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simple—”
    The bellows boy winked. Haughtily, I put him in his place by ignoring his effrontery.
    Rust growled, “You’re the best swordsmith in Stryx, but you charge as if you’re the finest in the Estreach.” Rustin’s tone was polite, but had an edge. “I’ve already laid out the expense. When may I have my sword?”
    “Um ... three days hence?” The smith took up a hammer, donned his glove to pull a bar from the fire.
    I scowled at a hayroll, chopped at a haystalk that towered above the rest.
    Rust turned to me. “What think you, Rodrigo?”
    “A few days don’t seem too—”
    “Of the sword, dolt.”
    “Oh.” How in blazes should I know? A sword was a sword, in my hand. Falla of Toth, our master of swordplay, droned about the merits of the long blade versus the epee, the weight, the haft, the grip, the—
    “Well?”
    “It seems a touch out of balance,” I said, guessing wildly. “Perhaps too heavy in the—”
    “Precisely!” The smith dropped his bar on the anvil, took the sword from my hand. “Fine discrimination, my lord. The blade is a touch overbalanced as yet for the haft.” He fussed at the sword, flung open the window to hold it in the light. “You see there, where the jewels will be set? And here, the silver? Gold would be better, but the expense ... It takes a fine hand to discern such a trifling imbalance.”
    I nodded politely, saying nothing. I’d meant to say the haft was too heavy for the blade, not the reverse.
    “Three days, then. I can’t wait.” Rustin’s eyes shone. “Thank you.” He bid the smith good day, and we made our way out of the sweltering shop. “You see why I wanted your advice? I’d have never noticed in a million—”
    A clatter of horses. We stepped aside, pressed against the wall of the smithy.
    A troop of Llewelyn’s guard flashed past. Someone pointed: “There he is!” They reined in so abruptly that one mount reared, pawing the air. Rustin, vigilant, thrust himself in front of me.
    The captain dismounted, hurried toward me, his hand well clear of his sword, and my tension eased. “My lord, you’re to return to the castle at once.”
    So Mother had noticed my absence. Although Rustin had sent word that I was spending the night, actually it was I who was supposed to inform her. Well, she demanded I ask, not merely inform, but ...
    Above, the distant call of a trumpet. I ignored it, aware of the smith’s boy who’d come out from his bellows, of windows thrown open and faces peering from above. I strove for dignity. “We’ll be along presently. Leave us, now.”
    Mother would be all the more furious if I spurned her summons, but she’d humiliated me in public. How could I submit, under the eyes of mere tradesmen?
    “Sir, Llewelyn himself said I was to see you home, and Lord Rustin to the keep. I dare not disobey.”
    “Llewelyn isn’t my master,” I said coolly. “We have business at the wineshop for an hour or so.” To Rustin, “It won’t hurt Mother to wait a few—”
    “The Queen your mother is dying.!”
    For a fleeting instant the street swam. Rustin touched my arm.
    The guard stammered, “I wasn’t to tell you! She fell into sleep that will not wake. Your uncle Margenthar ordered you summoned at once.”
    Again the mournful peal of trumpets from the high ramparts.
    I shuddered. It was a dirge I’d last heard six years past, on my father’s death.
    Mother was gone.
    My voice was dull. “Had I not fought with you and stayed the night, I’d be at her bedside.”
    Rustin snapped, “Captain, a horse for Rodrigo. We’ll return it later.”
    I clutched his arm, wishing I didn’t feel a stupid young boy. “Rust, I’m frightened. Come with me.”
    “All right. Two horses, then.”
    The guard said, “Lord Rustin, your father wants you—”
    “I must attend my lord the King. I’ll be home after.”
    I gulped. My lord the King. What had befallen me? Dazed, I swung myself into the proffered saddle, spurred the perspiring