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  He was laughing now, and she snorted. "I never know what you'll choose to mention about yourself, Po."

  "It's meant for the eyes of the wife I'm supposed to have," he said.

  "Whom will you marry?"

  He shrugged. "I hadn't pictured myself marrying anyone."

  She moved to his side of the fire and sliced the other drumstick for herself. She went back and sat down. "Aren't you concerned about your castle and your land? About producing heirs?"

  He shrugged again. "Not enough to attach me to a person I don't wish to be attached to. I'm content enough on my own."

  Katsa was surprised. "I had thought of you as more of a—social creature, when you're in your own land."

  "When I'm in Lienid I do a decent job of folding myself into normal society, when I must. But it's an act, Katsa; it's always an act. It's a strain to hide my Grace, especially from my family. When I'm in my father's city there's a part of me that's simply waiting until I can travel again. Or return to my own castle, where I'm left alone."

  This she could understand perfectly. "I suppose if you married, it could only be to a woman trustworthy enough to know the truth of your Grace."

  He barked out a short laugh. "Yes. The woman I married would have to meet a number of rather impossible requirements." He threw the bone from his drumstick into the fire and cut another piece of meat from the goose. He blew on the meat, to cool it. "And what of you, Katsa? You've broken Giddon's heart with your departure, haven't you?"

  His very name filled her with impatience. "Giddon. And can you really not see why I wouldn't wish to marry him?"

  "I can see a thousand reasons why you wouldn't wish to marry him. But I don't know which is your reason."

  "Even if I wished to marry, I wouldn't marry Giddon," Katsa said. "But I won't marry, not anyone. I'm surprised you hadn't heard that rumor. You were at Randa's court long enough."

  "Oh, I heard it. But I also heard you were some kind of feckless thug and that Randa had you under his thumb. Neither of which turned out to be true."

  She smiled then and threw her own bone into the fire. One of the horses whickered. Some small creature slipped into the pond, the water closing around it with a gulp. She suddenly felt warm and content, and full of good food.

  "Raffin and I talked once about marrying," she said. "For he's not wild about the idea of marrying some noblewoman who thinks only of being rich or being queen. And of course, he must marry someone, he has no choice in the matter. And to marry me would be an easy solution. We get along, I wouldn't try to keep him from his experiments. He wouldn't expect me to entertain his guests, he wouldn't keep me from the Council." She thought of Raffin bending over his books and his flasks. He was probably working on some experiment right now, with Bann at his side. By the time she returned to court, perhaps he would be married to some lady or another. He married, and she not there for him to come to and talk of it; she not there to tell him her thoughts, if he wished to hear them, as he always did.

  "In the end," she said, "it was out of the question. We laughed about it, for I couldn't even begin to consider it seriously. I wouldn't ever consent to be queen. And Raffin will require children, which I'd also never consent to. And I won't be so tied to another person. Not even Raffin." She squinted into the fire, and sighed over her cousin whose responsibilities were so heavy. "I hope he'll fall in love with some woman who'll make a happy queen and mother. That would be the best thing for him. Some woman who wants a whole roost of children."

  Po tilted his head at her. "Do you dislike children?"

  "I've never disliked the children I've met. I've just never wanted them. I haven't wanted to mother them. I can't explain it."

  She remembered Giddon then, who had assured her that this would change. As if he knew her heart, as if he had the slightest understanding of her heart. She threw another bone into the fire and hacked another piece of meat from the goose. She felt Po's eyes, and looked up at him, scowling.

  "Why are you glaring at me," he asked, "when for all I can tell, you're not angry with me?"

  She smiled. "I was only thinking Giddon would have found me a very vexing wife. I wonder if he would've understood when I planted a patch of seabane in the gardens. Or perhaps he would've thought me charmingly domestic."

  Po looked puzzled. "What's seabane?"

  "I don't know if you have another name for it in Lienid. It's a small purple flower. A woman who eats its leaves will not bear a child."

