A private jail cell is actually a lovely place to think.

I mean, it seems ideal, doesn't it? A small, uncluttered room made up of iron bars and grey stone walls. No lighting aside from the scant illumination provided by the barred window and the two wall-mounted torches, well out of reach. Nothing to distract you.

Spend ten hours in a place like that, and you're bound to do a little pondering.

Of course, most cells were designed with that precise goal in mind. It was a stress test. If you review the circumstances of your predicament long enough, doubts begin to emerge, and your confidence gets shaken. Just about anyone accused of a crime starts second-guessing themselves when locked in a room with nothing but a chair, a chamber pot, and their thoughts.

If only they'd thought to leave me a chair . . .

I'd spent most of my imprisonment lying on the cold stone floor, staring at the grey metal bars criss-crossing the ceiling, going over the various details of my plan, making sure I hadn't forgotten anything.

They'd taken my cane and sword, which I'd expected, and made me empty my pockets, which I'd also expected. They hadn't taken away my cloak or made me remove any of my clothing however, which was what I'd been hoping for.

I rubbed my arms for warmth. It was much chillier in the cell than I'd anticipated, and I'd been provided with neither a cot nor a blanket. I found myself wishing I was still wearing some of those special garments I'd had on earlier, but they were all performing other functions at the moment - various bits of them tucked away, hidden, or otherwise concealed from view inside my cell. All part of the plan, I reminded myself, shivering slightly.

Sometimes I really hate my plans . . .

Still, it could have been worse. The cool morning air was practically begging me to work out a little. Additionally, there appeared to be a couple of large metal rings attached to the ceiling, likely used for chaining prisoners to.

Getting to my feet and crouching slightly, I leaped up and grabbed hold of one of the large, cold metal rings above me. Then I began doing pull-ups.

I'd barely managed six of them when I heard a pair of jailers enter the dimly lit hallway leading to my cell.

"Fourteen-hundred seventy-four, fourteen-hundred seventy-five-" I announced cheerfully, as though too focused on my activities to even register that they'd come in.

They strode down the dark hallway up to the cage that contained me, marching over to the door and into view. I continued doing pull-ups, reciting ridiculously large ascending numbers in a friendly, upbeat tone. Then I caught the lead knight's gaze mid-pull, and smiled as though noticing them for the first time.

"Greetings!" I called out cheerfully. "I'm going for a new record today! Are you here to tell me about lunch?"

Scowling, the lead knight waved to his companion, who stepped away from the cell and inserted a fancy-looking key into the equally fancy-looking lock set into the outside door of my prison.

My cell's entrance was composed of two elaborately constructed doors that were four or so feet apart, and which were braced against one another so they moved in tandem. This was done so that the locking mechanism on the outside door was well out of reach for anyone who was inside the cell. It made sense, really - I wasn't the only Lord who was good with locks. Why stick a master lock-picker in a cell where the lock was right there within reach?

The knight turned his key. The far door swung open, as did the door nearest me.

Letting go of the metal ring, I dropped lightly to the floor and walked through the open hallway-like cell door under the watchful eyes of both knights. Both kept enough distance between me and them to ensure I couldn't pick their pockets, which suggested that they'd heard a few things about me.

Once outside of the confines of my cell I looked a question to the lead knight, and he responded with a head gesture toward the far doorway.

"Time for a walk, I guess," I said as I critically surveyed the dimly lit hallway. "Would it be possible for either of you to fetch my cane? My leg's been giving me some trouble lately."

The lead knight simply shook his head.

"Ah well. Say, do either of you know the time?"

Both knights just continued staring tiredly at me.

I gave them both a smile and a light shrug. I did remember to limp a bit as I walked down the hallway towards the exit, whistling the most annoyingly upbeat song I knew.

If you don't already know, situations like this one are actually a form of negotiation in their own way. I wanted Tenarreau to lose his composure, just as he would want me to lose mine - that was the nature of this particular game. One slight misstep, such as a poorly timed expression, could be enough to tip the scales in the other's favor.

