Sorcerer’s Moon: Part Three of the Boreal Moon Tale. Julian May

else he would not have disturbed you.’

      ‘Oh, very well,’ Somarus muttered. He took up a bent piece of thin steel wire – actually a sewing needle that had been daintily modified by Duke Ranwing Boarsden’s blacksmith according to the king’s own instructions – and fitted it into the brass-and-wood vice, tightening the jaws. ‘There!’ he whispered. ‘Ready!’ He quaffed spirits from the goblet and rubbed his hands in anticipation.

      ‘I bid you good evening, Your Majesty.’ Kilian Blackhorse had crept up with his usual sneakiness, giving the king an unpleasant start.

      ‘I’m in the midst of something and I don’t intend to set it aside,’ Somarus grumbled, not bothering to look at the court official. ‘And I’ll not share my lifewater with you, either. Ranwing’s cellar is running short, what with all the guests. If you want a drink, ask Kaligaskus.’

      The Lord Chancellor snapped his fingers in irritable summons. He was a man spare of flesh and fine-featured, six-and-seventy years of age but still imposing in spite of increasing frailty of body. He had deep-set suspicious eyes and habitually kept his lips tightly shut, as if reluctant to let his thoughts escape his mouth. His will was indomitable and his store of patience huge; even so, King Somarus’s fluctuating moods often tested him sorely.

      ‘As you please, Majesty. I must say I’m surprised to see you working with your hands, like some common artificer.’

      The royal reply was sweetly given. ‘It soothes my mind to do so, my lord. If that makes me common, then sod you and be damned for a friggin’ snot.’

      Kilian winced. ‘I beg your pardon. I meant no disparagement. ’

      ‘No? Well, it doesn’t matter.’ Somarus continued his careful adjustment of the captive piece of wire. His fat fingers were very steady. Unlike many other Didionites, he held his liquor well, even the notorious distillation of plums that was the national cup of cheer.

      ‘Majesty, I wished to speak to you about the betrothal ceremony tomorrow, and also of the Sovereign’s unexpected announcement at supper tonight.’ Kilian lowered himself onto a chair brought up by the attendant. He accepted a crystal cup of red wine and took moderate sips while Somarus continued his finicky labors.

      ‘I’ll wager you can’t guess what it is I’m making,’ the king said, sounding like a cagey schoolboy.

      Kilian breathed a sigh of longsuffering. ‘Something very ingenious, one presumes.’

      ‘Damned right. Watch me. You might learn something.’

      The King of Didion was a year younger than the Sovereign, and once had been a man of striking, leonine appearance and hardy build, a celebrated fighting leader who owned a temper to match his once-fiery (now faded ginger) hair and beard. But he had not aged well and had grown corpulent and florid from excesses of meat and drink. Not a man of high intelligence, he was nevertheless both canny and alert, and at his best had a manner that was affable, generous, and leavened with bonhomie. At his worst, he was subject to bibulous rages and fits of melancholy. These had become more numerous since the painful death of his beloved wife Queen Thylla, who had succumbed to a breast canker four years earlier.