  THEY WRAPPED themselves in their blankets and lay before the dying fire. Po yawned a great, deep yawn, but Katsa wasn't tired. A question occurred to her. But she didn't want to wake him, if he was falling asleep.

  "What is it, Katsa? I'm awake."

  She didn't know if she would ever get used to that.

  "I was wondering whether I could wake you," she said, "by calling to you inside your mind when you're sleeping."

  "I don't know," he said. "I don't sense things while I'm sleeping, but if I'm in danger or if someone approaches, I always wake. You may try it"—he yawned again—"if you must."

  "I'll try it another night," she said, "when you're less tired."

  "Aren't you ever tired, Katsa?"

  "I'm sure I am," she said, though she couldn't bring a specific example to mind.

  "Do you know the story of King Leck of Monsea?"

  "I didn't know there was a story."

  "There is," Po said, "a story from ages ago, and you should know it if we're to travel to his kingdom. I'll tell it to you, and perhaps you'll feel more tired."

  He rolled onto his back. She lay on her side and watched the line of his profile in the light of the dying fire.

  "The last King and Queen of Monsea were kind people. Not particularly great state minds," he said, "but they had good advisers, and they were kinder to their people than most today could even imagine, for a king and queen. But they were childless. It wasn't a good thing, Katsa, as it would be for you. They wanted a child desperately, so that they might have an heir—but also just because they wanted one, as I suppose most people do. And then one day, a boy came to their court. A handsome boy of about thirteen years, clever-looking, with a patch over one eye, for he'd lost an eye when he was younger. He didn't say where he came from, or who his parents were, or what had happened to his eye. He only came to court begging and telling stories in return for food and money.

  "The servants took him in, for he told such wonderful stories—wild stories about a place beyond the seven kingdoms, where monsters come out of the sea and air, and armies burst out of holes in the mountains, and the people are different from anyone we've ever known. Eventually the king and queen learned of him and he was brought before them to tell his stories. The boy charmed them completely—charmed them from the first day. They pitied him, for his poverty and loneliness and his missing eye. They began to bring him into their presence for meals, or ask for him when they'd returned from long journeys, or call him to their rooms in the evenings. They treated him like a noble boy; he was educated, and taught to fight and ride. They treated him almost as if he were their own son. And when the boy was sixteen and the king and queen still didn't have a child of their own, the king did something extraordinary. He named the boy his heir."

  "Even though they knew nothing of his past?"

  "Even though they knew nothing of his past. And this is where the story truly becomes interesting, Katsa. For not a week after the king had named the boy his heir, the king and queen died of a sudden sickness. And their two closest advisers fell into despair and threw themselves into the river. Or so the story goes. I don't know that there were any witnesses."

  Katsa propped herself on her elbow and stared at him.

  "Do you think that strange?" he asked. "I've always thought it strange. But the Monsean people never questioned it, and all in my family who've met Leck tell me I'm foolish to wonder. They say Leck is utterly charming, even his eyepatch is charming. They say he grieved for the king and queen terribly and could
n't possibly have had anything to do with their deaths."

  "I've never known this story," Katsa said. "I didn't even know Leck was missing an eye. Have you met him?"

  "I haven't," Po said. "But I've always had a feeling I wouldn't take to him as others have. Despite his great reputation for kindness to the small and the powerless." He yawned and turned onto his side. "Well, and I suppose we'll both learn soon enough whether we take to him, if things go as I expect. Good night to you, Katsa. We may reach the inn tomorrow."

  Katsa closed her eyes and listened to his breath grow steady and even. She considered the tale he'd told. It was hard to reconcile King Leck's pleasant reputation with this story. Still, perhaps he was innocent. Perhaps there was some logical explanation.

  She wondered what reception they would receive at the inn, and whether they'd be lucky enough to cross paths with someone who held the information they sought. She listened to the sounds of the pond and the breeze in the grasses.

  When she thought Po had fallen asleep, she said his name aloud once, quietly. He didn't stir. She thought his name once, quietly, like a whisper in her mind. Again, he didn't stir, and his breathing didn't change.

  He was asleep.

  Katsa exhaled, slowly.

