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“I know.”
    “I want to walk alone a while. When I'm ready I'll find you, and you can tell me where my thinking shows itself too womanly. Would you go to Ven'Cedwin, and let him know I'll need him after noon? Perhaps we could compose the dukes' letters together. If you're not taken up with other commitments.”
    He offered her a brief bow. “Majesty, I am, as always, your obedient servant.”
    There were times…last night, for instance, in their marriage bed…when he said such things and made of them a loving tease.
    And then there are times he makes of them a fist, and strikes me with it.
    “Thank you,” she said quietly. “I'll find you later.”
    She was barely aware of the servants and courtiers who acknowledged her passing as she left the castle. They bowed, she nodded, no words were exchanged. She refused a cloying coterie of attendants and discouraged hangers-on at court. If she wanted company she called for it, otherwise everyone knew she was to be left alone.
    The weight of their gazes as she walked by was as heavy as any crown devised.
    Outside, in the privy gardens overlooking Kingseat township and the harbour, the sunshine was mellow. Warm as a mother's breath against her skin. Rhian let her fingertips touch drooping, perfumed blossoms. Resisted what she knew she must consider and flirted, for a little while, with memories of simpler, happier times.
    And then she stopped, because she was no longer alone. The eldritch sense that had served her all her life told her who it was. Without looking over her shoulder she said, “Emperor Han. I know for certain this time there was no invitation.”
    The emperor laughed. “I took it for granted you would be pleased to see me.”
    “Did you indeed?” she said, and turned to confront him. “Well. That was very presumptuous of you.”
    He bowed. “It was, Queen Rhian.”
    Head to toe he was dressed in black silk: high-throated, long-sleeved tunic, narrow trousers. His long black hair was tied back from his extraordinary, ageless face. His dark brown eyes were watchful and amused. He wore no jewellery, no trappings of power…but even a blind man would not mistake him for a commoner.
    She considered him. “How did you gain access to my privy gardens?”
    “Does it matter? I am here.”
    “Are you an emperor or a witchman?”
    His eyebrows rose two beautiful black arches. “Perhaps I am both.”
    “And perhaps you could answer me like an honest man, instead of playing silly word games!”
    That surprised him. “You are bold, Queen of Ethrea.”
    “And also quite busy. Was there something you wanted, Han? Or are you simply bored, and seeking a diversion?”
    He hadn't given her leave to address him as an intimate. She'd committed a breach of protocol.
    So we stand evenly matched. Witching himself here was just as rude. If that's what he did, and I can't think of another explanation. He's hardly inconspicuous.
    Instead of answering, Han looked her up and down. His dark eyes gleamed, but whether in appreciation or condemnation she couldn't tell.
    “I have known many queens, many empresses, many…” He smiled. “Women. Do you dress like a man in the hope other men will accept your rule, or is it that being a woman isn't enough for you?”
    She looked down at her not-very-queenly clothing: leather huntsman's leggings, a leather jerkin, silk shirt. On her feet, leather low-heeled half-boots. Strapped to her left hip, a knife once cherished by her brother, Ranald. Its hand-polished hilt was set with tigereye, his birthstone. Her fingers often found it, and touched it, remembering.
    “Han,” she said, looking up again, “you must think me witless if you believe I believe you're here to comment on my choice of attire. What do you want?”
    He plucked a fragile pink ifrala blossom from a nearby flowerbed and held it to his nose, delicate as any lady-in-waiting. Breathing deeply he smiled. “Your mother had a sweet touch in her garden, Rhian. I remember she