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     the throne cut him off. “Do not anger my chamberlain,” said the voice. “It is the same as
     angering me.”
    Tithian looked toward the throne and saw a huge man before the pedestal. He stood taller
     than an elf and was as heavily muscled as a mul. On his head, a fringe of chalk-colored
     hair hung from beneath a jagged crown of silver. He had a slender face, a nose so long it
     could almost be called a snout, and dark nostrils shaped like eggs. His cracked lips were
     pulled back to reveal a mouthful of teeth filed as sharp as those of a gladiator. Unlike
     the patricians, he did not dress in a toga. Instead, he wore a sleeveless tunic of white
     silk, a breechcloth of silver fabric, and soft leather boots.
    “King Andropinis,” Tithian said. He did not bow, and his voice betrayed no sign of awe or
     reverence.
    Andropinis did not answer, instead turning away to take his throne. As the Balkan climbed
     the stairs, it became apparent that he was not entirely human. Beneath his tunic, a line
     of sharp bulges ran down the length of his spine, while small, pointed scales covered the
     back sides of his arms.
    Andropinis took his seat in the throne, then glared around the chamber.
    
    
     We are in chamber, my advisors,
    
    
     he said, using the Way to broadcast his thoughts directly into the minds of everyone
     present.
    The patricians rose from their seats, each holding a shallow soap tree basket in his or
     her hands. Tithian waited for the room to grow quiet again, then nodded to the
     chamberlain. “Announce me.”
    Maurus motioned him forward. “I suggest you announce yourself,” he replied. “This audience
     is your doing, not mine.”
    Tithian walked forward until he stood before the throne. Andropinis's white eyes glared at
     him, as cold and stinging as hail, and the Balican said nothing. Compared to Kalak's
     pitiful form, this sorcerer-king seemed a brute. He looked as though he could bite a man
     in two or rip a half-giant's head off with his bare hands. Yet Tithian knew appearances
     could be deceiving. He had seen Kalak, as frail and decrepit as a hundred-year-old woman,
     kill slaves with no more than a glance and snap muls' necks with a twist of his wrist.
    The one who stands before you is Tithian the First, King of Tyr.
    Andropinis was off his throne and towering over Tithian before the king realized he had
     moved.
    “Your identity is no concern of my patricians,” the Balican said quietly, clenching the
     smaller king's shoulders. His fingers dug into Tithian's flesh like talons, and his breath
     smelled as though he had been eating burnt cork. “Be kind enough to speak with your
     tongue.”
    “If you wish,” Tithian replied. Moving with deliberate steadiness, he reached up and
     gently pushed Andropinis's hand away from his shoulder. “And please remember that you
     address the long of Tyr.”
    “You may have killed Kalak, but you are no king.” replied Andropinis. He circled Tithian
     slowly, looking him up and down. “You know nothing of being a king.”
    “I know enough to have won a war with Hamanu of Urik,” the Tyrian answered. Strictly
     speaking, it had been Rikus who had won that war, but Tithian had been claiming credit for
     the victory so long that he had forgotten the distinction. “And I have won the favor of
     Borys of Ebe-the Dragon of Athas.”
    Andropinis stopped at TIthian's side. “You should not banter the Dragon's ancient name
     about,” he warned, hissing into his guest's ear.
    “I did not come to banter, as you shall see if we may discuss the reason for my visit,”
     Tithian replied.
    Andropinis nodded, then stepped toward the gallery where his nobles stood. “We will
     discuss it while I accept gifts from the patricians.”
    Tithian went into the tiers at Andropinis's side. Maurus fetched a large wooden basin from
     behind the throne, then followed a step behind the two kings. The trio stopped at the