  She was the greatest fool in all the seven kingdoms.

  Why, when she fought with him almost every day, when she knew every part of his body; why, when she'd sat on his stomach, and wrestled with him on the ground and could probably identify his arm hold faster than any wife would recognize the embrace of her own husband, had the sight of his arms and his shoulders so embarrassed her? She had seen a thousand shirtless men before, in the practice rooms or when traveling with Giddon and Oll. Raffin practically undressed in front of her, they were so used to each other. It was like his eyes. Unless they were fighting, Po's body had the same effect on her as his eyes.

  His breathing changed, and she froze her thoughts. She listened as his breathing settled back into a rhythm.

  It was not going to be simple with Po. Nothing with Po was going to be simple. But he was her friend, and so she GrACELING—201 would travel with him. She would help him uncover the kidnapper of his grandfather. And by all means, she would take care not to tumble him into any more ponds.

  And now she must sleep. She turned her back to him and willed her mind to darkness.

  Chapter Eighteen

  THE INN was a great, tall building made of solid lumber. The farther south one rode into Sunder, the heavier and thicker the wood of the trees, and the stronger and more imposing the houses and inns. Katsa had not spent much time in central Sunder; her uncle had sent her there two or three times, perhaps. But the wild forests and simple, sturdy little towns, too far from the borders to be involved in the nonsense of the kings, had always pleased Katsa. The walls of the inn felt like castle walls, but darker, and warmer.

  They sat at a table, in a roomful of men sitting at tables—heavy, dark tables built from the same wood as the walls. It was the time of day when men of the town and travelers alike poured into the inn's great eating room and sat down, to talk and laugh over a cup of something strong to drink. The room had recovered from the hush that afflicted it when Po and Katsa first walked through the door. The men were noisy now, and jovial, and if they did peek at the Graceling royalty over their cups and around their chairs, well, at least they didn't stare outright.

  Po sat back in his chair. His eyes flicked lazily around the room. He drank from his cup of cider, and his finger traced the wet ring it left on the table. He leaned his elbow on the table and propped his head in his hand. He yawned. He looked, Katsa thought, as if he only needed a lullaby and he would nod off to sleep. It was a good act.

  His eyes flashed at her then, and with them a glimmer of a smile. "I don't think we'll stay long at this inn," he said, his voice low. "There are men in this room who've already taken an interest in us."

  Po had informed the innkeeper that they would offer money for any information about the kidnapping of Grandfather Tealiff. Men—particularly Sunderan men, if men are like their king—would do a great deal for money. They would change allegiances. They would tell truths they had promised not to reveal. They would also make up stories, but it didn't matter, for Po could tell as much from a lie as he could from the truth.

  Katsa sipped from her cup and looked out into the sea of men. The finery of the merchants stood out among the muted browns and oranges of the people of the town. Katsa was the only woman in the room, save a harried serving girl, the innkeeper's daughter, who ran among the tables with a tray full of cups and pitchers. She was small in stature, dark, and pretty, and a bit younger than Katsa. She caught no one's eye as she worked, and didn't smile, except to the occasional townsman old enough to be her father. She had brought Katsa and Po their drinks silently, with only a quick, shy glance at Po. Most of the men in the room showed her the proper respect; but Katsa didn't much like the smiles on the faces of the merchants whose table she served at the moment.

  "How old is that girl, do you think?" Katsa asked. "Do you think she's married?"

  Po watched the table of merchants and sipped from his drink. "Sixteen or seventeen, I'd guess. She's not married."

  "How do you know?"

  He paused. "I don't. It was a guess."

  "It didn't sound like a guess."

  He drank from his cup. His face was impassive. It hadn't been a guess, this she knew; and it occurred to her suddenly how he could know such a thing with such certainty. She took a moment to nurse her irritation on behalf of every girl who'd ever admired Po and thought her feelings private. "You're impossible," she said. "You're no better than those merchants. And besides, just because she has her eyes on you doesn't mean—"

  "And that's not fair," Po protested. "I can't help what I know. My error was in revealing it to you. I'm not used to traveling with someone who knows my Grace; I spoke before thinking how unfair it would be, to the girl."

