The door budged against something heavy and Felderon's throat tightened, calculating the burden to be the dead weight of a heavy man.

The war minister lay prone on the ground, expression ghastly, foamed saliva in the corners of his wide, purple mouth.

Bodies, Felderon had expected, but dead bodies was a twist, and he gasped a breath of smoke-stale air as he counted, five, six, seven dead men around the table, but there had been eight. Where was the last?

Something shuffled in the far corner of the room.

“Stand up! Show yourself!”

The eighth minister crept out from behind a corner cabinet, as wide-eyed as a startled doe.

"I didn't--I didn't go near it!"

"You need not defend yourself. The fact of your compliance is obvious, Minister."

"What--what is this mysterious weapon?"

"It isn't a weapon."

"But it--"

"Not a weapon." Felderon snapped up the dark mirror and returned it to his pocket. "Lying is not fatal, but suppose a lie became more than a lie, but an internal poison. What would happen then?”

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"Then it will kill any dishonest man."

"And if not kill, then incrementally disable.”

"But has no affect on Your Majesty!"

Felderon grunted. The minister had no idea.

"Stand up. Take courage. I have a job for you."

He stood up straight.

"This unfortunate task falls to you, because you are, apparently, the only faithful minister I have."

"I will do my best."

"I understand that the Palacio de la Renada is on the cusp of being taken by our armies," Felderon said. "Go to the palace and demand the return of one ice blue mirror which resides within the King's chambers. It is a kind of evil twin to this dark mirror you have seen."

"But--"

"It will not harm you if you do not look into it, but you must not gaze at it, or you will fall under its spell."

"On my honor, I will go and do this thing."

"Wrap the mirror in this piece of red silk and see that no one handles it but yourself, alone." Felderon stuffed the fabric into the minister's coat pocket.

"I promise, Your Majesty."

"Now go!"

Felderon sank into a chair, and dropped his head into his hands. Seven dead ministers. He'd expected at least one of them to fall, but to die?

A clatter of feet in the corridor called Felderon's attention to Symon's return with six soldiers.

"Your Majesty!" Symon froze at the threshold.

"Seven of the eight are dead, though you should call a medic, just in case."

"Is Your Majesty hurt?"

"I am well enough."

Six soldiers stood lock-jawed behind Simon, eyes round.

"Don't just stand there, haul them out!" Felderon shouted, and pointed to the corridor.

The men fanned into the room, kneeling over the prone corpses of the King's advisors. Too heavy to be carried by one man alone, the soldiers hauled them like sacks of wheat, gripping by wrists and ankles.

"Your Majesty," Symon whispered. "Half your court are gone! What calamity has--?"

Felderon cleared his throat."Seven servants or six sovereigns? Which is the greater calamity do you think?"

Symon frowned. "Your Majest--?"

"Blame small pox, Symon. Blame small pox."