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Zerling glanced once more over his shoulder. This perhaps should not be said,
and your father committed an atrocious act-
Madouc spoke plaintively: I cannot think it so, since I would not be here
otherwise.
Zerling blinked. These questions are beyond my competence; I confine my
energies to drawing entrails and working the gibbet. Royal justice, by its
very nature, is at all times correct. I
must say that in this case I wondered at its severity, when a mere cropping of
ears and nose, with perhaps a taste or two of the snake, would seem to have
sufficed.
So it seems to me, said Madouc. Did you speak with my father?
I remember no conversation.
What of his name?
No one troubled to ask. Put the subject out of your mind: that is my best
advice.
But! want to learn my pedigree. Everyone has one but me.
You will find no pedigree in yonder hole! So now: be off with you, before I
hang up young Pymfyd by his toes, just to maintain order!
Pymfyd cried out: Come along, Your Highness! No more can be done!
But we have done nothing!
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Pymfyd, already out of earshot, failed to respond.
V
One bright morning Madouc came briskly along Haidion s main gallery and into
the entry hall.
Looking through the open portal and across the front terrace, she noticed
Prince Cassander leaning against the balustrade, contemplating the town below
and eating purple plums from a silver dish.
Madouc looked quickly over her shoulder, then ran across the terrace and
joined him.
Cassander glanced at her sidelong, first carelessly, then a second time, with
eyebrows raised in surprise. By Astarte s nine nymphs! swore Cassander.
Here is a definite marvel!
What is so marvellous? asked Madouc. That I deign to join you?
Of course not! I refer to your costume!
Madouc looked indifferently down at herself. Today she wore a demure white
frock with green and blue flowers embroidered along the hem, with a white
ribbon constraining her copper-gold curls.
It is well enough, or so I suppose.
Cassander spoke in fulsome tones. I see before me, not a wild-eyed scalawag
escaping a dogfight, but a royal princess of delicacy and grace! Indeed, you
are almost pretty.
Madouc gave a wry laugh. It is not my fault. They dressed me willy-filly, so
that I might be fit for the cotillion.
And that is so inglorious?
Not altogether, since I will not be there.
Aha! You run grave risks! Lady Desdea will be rigid with vexation!
She must learn to be more reasonable. If she likes dancing, well and good; it
is all the same to me. She may jig, jerk, kick high in the air and jump in a
circle, so long as I may do other wise.
That is reasonable conduct!
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But it is not the way things go! Everyone must learn to act properly; no one
is exempt, not even
I.
Why, then, are you not at the cotillion, sweating and hopping with the
others?
I have had my share of it-never fear! It is now your turn.
I will have none of it, and this is what Lady Desdea must get through her
head.
Cassander chuckled. Such mutiny might easily earn you another beating.
Madouc gave her head a scornful toss. No matter! I shall utter not a sound,
and they will quickly tire of their sport.
Cassander uttered a bark of laughter. Wrong, in every respect! I discussed
this same topic only last week with Tanchet the under-torturer. He states that
voluble types who instantly screech and blubber and make horrid noises-these
are the ones who fare the best, since the torturer is quickly satisfied that
his job has been well and truly done. Take my advice! A few shrill screams and
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