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in the lamplight.
    Foxbrush felt the blood draining from his face. He kept blinking, then squinting, as though to somehow drive away that image before him. But no, there stood Lionheart, large as life, ragged as a beggar in his groundsman’s clothes, his eyebrow raised in just that expression of incredulity Foxbrushhad found unbearable from the time they were small boys and forced to “play nicely” together.
    But something was different about his face as well. Something . . . Foxbrush couldn’t quite put his finger on it. A sense of depth and height struck him as he looked at this man he despised.
    He didn’t like it at all.
    “I thought you ran away for good the moment the barons declared their decision.”
    “Try to contain your joy at my fortuitous return, cousin of mine,” said Lionheart, bending to retrieve a squashy black fig that had made it as far as his boot. “You know,” he said, resting the fig in his palm as though gauging its weight, “these really are only good for goat food. Perhaps your tastes have developed since I’ve been away?”
    A thousand and one thoughts crammed into Prince Foxbrush’s tired brain at once, none of them charitable; it was enough to make him burst, yet too much to make him articulate. So he watched his cousin pick up two more figs and begin to juggle all three.
    “I mean,” Lionheart continued, “goats are amazing animals, reputedly able to digest anything. Even black figs, which is pretty impressive when all’s said and done. But you’re looking a little peaked around the edges tonight. Perhaps an invigorating diet is just what you need? A goat I used to know once said—”
    “Lumé, Leo!” Foxbrush set the lamp down with such force that the oil in its base swirled in a miniature maelstrom. He reached across the desk to snatch back the figs as though retrieving rare gems from a thief. Not knowing what to do with them once he’d got them, he squeezed them into pulp and seeds, which stuck to his fingers. This in itself was testimony to Foxbrush’s interesting mental state; the prince’s hands were typically clean, each nail well filed and buffed to a high polish.
    Lionheart always did have a way of bringing out the worst in him.
    “Easy now, Foxy,” said Lionheart, watching the fate of those three figs. “No need to get violent.”
    “Violent? I’m not violent. I’m never violent.” Pulling a handkerchief from Tortoiseshell’s jacket, Foxbrush began to wipe at the fig juice, snarlingas he did so, “I’m working on a solution to our agricultural crisis. One without violence. Ideally, without squabbling among the barons.”
    And there went that wretched eyebrow of Lionheart’s, sliding up his forehead again. “With goat food?” he asked. “What have the barons to say to that?”
    “The barons offer no ideas, just arguments,” Foxbrush said. “And since I’m not Eldest,” he continued, “they don’t include me in their various plottings. Not yet anyway. Other than bribes, of course.”
    “Of course.” Lionheart nodded. “So, is this something to do with your response to their bribes, then? Inedible, semi-rotten fruit is highly effective when thrown from upper windows.”
    Foxbrush opened his mouth to growl an answer but paused a moment. He hadn’t actually considered that possible use for his samples. It wasn’t all that bad an idea, if rather beneath his princely dignity.
    He shook his head savagely, however, and rammed the sticky handkerchief back into his pocket. “Always the clown, Lionheart. Always the jester. Meanwhile, Southlands is on the brink of collapse, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
    “I’d picked up a hint or two,” Lionheart replied dryly, taking a seat in a well-cushioned rattan chair, far more comfortable in this room that had once been his than Foxbrush was or ever could be. Foxbrush hated him for it. He hated him for many things just then.
    Growling, Foxbrush knelt, righted the spilled basket, and hastily began