  She rolled her eyes. "Spare me your confessions. If she's unmarried, I don't understand why her father sends her out to serve these men. I'm not certain she's safe among them."

  "Her father stands at the bar, most of the time. No one would dare harm her."

  "But he's not there always—he's not there now. And just because they don't assault her doesn't mean they respect her." Or that they would not seek her out later.

  The girl circled the table of merchants, pouring cider into each cup. When one of the men reached for her arm, she recoiled. The merchants burst into laughter. The man reached out to her then and drew back, reached out and drew back, taunting her. His friends laughed harder. And then the man at the girl's other side grabbed her wrist and held on, and there was a great whoop from the men. She tried to pull away, but the laughing man wouldn't let go. Red with shame, she looked into none of their faces, only pulled at her arm. She was too much like a dumb, confused rabbit caught in a trap, and suddenly Katsa was standing. And Po was standing, too, and he had Katsa by the arm.

  For an instant Katsa appreciated the strange symmetry; except that unlike the serving girl, she could break from Po's grip, and unlike the merchant, Po had good reason to hold her arm. And Katsa wouldn't break from the grip of his fingers, for she didn't need to. Her rise to her feet had been enough. The room froze into stillness. The man dropped the girl's arm. He stared at Katsa with a white face and an open mouth—fear, as familiar to Katsa as the feel of her own body. The girl stared, too, and caught her breath and pressed her hand to her chest.

  "Sit down, Katsa." Po's voice was low. "It's over now. Sit down."

  She did sit down. The room let out its breath. After a few moments, voices murmured, and then talked and laughed again. But Katsa wasn't sure that it was over. Perhaps it was over with this girl, and these merchants. But there would be a new group of merchants tomorrow. And these merchants would move on, and find themselves another girl.

  LATER THAT EVENING, as Katsa prepared for bed, two girls came to her room to cut her hair.
"Is it too late, My Lady?" asked the elder, who carried scissors and a brush.

  "No. The sooner I have it off, the better. Please, come in."

  They were young, younger than the serving girl. The younger, a child of ten or eleven years, carried a broom and a dustpan. They sat Katsa down and moved around her shyly. They spoke little. Breathless around her, not quite frightened but near to it. The older girl untied Katsa's hair and began to work her fingers through the tangle. "Forgive me if I hurt you, My Lady."

  "It won't hurt me," Katsa said. "And you needn't unravel the knots. I want you to cut it all off, as short as you can. As short as a man's."

  The eyes of both girls widened. "I've cut the hair of many men," the older girl said.

  "You may cut mine just as you've cut theirs," Katsa said. "The shorter you cut it, the happier I'll be."

  The scissors snipped around Katsa's ears, and her head grew lighter and lighter. How odd to turn her neck and not feel the pull of hair, the heavy snarl swinging around behind her. The younger girl held the broom and swept the hair clippings away the instant they fell to the floor.

  "Is it your sister I saw serving drinks in the eating room?" Katsa asked.

  "Yes, My Lady."

  "How old is she?"

  "Sixteen, My Lady."

  "And you?"

  "I'm fourteen, and my sister eleven, My Lady."

  Katsa watched the younger girl collecting hair with a broom taller than she was.

  "Does anyone teach the girls of the inn to protect themselves?" she asked. "Do you carry a knife?"

  "Our father protects us, and our brother," the girl said, simply.

  The girls clipped and swept, and Katsa's hair fell away. She thrilled at the unfamiliar chill of air on her neck. And wondered if other girls in Sunder, and across the seven kingdoms, carried knives; or if they all looked to their fathers and brothers for every protection.

  A KNOCK woke her. She sat up. It came from the door that adjoined her room to Po's. She hadn't been asleep long, and it was midnight; and enough moonlight spilled through her window so that if it wasn't Po who knocked, and if it was an enemy, she could see well enough to beat the person senseless. All these thoughts swept through her mind in the instant she sat up.