And so I was all smiles, projecting maniacal cheerfulness as we walked down the many corridors on our way to wherever it was they were escorting me. Halfway down the seventh corridor or so we came upon five very clean-looking guards, two of whom were on either side of an impressive wooden door to my right. Two others flanked a big, important-looking desk that strongly resembled a guard post. Seated at this desk was a fifth, bored-looking guardsman who was writing something on a piece of paper. He scarcely gave me a glance as I was marched in front of him.

"Tucat. Vincent. Viscount. Lord." The fellow slid one paper aside and reached for another, inspected it briefly, then dipped his quill in a nearby ink-jar and made a few quick marks on the paper's surface. "Tribute evasion. Preceptors Borshank and Albusequa. Waived trial by magistrate, exercising lordly privilege and pleading his case before Prince Tenarreau. Throne room, nine bells. Searched upon incarceration. Proceed with-"

"Search him again," a deep voice called out from somewhere behind the wooden door.

The guard at the desk showed surprise, then shrugged, made another mark on his piece of paper and waved his quill towards me in a gesture that I took to mean 'search him'.

I smiled and held my arms out to either side of me, allowing the two knights by the desk to pat me down. They hadn't found anything suspicious on me when they'd brought me in last night, which meant that there'd be even less chance of them finding anything this time around.

The owner of the voice, Preceptor Borshank, appeared in the doorway just as the knights were finishing their search. His steel-grey hair was regulation cut, as usual, and looked extra tidy this morning. Though he appeared fairly calm, he had the sort of face that made it really hard to tell - all deep crags and lines, none of them from laughter or smiling.

He adjusted some of the buttons at his collar while fixing me with a dark look, as if daring me to say something cheerful and annoying.

Despite the dozens of flippant, upbeat phrases that popped into my head just then, I managed to restrain myself from saying anything at all, giving him a smile and single respectful nod instead. He studied me briefly and then looked away, scowling.

"Barrister's name?" Desk-knight asked me.

"One won't be necessary, thank you," I replied, causing the fellow to snort softly before writing yet another something-or-other on his piece of paper.

"Require anything?" he asked.

"Did you deliver that message I asked to be couriered last night?"

He considered for a moment, and then flipped his current document over in order to check something on the reverse side. His finger scanned it briefly. "Yes. A messenger was sent earlier this morning."

"Excellent. Also, would it be possible to have someone fetch my cane? I believe it was confiscated when I first arrived."

"No," Borshank said, the grey-haired Preceptor's voice containing a note of finality.

"I'm pretty sure it was, actually. Could you check? Black-stained teak, silver cat head for a handle. I bought it from an Alladesh merchant who told me-"

"Cuffs," Borshank grumbled to no-one in particular, adjusting the collar of his uniform. Then he turned on his heel and disappeared down a hallway I assumed led to the throne room.

I began to wonder if there was some sort of new law that required Preceptors and their knights to speak in short, clipped sentences all the time.

A set of completely inadequate metal cuffs were located, and soon I was being marched in the same direction that Borshank had gone, my hands bound behind my back. In truth, I could have slipped the cuffs in under half a second, something that I confirmed roughly half a second after they'd first been put on my wrists. Likely just another deliberate ploy to get me worked up.

I smiled cheerfully as we walked, hands behind my back, nodding to the occasional guardsman as I left the ridiculously well-guarded section of the palace, and was escorted into the only slightly less ridiculously well-guarded section of the palace.

We stopped once we'd arrived at the Antechamber - the room just outside of the throne room itself. I'd taken a half-step towards one of the slightly uncomfortable burgundy chairs located nearby when I felt a polite but firm hand around my bicep. I looked a question to the owner of the hand, a guard to my right, who shook his head the tiniest bit.

