moment a man in a red cloak and a three-cornered hat burst into the tea house.

“First Minster!” he blurted. “They’re voting! Please come!”

By the time Merrily and Hobb reached the Moothall, the vote was complete, and the speaker was reading the results. Hobb elbowed his way firmly through the crowd ahead of her, and they drew near to the rope barricade that separated the delegates from the onlookers.

“In favor of the motion: twenty-five,” he intoned. Murmurs began to grow in the crowd. “Opposed to the motion: twenty-one. The motion carries. This Moot will reconvene in the spring. Dismissed.”

“What was the motion?” Hobb asked the people around him. No one responded immediately. “What was the motion?” he asked again, turning from face to face. “What did they just vote on?”

A familiar gray-haired figure appeared before them. Delegate Heweston, dressed in a black gown with a white frill, nodded politely to both Merrily and Hobb the Wise.

“What was the motion, Mrs. Heweston?” asked Merrily.

“The motion,” she replied gravely, “calls on King Leeland and Queen Anne to negotiate their disagreements and create a new constitutional settlement for the whole Kingdom of Uelland. Until such time as the disagreement between them is resolved, Roosterfoot and the counties represented at this Moot will remain neutral between the parties.”

“Nothing?” said Hobb, raising his voice. “You’re doing… nothing?” He looked shocked; it was not an emotion that suited him.

But Merrily narrowed her eyes and looked carefully at Mrs. Heweston.

“It’s a delay,” she said. “You’re waiting to see who’s likely to win.”

“In part,” agreed Mrs. Heweston. “And in part it gives all of us much-needed time to consider our choices, and the consequences. I spoke with my colleagues yesterday and this morning. Most agreed that further reflection is needed.”

Hobb had re-mastered his countenance.

“The Moot has made a choice already, Delegate Heweston,” he said smoothly, “which, no matter how much reflection it conducts, will have consequences.” And he turned on his heel to stalk out of the chamber.

But Merrily ran after him. She caught him in the swirling, flying snow outside the Moothall. He turned back when she called out to him. The snow had already built up on his top hat, giving him the appearance of a thin, angry snowman.

“I will go with you,” she said. “I will go back to Uellodon.”