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bone-carved pipe—a trophy from his travels—and set about preparing for a smoke.
    “You shouldn’t smoke that awful stuff,” Bastiano frowned. “It’s terrible. I know it smells nice while you’re smoking it, but it’s really bad for your lungs.”
    Torsione looked up and met the worried gaze Bastiano had fixed on him. Without blinking, he proceeded to light the pipe and give several insistent puffs, his expression challenging. Bastiano continued frowning, but said nothing.
    “What about Arthens?” prompted Ferran, looking at the duke.
    “The same thing, over and over again,” replied Torsione, with a shake of his head. “They’re cross about your sister, still, you know. Rightfully, too.” He blew a sleek stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “The Earl of Dolente can’t live it down that the princess refused him.”
    “But she was already promised to Khalil!” Ferran liked the Tunitzan prince his sister had wed. Khalil was bright-eyed and quick to make jokes, putting everyone at ease when they’d first arrived. He’d given everyone gifts of strange and exotic birds upon their arrival, but had ordered the birds released at the end of the rehearsal dinner to signify the start of the festivities, much to Ferran’s disappointment.
    “Well, we know that,” the duke went on, with a nod. “But they didn’t. And it doesn’t change the fact that the Earl’s the Arthenian golden boy, and is well-in with the Greccian king. Everyone’s quite upset. Easily insulted, the lot of them.”
    “Pity they haven’t another immediate heir. Then we could patch things up,” mused Bastiano, sitting down again and reaching for his brandy.
    “Already thought of that.” Torsione puffed a little plume of smoke away from the king’s brother. “Although nobody jumps to mind, I wouldn’t put it past them—any of them—to try and weasel a marriage pact out of us. Especially since Alanno’s being so . . . misanthropic.”
    Ferran frowned. “What do you mean?”
    “Misanthropic,” said Torsione more clearly. “It means begrudging. Antisocial. Hermetic.”
    “I know what misanthropic means,” interrupted Ferran. “What do you mean about another heir?”
    The duke leaned his head against the high back of the chair and bit daintily on the stem of his pipe, bemusement sneaking into the wrinkled corners of his eyes. “Why, Your Highness . . . you’re the next eligible royal bachelor, are you not?”
    Ferran turned red as his uncle began to laugh heartily. “And that makes me what, pray tell?” demanded Bastiano, grinning from ear to ear.
    Torsione cut his eyes sideways to Bastiano. “A hedonist,” he purred, without letting his own smile crack too wide.
    Bastiano guffawed at this, burying his head in his hands and crowing with laughter. Ferran pulled a face; he’d never been in a bawdy tavern, but sometimes the way these two talked to one another was downright unseemly.
    “Good night, my lords,” he muttered, sliding his chair in neatly to the table’s edge and stalking toward the door.
    “Nighty night, Ferr!” giggled Bastiano, still shaking his head at Torsione, who waved his brandy snifter aloft in farewell.
    We’re almost home , the prince reminded himself, gritting his teeth as he made his way back to his room. I won’t have to put up with them much longer. I can go back to my library and read for a whole week and ignore everyone. The whole library all to myself . . . it’ll be like a vacation on a remote island, with no Uncle Bas, no Tor, and no Father glaring at me across the dinner table. Just me and my books. And maybe in another week or two, I can get Father alone and tell him I want to go to university.
    Ferran climbed into bed with the only book he’d been allowed to bring with him, a tattered copy of Sinbad’s Roc , and tried to forget about the disappointment in his father’s gaze. He dozed off a few chapters in, the book still propped in his hands.
    He awoke to the harsh