Very well . . . I was to stand. Waiting for the Prince, in cuffs, an armed guard on either side of me. I allowed my smile to get wider, and began furiously projecting perfect calm and contentment at everyone within range.

My nose itched, so I slipped a hand out of my cuffs and surreptitiously scratched it, slipping my hand back into place a moment later. Nobody seemed to notice. I chuckled to myself.

It's the little things that amuse me.

Eventually I heard some muted shouting and carrying on coming from the throne room. The doors to the throne room were closed, and even in the oppressive silence of the Antechamber, I couldn't quite make out what was being said. The only thing I could tell about the voice itself was that it belonged to a very exasperated, very angry-sounding man. The yelling was punctuated by long stretches of silence, after which it would begin up again, sounding every bit as loud and angry as before.

After about ten minutes or so of that, a door was opened to allow someone out of the throne room, temporarily magnifying the noise I was hearing and allowing me to make out some of the angry words being bellowed.

"-the guts to do it I'd tear him limb from limb! This has already cost me-"

At which point the person leaving the throne room had fully entered the Antechamber, and the door was closed shut, muffling the unidentified speaker's voice once more. I took note of the lithe, ivory-haired woman who had just come through the doorway, and a friendly smile found its way to my face.

I received an answering smile from her as she made her way over.

"Lord Tucat," she said with just a hint of an accent, nodding slightly and causing several locks of long, white hair to briefly obscure bits of her face.

I gave her a respectful nod back. "Preceptor Albusequa."

She looked at me reproachfully. "How many times must I ask-"

"Oh! I'm sorry!" I grinned. "I must have misheard you calling me 'Lord Tucat' just now. My most sincere apologies, Peyla."

"Okay, okay, Vincent," she chuckled, her smile becoming a touch wider. "We'll have to keep it a little more formal than usual once we get inside, I'm afraid." She tossed a quick head-gesture towards the throne room doors for emphasis.

Sometimes I think she only uses gestures like that to show off that impressive mane of hair. Peyla was only twelve years my senior, and could easily pass for a woman in her late twenties or early thirties. Despite this, she'd had bone-white hair for as long as I'd known her. I didn't know why that was, but it seemed an impolite sort of thing to ask about.

"Bah! Formal, Peyla? This is just an informal chat, surely. I mean, it's not like I've actually been charged with anything."

"Vincent," she chided, "you've been charged with tribute avoidance! I was there when you were brought in - they told you what you were being charged with! I even sat down with Borshank, something I'm not too fond of, just to go over the charges against you, which-"

"Oh, this whole thing's probably just a big misunderstanding," I said. My words got a sad chuckle and a head shake.

"I sure hope you know what you're doing, Vincent. As amusing as your antics can be, you won't have much of an appreciative audience today."

"It's been bad?"

Peyla drooped a little, and she gave me a tired sigh.

"Borshank's been screaming for your head. So has just about everyone else. Things have been busy this past month. Very, very busy. In fact, we've all had to take on extra knights. Scribes as well. That's one good thing that's come from your recent tomfoolery, I suppose," she said, smiling weakly. "It highlighted a few Crown agencies that were completely ill-equipped to deal with a Haraelian Lord going completely mad."

"Really? Mad? Well, that does explain all the yelling, I suppose." I gestured towards the throne room with one shoulder. "Who's in there with Tenarreau? And why would you let some crazy Lord into the throne room in the first place?"

"I was referring to you, you silly meerkavliit," she laughed.

"Ooo . . . that's a new one! Meer-kav-liit. What's that mean in Norsh?"

Peyla rolled her eyes. "It means 'fellow who thinks he is quite clever, but who is blind to the dire peril he is inviting upon himself.'"

