Mouse crossed the threshold and found herself in a medium-sized room, simply furnished and decorated with wall hangings of landscapes and famed battle scenes. The furnishings were dark and tastefully arranged, and the whole place smelled mouth-wateringly of roasted meats. Despite her agitated nerves, Mouse felt her stomach grumbling with hunger. The table, she observed, had already been set with trenchers, and around it sat four men: the General, Sir Conrad, and two other men whom she did not recognize but who were soon introduced to her as Lord Batton and Sir Chelcy.

  Lord Batton, Mouse had heard of before. He occupied lands just west of Pothes Mar, on the other side of the Fjaelles. Sir Chelcy, however, was a stranger to her, and just as well, thought Mouse, for any friend of the General might as well be an enemy to her. The men rose as Mouse entered and made their addresses, but Ralist hastily returned to his seat with hardly a word.

  Mouse’s first instinct was to fortify herself with a long drink of wine and thereafter try to keep her mouth busy with food lest she say something foolish before her nerves had been given a chance to settle themselves. Platters stacked high with game meats, a hearty vat of bean stew, and bread and butter were brought to the table. Soldiers’ food, thought Mouse, helping herself to a bit of everything.

  “I sent for you earlier,” the General said as he dipped a hunk of bread into his stew and shoved it into his mouth, “but I was told you were not within.”

  Mouse’s neck flushed in response to the man’s undignified manner of address. One did not send for one’s sovereign.

  “Indeed, sir,” she said, chasing her perturbation with another swallow of wine, “I was with Lady Signy. She gave me a tour of the grounds, and I must say, I was rather impressed.”

  The General grunted but made no further reply.

  Mouse turned now to the man with pointed beard and slouching shoulders seated to her left.

  “Lord Batton,” she said, “I hear your eldest is looking for a wife. Has a match with Lady Signy not been considered? It seems your families are already friends, and I can vouch that she is a clever and industrious young woman, a credit to Lord Ralist and his wife.”

  Lord Batton blinked at her awkwardly.

  “No, Your Majesty,” he said, “I suppose I had not considered it, but I—”

  “Signy is no credit to me,” grumbled the General, tearing into another bite of stew-soaked bread. “How could she be? She is not mine.”

  Mouse forged a smile.

  “She has been your ward for some eight years, as I understand it,” she said. “And more than that, she is your cousin.” She took a slab of boar with the knife Sir Conrad had been kind enough to lend her.

  “Margarethe’s cousin,” the General said. “Not mine. The girl is of no relation to me.”

  Mouse bit into the meat. The man was beginning to irritate her. It was clear that he was determined to make himself disagreeable and everyone else miserable so long as the supper lasted.

  “Your Majesty,” said Lord Batton, “I wonder if you might—”

  “Here’s an idea,” broke in the General. “If you like the girl so much, why not take her back with you?”

  Mouse looked at the man, stunned. Who was he to speak to her thusly? What had Lady Signy done to earn his ire, and what had Mouse done to earn so little endeavor at civility?

  “I would not dare rob you of Lady Signy,” said Mouse, “for any woman, no matter how distant a relation, is an improvement upon a man’s estate.”

  The General did not bother to look up at her from his trencher.

  “Either that or the ruin of it,” he murmured.

  Mouse felt the heat blaze in her cheeks now. She picked up her cup and brought it to her lips, even though what she really wanted to do was lob it at the General’s head. She could see Lord Batton’s eyes darting uncomfortably around the table, while Sir Chelcy seemed too preoccupied with his meal to consider the General’s obstinate remark.

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  The wine had begun to soften Mouse’s nerves and loosen her tongue, but it had done nothing to blunt her anger. The General was beyond belligerence, he was deliberately provoking her. And Mouse, for all the years she had spent holding her tongue and enduring the insults of others, could not now help but to rise to it.

  “Tell me, Lord Ralist,” she said, replacing her cup for the servant to refill. “Is there no one else you think I should take back to Kriftel?”

  The man’s eyes shifted upward.

  “What do you mean?” he grumbled.

  Mouse worked her knife through another slab of boar, the warmth of the wine spreading through her chest.

  “I happened upon a familiar face this afternoon,” she said, “a man from the capital by the name of Sir Hugo.”

