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tipping it over, and a pool of vigorous red spread over the tabletop in the candlelight. As Randolph reached hastily for the toppling cup, Ted bumped him again, and he dropped the bottle, which poured impartially over the table, the floor, and Conrad’s and Matthew’s laps. Ted’s thought caught up with his hand: nobody who looked that pleased with himself when his plans appeared to have been thwarted should be allowed to do what he liked.
    The King had not seen Ted; he had seen only the jerk of Randolph’s arm. As the cup thumped over, he laughed. Now he said, “Hast been coddled too long, Randolph? Shouldst be a page more often, to keep thy nimbleness?”
    “No doubt,” said Randolph, smiling. “Your pardon, my lord.”
    He turned and looked down at Ted, who was wedged between him and Matthew. The smile left his face, but Ted was astonished to see congratulation in his eyes.
    “Edward, a cloth, if you would be so good,” said Randolph.
    Ted moved back from the table and found himself six inches from the furious and panic-stricken face of Andrew, who had been perfectly placed to see Ted jog Randolph’s elbow. Ted backed away from him, pushed his way to the cupboard, and brought Randolph a pile of napkins the long way around rather than pass by Andrew again. What was wrong with him? Had he poisoned the wine, too? He had been sitting right there with the open bottle before him.
    “Oh, God,” said Ted involuntarily.
    He looked at Matthew and Conrad, who stood dripping wine onto the stone floor. Matthew was laughing; Conrad just looked rueful. Ted handed them some of the napkins, wondering how to keep them from putting their hands in their mouths.
    He looked at Andrew. That young man had not returned to his seat; he was leaning against the edge of the table, fists clenched: he looked thwarted and desperate, exactly as Randolph ought, but he was not concerned with Matthew and Conrad. He was watching Randolph as if Randolph were an escaped tiger. Did he simply not care how many other people he poisoned, or was something else the matter with him? There was no reason for him to poison the King. Ted shook his head. His job was with Randolph, who was now holding up the King’s glass and examining it for cracks.
    Ted slithered forward and took it out of his hand. If there had been poison in that glass he shouldn’t let the King near it. “I’ll get you another, my lord,” he said.
    Randolph grinned at him in the manner of one conspirator to another, and Ted went back to the cupboard feeling almost dizzy. He had never known anyone who could so wholeheartedly approve of his enemy. As a weird person, Lady Ruth of the Green Caves had nothing on Randolph.
    Ted brought him another cup, and Matthew handed him another bottle. Randolph poured the King’s wine: his hand on the bottle jerked once and then steadied. Andrew, who had still not sat down again, was glaring at the tabletop; the tabletop was dry; Matthew and Conrad were merely damp, not dripping. They seemed perfectly healthy. How did the lines go, from which the game’s version of this event had derived its inspiration? So mortal, that but dip a knife in it, where it draws blood, no cataplasm so rare can save the thing from death that is but scratched withal. Well, all right; they were fine if they had no scratches or cuts. Like first-aid class, thought Ted wildly, do not suck the venom from the snakebite if you have a cut or sore in your mouth.
    Shut up, he told himself, it’s all right now. You stopped Randolph. Enjoy your wonderful feast. And Ted became aware that he was in the wrong place for this feast. So was everyone else, but his chair was actually empty. He edged and groped his way to the far end of the table, going sideways so as to keep an eye on Randolph, and prickling with the expectation that the King would see, and embarrass him and everyone else by chiding his unreadiness, his dullness, and his lack of manners. Not to mention that someone might take