"Really?" I asked. "Every word of that? Honestly, I had no idea that the Norshish language was so complex! It boggles the . . . hang on, did I say that right? Norshish? Sounds a bit like a drunk trying to give directions." I affected a drunken wobble and gave her an unsteady look. "You wanna follow Greenmorrow road and head Norsh . . . well, maybe Norsh-ish, becaush thish road goesh Norsh-easht after a bit, and-"

"You know, I really worry about you sometimes, Vincent."

"I know you do," I chuckled. "It's one of the reasons I do these sorts of things in the first place - you're just so cute when you're worried."

"Did you just refer to the West Preceptor of Harael as . . . cute?" Peyla arched an eyebrow at me.

I laughed. "Seriously though. Who's in there with Tenarreau right now? Anyone I should be worried about?"

"A 'consortium', as it were," Peyla sighed, idly brushing her hair back with one hand. "And yes, you should probably be worried about all of them. Eight, by my count. The one we're hearing every now and again is Lord Hartman. I'm quite surprised that the Prince isn't yelling back just as loudly, actually. Everything's been going to Hades in a bread-pan lately, and just about everybody's on edge." She began to count off fingers. "Most citizens are in an uproar, and have been demanding their rent be lowered. Most of the Lords in Harael South have complained to Borshank that you're messing with their income. Some have even come to me, which means it's probably a city-wide problem, and not just limited to your immediate neighbors. And almost all Lords have reportedly turned in ten to twenty percent less tribute this month as a result of them losing tenants to your discounted 'rent policy'. Scores of new Crown Knights and scribes have been hired on to handle the extra paperwork from the dearth of tenants moving to your territory, as well as to deal with and file all the complaints and disturbances from the ones who weren't quick enough to move, and who now feel cheated as a result. All of this has resulted in the city's coffers being lighter than they've ever been. And, of course, everyone whose purse has gotten lighter has been coming to Tenarreau and asking him to do something about it. Or rather, something about you."

"Ah. But still, aside from that . . . same old grind, neh?"

She gave a light laugh and shook her head.

A moment later the throne room doors burst open, and a small convoy of scowling, angry faces made their way into the Antechamber, led by two Crown Knights. Peyla turned her head toward the collection of faces, looked at the knights, then swore lightly under her breath.

I spied the elegantly embroidered robes of Lord Tudor, the familiarly coiffed white hair of Lord Hartman, the squat form of Lord Forbeau, and several other Lords who weren't familiar to me. One of the Lords I didn't recognize (and who had the most unfortunate jowls I'd ever seen in my life) looked in my direction, stopped mid-step, and pointed directly at me from across the room.

"You!" he bleated excitedly, causing every other Lord to stop mid-stride and look in my direction.

I gave the collection of Lords the most pleasant look I could manage. The most pleasant look I got from them in return could only be described as 'openly hostile'.

Lord Forbeau, seeming to forget where he was, actually stepped toward me and began drawing his sword. He was stopped mid-action by several of his fellow Lords, most of whom were busy grabbing his arms and tunic in an effort to restrain the red-faced fellow as he lurched forward, sputtering epithets at me from across the room. I was able to discern him say the word 'kill', along with several other less appropriate words that I shan't repeat.

I guess he was still a little sore over that exploding purse prank.

"Lord Forbeau!" Peyla barked, her voice louder than I'd even thought possible, her hand now resting gently on the pommel of her own sword. "Could you please repeat that? I'm not quite sure I heard you properly."

"I'm sure he was just clearing his throat, Preceptor Albusequa," Lord Tudor said tiredly. "He's been fighting off a terrible cold all morning."

"Well, I do hope he gets over it soon," she replied, her voice losing none of its edge. "I'd hate to see this 'cold' of his turn into an unfortunate, long-term health problem."

I felt my eyes widen the tiniest bit. Threats, even fairly subtle ones, just weren't Peyla's style at all.

Geeze . . . everyone really was wound up! This whole thing was working even better than I'd thought.

I was probably going to have to watch my step a little.

