The Rulers were a proud folk. Many of them would have died before yielding in a trail of strength, especially against someone from outside their own folk. But Dashru had already yielded once. Maybe that prompted him to drop to his knees. Or maybe getting sorcerously asphyxiated would have weakened almost anyone.

Whatever the reason, he choked out, “Mercy!” with what had to be close to his last breath.

By the look in Marcovefa’s eye, she would sooner have butchered and cooked him than given him what he wanted. But he’d done what she said he had to—or most of it, anyway. “I am stronger, yes?” she demanded in the Rulers’ language.

“Mercy!” Dashru said again, and then, reluctantly, “Yes.”

A moment later, he was sucking in great gulps of air. He got back his usual swarthy coloring. “You insult me again?” Marcovefa asked.

Dashru shook his head. “No,” he said. “No, wizard lady.”

“Better not.” Marcovefa made as if to spit in his face, but contemptuously turned her back instead.

“Enough lesson of speech?” Dashru asked Hamnet Thyssen. He wasn’t going to have anything more to do with Marcovefa, not if he could help it. Count Hamnet had no trouble understanding that.

“Enough language lessons, yes,” he answered. Dashru got out of there as fast as he could. Again, Hamnet would have done the same thing.

“You are too soft on him,” Marcovefa said. “He is a captive, a rabbit on the fire. He should remember.”

“He isn’t likely to forget, not now,” Hamnet said.

“If he hadn’t got out of line, he wouldn’t have needed the lesson,” Marcovefa said, adding, “Did you see how useless his countercharm was?”