  The General wiped his mouth on the table cloth but said nothing, instead glowering silently at her.

  “I’m certain you know him,” said Mouse. “Everyone knows Sir Hugo. He nearly died fighting the Braquish soldiers who tried to kill Lothar. My father,” she corrected herself, hoping no one would notice her misstep. “Strange that he should end up here,” she continued, bringing the cut of meat to her mouth, “and stranger still that he was told he was not wanted in the capital.”

  The room was quiet. Mouse sank her teeth into the boar, letting the juices wet her mouth, before chasing it with a gulp of wine.

  “What do you mean to suggest?” asked the General, his voice a low and menacing growl. “You think I have something to do with it?”

  Mouse met the man’s cold, hardened gaze. The wine was whispering to her, dangerous thoughts.

  “I think that you believe me a fool,” she said.

  There was a flash in the General’s eyes, but he maintained his silence.

  Mouse felt as though she were standing on a ledge, the other side of which she could not see. But before she could stop herself, the wine had seized her tongue and commanded her to speak.

  “Did you really think I would not recognize my own men?” she asked. “Tell me, how many bound for the capital have ended up here in your barracks under the false pretense that they were no longer wanted in the capital?”

  It was a bold accusation, and Mouse had little basis for it, apart from her interview with Sir Hugo, but no sooner had the words left her mouth than she saw a flicker of unease pass across the General’s countenance and knew at once that she was right.

  “I will speak to my men on this matter,” the General said, sucking the wine from his teeth. “See what can’t be done about it.”

  Mouse smiled.

  “No,” she said, “my men will look into this matter, and your men will comply.” She replaced the knife she did not realize she had still been holding, her fingers wrapped tightly around it in a fist. “I am not leaving this place until every man who left under my service is returned to me.”

  She picked up her cup and tossed back the rest of the wine into her mouth. I am the jewel of Aros, she told herself, and no man is my equal.

  But before she could rise to leave, the General’s voice stopped her, holding in her place upon her chair.

  “What about my men?”

  Mouse’s brow drew itself together.

  “I beg your pardon?” she said, genuinely perplexed by the question.

  “My men you’ve sent to the Chatti lands,” said the General, “the smiths, the armorers, the footmen. When will I get those back?”

  Mouse’s gaze faltered, searching the walls as though the answer might be found in a tapestry. She was not prepared to answer such a question.

  It was true that the Empress had sent soldiers north, knights and men-at-arms, to instruct the Chatti in combat in the hopes that they would be able to defend themselves. Smithies had been sent to promote weapons manufacture, and armorers had taken Chatti apprentices. But all this had been done in an accordance with a century-old agreement to keep the Chatti lands as a protectorate of the Empire. It was necessary aid to help them strengthen their borders and rebuild after their shores had been ravaged by sea-faring invaders.

  For the services rendered by the crown, the Chatti had paid in salt, mountains of it. But to a man like Ralist, what did that matter?

  “Your men will be returned to you as soon as their work is done,” said Mouse, suddenly sobered by how unprepared she felt to answer. “And in the meantime, the crown thanks you for your contribution.”

  Mouse went out into the hallway where she stood with a hand pressed to her face.

  She had won. Hadn’t she? She had caught the General in the act of stealing men from the Empress’s service; he had all but admitted it. But now she was beginning to doubt herself, to wonder if she had been right or whether the General had only allowed her to think that she was.

  Just then, she felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned in alarm to see Sir Conrad.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, “if I might apologize for my lord’s behavior—" But Mouse waved the notion away.

  “You are not your master, Sir Conrad,” she said, “and I will not hold you accountable for his sins.” She smiled. “I will judge you for your own.”

  Sir Conrad’s mouth relaxed itself into a smile, his eyes studying Mouse’s face.

  “I know the hour grows late,” he said, “and I am certain you are weary for rest. But if I may steal but a few moments of your time, you would make me a very grateful man.”

  Mouse considered the knight’s request. She did not know what the Empress would do in such a circumstance, nor did she know what she would do. So, she decided to take the advice of the wine that whispered to her, dangerous thoughts.

  “Very well, Sir Conrad,” she said. “For the next few moments, I am yours.”