Eventually, after much muttering and talking in hushed voices, the collection of Lords made their way to the exit under the watchful eyes of Peyla. Once they had disappeared from view, she held a finger up to me in a 'wait' gesture and strode off toward the two knights who had led the convoy of Lords from the throne room.

"The other exit, I said," she spat, addressing the taller of the two knights. "Was I not clear that you weren't to bring them out this way?"

"Apologies, Preceptor," the knight mumbled, looking uncomfortable. "I told Preceptor Borshank that those were your orders, but he countermanded them. We were ordered to escort them out via the Antechamber instead."

Peyla swore quietly in Norsh as she walked back over to me. I don't know why, but Norsh swears always remind me of tongue-twisters.

"Terrence can be such an ass," she muttered under her breath. "I wanted to avoid a scene, but I guess my co-preceptor had different ideas."

"Everyone's on edge, you say?" I mused. "Well, I suppose I'll just have to take your word for it."

She gave me a weak smile. "Yours should be up next. This is serious, Vincent, so please . . . treat it seriously, okay? For me? Funerals always make me sad."

I gave her a noncommittal shrug. "Like I said, Peyla - just a big misunderstanding."

A herald arrived from the throne room, cleared his throat, and called my name and title in a loud, theatrically pompous voice. Peyla made a gesture to my guards, gave me a terse nod, and then we all walked into the throne room together.

I made a point of stretching out my shoulders as we walked, and took a few deep breaths for good measure. Above all else I needed to appear unconcerned and relaxed during this meeting. Some important elements of my plan hinged on how smug I was able to look.

My guards, two on either side, escorted me to a spot about ten feet away from Tenarreau's throne and left me there, my wrists still bound behind me. Borshank stood near the throne, reading a piece of paper and scowling. I took a quick opportunity to look around the throne room so I could see who else was in attendance today. Then I put on a bored expression, ignored the faces on either side of me and focused my attention on Tenarreau himself.

He appeared in good spirits, his eyes combing over the details of a piece of paper he was holding, looking as he might on any normal day. I'd been kind of hoping that he'd be looking a little disheveled and haggard, but he actually looked more spry than usual. Of course, his demeanor was probably as much an act as my own.

He kept me standing there for a couple of minutes or so, as he usually did, before stopping what he was doing and appearing to notice me for the first time.

"Oh, hullo Tucat!" he drawled, a confident smirk appearing on his face. "I say, we've seen rather a lot of each other lately, neh? Or maybe it just seems that way, now that I think about it. Every other matter brought to my attention this month has seen your name mentioned once or twice."

"Highness, I'm delighted to know that word of my activities have found their way to your ears," I said, bowing as far as I could with my wrists cuffed behind me.

"Yes, I rather figured you might be," Tenarreau said, blandly, eyes flitting to another piece of paper that he picked up from the arm of his throne. "Preceptor Borshank, will you kindly read the charges?"

"Objection!" I announced in a loud, clear voice.

Borshank's eyes bulged. "If you think I'll let you turn these proceedings into a mockery, I've got-"

The pink-faced Preceptor's outburst was silenced by a single raised finger from Tenarreau, who continued to regard me with a calm, relaxed expression.

"Alright, Tucat. I know you've never been to one of these before, and we'll educate you on protocol later, but for the moment, what is it you'd like to object to?"

"These 'charges', or whatever," I said. "They're complete horse-pucky."

I could hear muted murmuring from those in attendance, and Tenarreau's smile got a touch wider.

"Well, perhaps we should actually hear what you've been charged with before you go objecting, hmm?" He waved for Borshank to continue.

"On this day," Borshank announced loudly, unfurling a scroll he held, "forty-first of the year twenty-and-three Tenarreau, the Crown has deemed it necessary to levy against Lord Vincent Tucat, Viscount of E'ren-Dell, the charges of tribute avoidance, and unlawful tribute adjustment."

