"What are you saying, Father?"

The old man goggled at him, flaky jowls swaying from constant trembling. It was during moments like these that Steppo prayed he would die young, preferably on the field of battle, in front of his followers, with glorious words of freedom on his lips. He would be praised as a hero, his name sung by the oppressed, whispered in terror by the wicked. He would certainly not live to become a tiresome wax doll like this man seated before him, especially because everyone assured him he was the spitting image of his father when he had been young. Of course, it made sense to resemble one's parents, but Steppo was not overly grateful for his lot in life. Son and heir of a high-ranking official of the treacherous monarchy hardly seemed fertile ground for a leader of the people's revolution. He should have been born poor, made to suffer unspeakable injustices, abandoned or orphaned, scraping his way through this cruel world. Unfortunately, the world hadn't been cruel to him, just monumentally unfair, as seemed to be the case in this very instant.

"I just don't think I understand you."

"I've been saying the same thing I've been saying for nigh on a quarter of an hour, hoping against all hope that my eldest son would take heed and act accordingly."

Of course he had to speak like that. It reminded Steppo of one of those dry tomes he'd been made to study in his academy courses, then transcribe, recite, and interpret. Invariably, that only amounted to making Steppo's life miserable and wasting the time he could have been spending building the revolutionary army he'd always dreamed of. But that day would come, he'd sworn to it.

"Are you about to impart a morsel of wisdom or have you been rendered silent by the revelation of your own shortcomings?"

Steppo ground his teeth, but managed an ingratiating smile. Or rather, he peeled back his lips and tried to look less menacing. Good thing his father was half blind, or else he'd get another earful. He marveled at being able to answer in a level tone.

"I haven't been saying anything because you haven't been saying anything."

"I have-"

"Beaten around the attahna for nigh on half a quarter of an hour, and I'm still nowhere close to understanding you. Your son is aware of his shortcomings, Minister Sebek, and he urges you to make your intentions clear to him in plain speech, so that his limited faculties may aid him in pleasing you."

Steppo watched his father chew his lower lip in evident disapproval, but he spoke before long.

"Our king is to join the rest of the Inner Council members for the traditional hunt at Tzeru Forest. It is your father's particular wish that you accompany him to this event, as well as to the remaining ceremonial rituals of the day."

"Day? What day? Not the-"

"The Day of the Monarchy."

The mother of all groans made its way up Steppo's throat, and he had to clasp his hand against his mouth to stifle it. Fortunately, his father seemed intent on rambling on about the importance of that wretched attendance.

"Our king himself will choose a champion from the present hunters, a man who is bound to bring honor to his family, a prospect which, in this life, should preoccupy an heir above all other matters. To serve our king and-"

"Oh, give it up, Father, with this ridiculous show of subservience!" snapped Steppo, peeling his hand away from his face and bringing it down hard on the floor cushion. "You go on and on with this «our king» nonsense, as if you didn't call him a rotten brat just a few months ago."

Upon hearing these blasphemous words issued from his own flesh and blood, Minister Sebek widened his rheumy eyes to an almost unbelievable degree, while his trembling increased and his splotched withered hands grasped fruitlessly at the Terevansian silk tablecloth. For his part, Steppo immediately regretted his outburst and started praying once again, this time for his father not to have a stroke. It wasn't so much a matter of filial concern as sheer terror at the prospect of inheriting the title. Even though he had long entered his third decade of life, Steppo had never properly reconciled himself with that notion.

"He is our king, and that is all we need to concern ourselves with!"

Steppo sighed in relief to find his father coherent, albeit still shaking.

"So now that he's king, he's absolved of being an incorrigible dunce who makes a mess of the most basic of official ceremonies, or are you finally cutting him some slack for not being raised as the heir to the throne?"

Sensing his father's hesitation, Steppo pressed his case. There was no way he'd attend a celebration of the most vile and repugnant institution in the world.

