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water out of his hair with the end of it. “I see you have put camphor in the clothes chests,” he remarked. “Or rather, I smell that you have.”
    “In all the chests and garderobes, yes. And added burdock to the latrines, to keep down the smell.”
    “I will give you some essence of cloves to hang in a vial. That should help.” He stared at the garderobe that stood next to the open window. “Do the servants think me peculiar to demand weekly baths?”
    “They fear you may be a follower of Mohammed, at the very least,” said Hruther, his tone level. “Most of them have Confessed their bathing, and two are doing penance for it.”
    “I will have to account for my requirements, I suppose, to avoid unwanted attention,” said Rakoczy, watching Hruther remove his clothes from the chest and the garderobe, hanging them on pegs set in the garderobe’s door.
    “I have said it is the custom of your House, and you follow it to honor your ancestors. So far they haven’t balked: you are master here. I tell them that if they bathe on Saturday night, while they are fasting, they can go clean in body and soul to Mass on Sunday morning.” Hruther handed a breechclout to Rakoczy, and saw him turn away to drop the drying sheet and don the undergarment. “Do you want me to trim your beard?”
    “That would probably be advisable,” said Rakoczy as he fingered his jaw. “It must look a bit ragged.” He had long since become accustomed to lacking a reflection and had learned to rely on Hruther to look after his appearance.
    “A bit,” said Hruther. “And I’ll shave the line for you as well.” He handed over the red-silk chainse.
    “Let me finish dressing. You can use a cloth around my neck to catch the trimmings.” Rakoczy managed a rueful smile. “We must do our best to ensure that Rozsa of Borsod reports us favorably to Konig Bela.”
    “Do you really think she will do that?” asked Hruther as he offered the braccae to Rakoczy.
    “She is a Hungarian noblewoman waiting on the granddaughter of Konig Bela. I think it is required of her to tell not only the Konige but her grandfather of how the meeting goes.” He bent over and stepped into the close-fitting braccae, pulling them up and tying them to the braiel of the breechclout. “I think the Byzantine solers, not the estivaux—that would be too foreign.”
    “The solers,” said Hruther, taking them from the box of footwear in the garderobe.
    “The soles have been refilled—”
    “—last week,” said Hruther, sensing Rakoczy’s nervousness. “It will go well, my master.”
    Rakoczy gave a deprecating shrug and finished fastening his solers. “I have done this enough in the past that you would think I would no longer be troubled by these little tests, would you not? I suppose it comes from living in this imposed isolation that magnifies my anxiety.” As he rose, Hruther held out the heavy, black-silk huch and tugged the open square sleeves so that they would hang properly while Rakoczy fastened the lacing on the front of the garment.
    “I’ll get my razor and scissors,” said Hruther as he handed Rakoczy his silver-linked eclipse pectoral.
    “Very good.” He dropped the silver chain around his neck and positioned the black-sapphire heart of the eclipse at the center of his chest. “To your trimming, old friend.”
    By the time he left his quarters, Rakoczy was superbly turned out, his clothes not truly Bohemian, but not strictly Hungarian, either, as was appropriate for an exile; he wore a signet ring and his pectoral but had decided against other jewelry. He made his way along the corridor to the gallery, then down the narrow stairs to the main hall, where half a dozen of the house-servants had found some excuse to be so that they could view him in his elegance. He went into the second withdrawing room to satisfy himself that it was ready for his guest; then he made his way to the entry hall, opening the door himself in preparation for Rozsa of