"Tribute avoidance?!" I spluttered with as much indignation I could muster. "What in Baal's name are you talking about? I turned over all of my tribute first thing yesterday morning!" I gave Tenarreau a wary look. "Are you trying to tell me that I came up . . . short?"

There was louder murmuring at that, as well as a few gasps. I heard Peyla swear quietly in Norsh.

Tenarreau's smile barely flickered.

"Yes. Unusual, really, as you've never once had an issue with tribute in the entire time you've been a Lord. I'm hoping we can sort this out . . . keep this incident from becoming an unsightly blemish on an otherwise spotless record."

Well, I make fun of his height, he makes fun of my scars. Fair trade.

"Did I make some small miscalculation, Highness? Was there less money than I reported? I assure you, I double-counted what I turned in, so if a little bit has gone missing . . ."

"Oh no, it was all there," Tenarreau said, ignoring my jibes with supreme aplomb, waving one hand at a nearby table I hadn't noticed when I'd walked in. It contain several paper notes, and the coin sack I'd given the tribute collector. "It's the actual amount you reported that has us concerned."

"Is it? Well then, I'm afraid that I must confess that I simply don't understand any of these charges at all."

"Lord Tucat," Preceptor Borshank snarled. "The ledger you turned in suggests that all of your tenants are now being charged a mere two grey."

"Correct," I said. "So?"

"So?" he growled. "It's illegal!"

"What? Since when?"

"Since before you were born! Since the day I, personally, wrote the precept that made it illegal and had it passed as law!" he shouted. "Temporary discounting tribute and paying the full amount yourself is permitted under some circumstances, but the yearly maximum a Lord is allowed to adjust the amount owed to them by tenants is one half of one tenth! This was specifically done to prevent the kind of chaos that you seem so hell-bent on creating lately, which-"

"Point of law," I announced in a loud, formal-sounding voice.

Borshank stopped mid-speech, and managed to look even more enraged.

The Prince frowned at me. "Pardon?"

"Point of law. Unless I'm mistaken, a Lord is allowed to confirm the word-for-word content of the precept he's being accused of breaking, rather than trust his Preceptor's interpretation of it. Some Barrister told me that once, I think. I'd like to exercise that privilege now, if you please."

"You miserable, blighted cur - I wrote the bloody thing!" Borshank spat, his eyes bulging further. "It's my law! Are you saying I don't know how to interpret my own bloody law?!"

I gave the room a half-shrug, saying nothing. After a few moments Tenarreau nodded slightly, giving me a patiently amused smirk.

"Page?" he called out.

Within moments a gaudily uniformed boy appeared beside the throne. The prince swiveled his head and regarded him.

"Precept on Unlawful Tribute Adjustment. Number thirty-eight, if I'm not mistaken. Have a Herald fetch the actual document for us, please. Oh, and tell him he might also want to have the precept on Tribute Avoidance handy as well, since Lord Tucat seems determined to make a nuisance of himself today."

Giving Tenarreau a terse nod, the kid bolted from the room and ran off, presumably to the hall of records.

The next ten minutes or so were fairly awkward. I was kept standing there in the middle of the room, wrists cuffed. There was nobody nearby to talk to, and I couldn't hear anybody else in the throne room talking either. And so, mostly, I just kept trading the occasional look with Borshank or Tenarreau to pass the time, throwing in the odd yawn for good measure. Borshank looked like he might explode at any moment. The Prince, who understood the nature of this particular game far better than his Preceptor, simply sat patiently, reading from his collection of papers, giving me the odd half-smile, yawning once or twice himself.

Eventually I realized I should use this opportunity to properly inspect my surroundings, something I hadn't really had a chance to do when seeing the Prince previously. If you've never been in the throne room before, it's actually rather nice - a large, eight-sided room with a raised dais containing the jeweled throne in the center, an impossibly well lit domed ceiling, and decorative Alledesh-style pillars (nine of them, which I thought was a bit odd for an eight-sided room, but whatever) that reached all the way to the roof. Excluding the dozen or so guards there were about twenty other people in the room that I could see, though it could easily hold several hundred at once. I took a little time to note the warm colors of the decor, and allowed my eyes to linger over a few of the more grandiose paintings that hung on the walls.