"It is not our lot to guide his hand as if he were an infant. The throne is now his and he must grow to fit it, and I don't mean like getting fat. The hunt is just an excuse for the old ministers to get together and ingratiate themselves to the king while their designated hunters battle it out to see who can take down more defenseless birds. It's been done for years and I've never known you to enjoy it. And you never asked me to take part, either. There might have been a point back when the old king still lived, but this one won't be in any mood to listen to your drivel. He'll probably be too busy fantasizing about his concubines. And there's no point in fighting for the champion's prize. We all know that bastard Karuss will get it again, especially now that his master's buddy-buddy with the king. So please, spare us the spectacle."

The old man sighed, then raised his scrawny head to stare his son in the eye.

"There is talk in select quarters that proceedings will be different this time around. You are to come with me, Steppano, and you will make our family proud. Other ministers are said to bring their sons for this very purpose. That, and sensing the opportunity to make their own buddy-buddies with the king. That man's son need not be the only one if you knew how to play your hand right."

Steppo found that he was the one shaking now, the suggestion having offended him down to every fiber of his being.

"You want me to make friends with the king?" he whispered incredulously. "With that uncouth donkey who cares not a wit for anyone other than himself? I suppose I'm expected to try for Jebril's son while I'm at it. Maybe the three of us could bring about a new age of enlightenment."

"I beg you not to mention that name while I still draw breath. And as for what you are expected to do, it merely amounts to conducting yourself with the dignity demanded of your position as my son and heir, though if your description of the king is to be believed, you are less dissimilar than you might hope."

Steppo could do nothing but stare now, words flitting before him, yet refusing to coalesce into a winning argument that might spare him this ultimate shame. He startled when his father reached out to pat him gently on the arm.

"I only ask that you try. It is said you may garner favor only by being present, so do make yourself seen at least. Then you will please me and give hungry mouths less to speculate about."

At last, a glimmer of suspicion entered Steppo's awareness.

"What mouths?" he demanded. "You've been saying «it's been said», but who's been saying it? How did you hear about this? Who told you?"

His father merely patted him again, which was all the confirmation he needed.

"Go rest now. Aratti knows, I shouldn't be up at this hour." The old man paused, removing his hand from his son's sleeve and rubbing his fingers together. "And do try to keep your garments clean," he continued plaintively. "Think of the servants' unnecessary hustle and of your own poor father, whom you've now gotten reacquainted with dirt."

"Forgive me, poor father. I will endeavor to be more considerate."

Lowering his gaze to spare his sire the murderous look he was casting on all that surrounded him, he murmured a perfunctory good night, stood up slowly, and retreated to the door. Sweat was beading his forehead by the time he escaped to the corridor and he could feel the clammy layers of his clothes clinging to his overheated flesh.

Tahni. Of course. His little sister wouldn't stop at robbing the estate from under his nose, now she had to see him sacrificed to the unholy midden heap that was the Kassi Royal Court, strip him of his very dignity as a human being. How dare she? It wasn't as if she did anything valuable with her time, the only daughter of the War Minister. True, their country now lived through a period of what most called peace, but Steppo could see the hypocrisy in their contentment. That stability they so praised had been bought with the lives of their own men, youths who had never lived to see their own dreams come true, who had shed their blood in pointless battles with the enemies beyond their border, when they should have focused on the true enemy lurking within. Steppo would see to that, and so would history remember him. Not as a mewling courtier who bowed and scraped when a stork-faced imbecile barely older than him pranced around holding the nation's fate in his hand, just because he'd popped out of a royal concubine.

A gentle murmur of voices brought him up short, and he realized his steps had unwittingly carried him to the women's wing. It was just like the men's, only warmer and smelling faintly of rose oil. Steppo ducked into a sheltered alcove between the rough wall and the ancient cabinet housing mother's porcelain swine herder collection. Closing his eyes, he let out a long-suffering breath and considered his next move.

His sister's room was just around the corner. He could sneak in and give her a piece of his mind. And if she wasn't there, he might look around and-

His eyes flew open and he retraced his thoughts until he sensed the opportunity lurking. Yes, this might just work. His funds were low and Tahni owed him now, so he might as well attempt a comeback. And certainly not the one she was expecting.

Smiling, he pushed his way out of the narrow hiding place, strolled two doors down, noticed with relish that the lights were still on, and knocked politely.

"Mother," he called out cheerfully, "may I come in?"