Again Oruc let her bladder run out of air. He waved a servant to take away Letheko's head, and turned to Patience.

"Lady Patience," he said.

"The Heptarch is kind to speak so nobly to the daughter of his lowest slave." It was pro forma to talk that way, but Patience had her father's knack of making the trite phrases of diplomatic speech sound sincere, as if they had never been spoken before.

"How lovely," said King Oruc. He turned to his wife, who was having her hair brushed. "Hold up your mirror, my love, and look at her. I heard she was a pretty girl, but I had no idea."

The Consort lifted her mirror. Patience saw in it the reflection of the woman's pure hatred for her. Patience responded as if it had been a look of admiration, blushing and looking down.

"Lovely," said the Consort. "But her nose is too long."

"The Lady Consort is correct," said Patience, sadly.

"It was a fault in my mother's face, but my father loved her anyway." Father would have been annoyed at her for reminding them, however subtly, of her family connections.

But her tone was so flawlessly modest that they could not possibly take offense, and if the Consort continued in trying to provoke her, she would only make herself look increasingly boorish, even in the eyes of her husband.

Oruc apparently reached the same conclusion. "Your hair is sufficiently beautiful for the needs of the day," he said. "Perhaps, my love, you could go and see if Lyra is ready."

Patience noted, with satisfaction, that she had guessed correctly which daughter was meant to be the price of the Tassal treaty. She also enjoyed watching the Consort's attempt at seeming regal as she stalked out of the room.

Pathetic. King Oruc had obviously married beneath the dignity of his office. Still, she could understand the Consort's hostility. By her very existence Patience was a threat to the Consort's children.

Of course she showed none of these thoughts to King