Just as I was beginning to get the tiniest bit bored, a breathless Herald burst into the room holding two ornate cylinders, one in each hand. Borshank snapped his fingers authoritatively at him, at which point the fellow bolted over to where the Preceptor stood.

Borshank scowled, snatched one of the cylinders from the young Herald's hands and inspected it briefly. Then he handed it back to the Herald, took the other from him, opened the top and pulled out a thick, well-preserved scroll. Not even bothering to hand the empty container back, he unrolled the parchment and began to read from the middle of it in a loud, scornful tone of voice.

"Under the mandate of 'The Orderly Administration of Property', sub-heading 'Tenant Protection', Precept number thirty-eight, part three, titled 'Unlawful Tribute Adjustment'. Signed to law by Preceptor Borshank, two-hundred and seventh day of the year forty-and-one Fauromoon." He cleared his throat and glared at me briefly before returning his attention to the parchment. "In accordance with the Lordly administration of property, whereas it has been established through writ or by witness that all of the requirements regarding the administration of both property and tenant fealty have been met satisfactorily, it is hereby understood that no Lord shall arrange for, or allow to be arranged in his stead, any-"

Borshank's voice stopped very abruptly. For several moments he was absolutely still, eyes locked on the parchment he held.

"Sorry, was that it?" I inquired cheerfully. "Sort of sounds like it drops off right in the middle or something. Is there more?"

Tenarreau raised a single eyebrow and looked at the flummoxed Preceptor, who was now grinding his teeth.

"Preceptor Borshank?" the Prince asked, sounding mildly curious.

The big, stern-looking man took a breath, exhaled slowly, and continued reading.

"-any increase in the assigned tribute or tithe amount that is greater than one half of one tenth of the amount charged at any point prior to that within the span of the previous year," he finished, his voice not quite as loud or obnoxious as the one he'd been using before.

I let my face relax into the angelic, innocent expression I'd been practicing in the mirror for the past week.

Nobody said anything for a good, long while.

"Well then," Tenarreau said eventually, without even a trace of bitterness. "How clever. It appears that our dear Lord Tucat was perfectly within his rights, adjusting his tribute like he did, would you not say, Preceptor?"

Borshank was silent. He stood there glaring bloody murder at me, arms locked in place, scroll still half-opened before him.

For the next half minute or so, the only sound I could hear was that of my own breathing, and the steady thrumming of my heart as I waited patiently.

Eventually, Peyla cleared her throat and addressed Tenarreau.

"Would it not make sense, Highness, that if Lord Tucat were cleared of the charges of unlawful tribute adjustment, the charge of tribute avoidance would similarly disappear?"

"Quite right, Preceptor Albusequa." The diminutive Prince gave me a tight-lipped smile, and for the first time in the conversation I thought I caught a trace of annoyance. "Well, I suppose I shall have to do something about that particular precept, neh? Can't have Lords going crazy, running around and spontaneously throwing the city's money away, after all. Preceptor Borshank . . . It's your law. How would you deal with this problem?"

Borshank stared at me long enough for me to wonder if he'd heard the Prince at all. Eventually, he broke eye-contact and regarded the scroll before him.

"Amend Precept thirty-eight, replace the word 'increase' with 'change'," he finally growled. "Rewritten and passed as law right away, categorized as critical so we can make it retroactive for a month, as per Precept forty-seven."

"And when might the amendment be ready? Thirty-eight is one of the longer ones, isn't it? Rewriting that entire precept just to change that one silly little word will take some time, I would imagine."

"I know of one particularly good scribe, Highness. The rewritten precept will be ready by tomorrow morning."

"With any extra charges paid out-of-pocket, I'm assuming?" Tenarreau asked, smiling without humor. "This is your precept, after all, and since all the Crown scribes are currently booked solid in order to deal with our current paperwork situation . . ."

"Of course, Highness," Borshank acknowledged with a nod, fixing me with yet another furious look shortly after. "I'll pay for the scribe myself."

"Excellent," said Tenarreau, beaming at me. "Well now, it looks like all that's been sorted out. Tomorrow we'll pass it into law, and then make it retroactive for forty days. You probably didn't know we could do that, did you?" He favored me with a look of mock disappointment. "This does mean, rather unfortunately, that you'll shortly be required to collect the proper amount from all of your tenants instead of the two grey you've already reported. I doubt they'll take kindly to the news, but I'm sure you'll be able to talk them through it. Do try to ensure they don't riot or anything, hey Tucat?"

He fixed me with the smile of a man who's just won three Roc'la squares with one stone. It was time to out-smug him a little.

I slipped my right wrist out of my cuffs.

"As your Highness wishes," I said cooly, putting my hand in front of my waist and giving him as extravagant a bow as I could manage, complete with flourish. Once finished, I deftly slipped my wrist back into its metal cuff. "I'll just tell them the truth - that you ordered me to take their money. Can't go wrong with that. I presume that I am free to leave, now that this little misunderstanding has been cleared up?"

"Mmm," the Prince said, regarding me thoughtfully. "You know, something's just occurred to me. I think we should keep you tucked away somewhere safe for a while, Tucat. At least, until tomorrow."

"Oh? Well, I can't say I blame you for wanting me locked up, Highness. Can't have a dangerous rogue like myself running around on the loose, lowering people's rent all willy-nilly."

"Dangerous? No, no, nothing like that. I'd just like you to be here when I read the new precept into law, so there'll be no misunderstandings of this sort later on." He eyed me critically. "Also, I did just have a meeting with several Lords who appeared to be quite wroth with you, and I recall that a few of them have a bit of a temper. No, I think it would be wise if you made yourself at home in our jails temporarily. For your own safety, of course."

"I don't think that will be necessary, Highness," I said.

"Nevertheless, I'm afraid I must insist. I'd feel dreadful if anything were to happen to you, now that matters have resolved themselves." He smiled beatifically at me. "I hope you understand."

"Understand? Why, I'm delighted!" I said brightly. "I've got my street credibility to think about, after all. Some time in the palace jails might be just the sort of thing my reputation needs. Makes for a very dramatic party anecdote - me sitting in a dank prison, locked up tight, dozens of guards keeping watch as-"

"I don't think any guards will be necessary, actually."

"Oh? You'll be chaining me to a wall then? Or the ceiling perhaps? I've got a bit of a back problem at the moment, and a few hours hanging by my arms sounds like it might be just the thing."

"No, there'll be no need to chain you," said Tenarreau. "You'll merely be a guest of the Crown."

"Well, how about some colorful, ill-fitting prison garments then?"

"Unnecessary."

I frowned. "Some hideously deformed caretaker coming by and waking me every hour or so?"

"I don't think so."

"Wanted poster?"

"No."

I heaved a disappointed sigh. "Not much of an anecdote then. Well, you can't have everything. Still, Highness, I was wondering if I could ask for a . . . tiny favor?"

"But of course, Lord Tucat," he said, smiling without any trace of humor.

"Well, seeing as how I'm your 'guest', I was wondering if you could have someone rouse me . . . say, around eight bells? It would seem that I somehow managed to sleep right through breakfast this morning."

Tenarreau smiled and gestured to his guards. "Please see him to his quarters."

Two of my escort marched up on either side of me, firmly grabbed my arms below the shoulder, and led me off toward the Antechamber. I kept my bemused half-smile plastered on my face as I was taken away.

Neither of us had flinched. It looked like round one was a tie.

On to round two.