The throne room of Highcourt Keep was not a place of loud declarations, nor stamping feet, nor any kind of emotional disturbance whatsoever. The tapestries hung in colors so muted they appeared to be sighing. The courtiers wore expressions as calm and mild as grazing sheep. Even the great stained-glass windows refrained from casting bold colors, preferring instead to settle for a gentle, unassuming glow.

At the center of this peaceful haze stood two nobles.

Lord Henwick of the Marshlands and Sir Alistair Greybriar were positioned at a respectful six-foot distance, hands clasped behind their backs, postures politely erect. King Rowan sat upon the throne above them, chin resting upon a fist, observing the proceedings with the weary air of a man whose afternoon tea had been delayed.

“I say,” Lord Henwick began, his voice just above a whisper, “I believe the boundary stones were placed rather unceremoniously upon my barley field.”

Sir Alistair smiled as though he were commenting on the loveliness of the weather. “Oh, indeed, I can see how one might perceive that. Quite unfortunate. However, I was under the impression the barley field had long since belonged to my cousin’s late husband’s step-uncle, by way of grandma’s second remarriage. Terribly tangled business, really. One hates to bother the record-keepers.”

“Yes, dreadfully so. But the barley is quite mine. I’ve walked it personally.” Lord Henwick nodded, as if this were the single most reasonable and unassailable fact in the known world.

“Mm. Well. I have also walked it.” Sir Alistair nodded back.

A silence followed—gentle, unthreatening, like a housecat politely sitting beside a canary cage and reading a book instead of staring.

King Rowan exhaled. “Well,” he said, “it would seem we are at an impasse. Again.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. Terribly sorry,” the two nobles said in soft unison.

Sir Alistair cleared his throat with the same care one might use to brush crumbs from a wedding cake. “I suppose, by tradition, this would call for a duel?”

“Yes,” Lord Henwick agreed with a small, faintly apologetic smile. “Yes, I believe it would.”

“Oh dear,” murmured one of the ladies-in-waiting, though in the tone one might use to remark that the bread was very slightly over-toasted.

The two men stepped outward to the ceremonial dueling strip—a narrow band of polished marble bordered with tasteful potted trees, lest matters become too grim.

They saluted each other.

“Best of luck,” said Lord Henwick kindly.

“And to you,” replied Sir Alistair, drawing his rapier with all the enthusiasm of someone opening a letter containing a bill.

Their swords touched once, twice—ting, ting—and then, almost absentmindedly, Sir Alistair’s blade slipped forward.

“Oh,” Lord Henwick said, blinking down at the steel. “Good heavens. It appears you have run me through.”

“Yes,” Sir Alistair said, glancing at the blade as though inspecting a smudge of dust on it. “So it would seem.”

There was a pause. The court regarded the situation with polite interest, as though evaluating a flower arrangement.

Lord Henwick placed a hand gently on Alistair’s shoulder. “I must say, this is rather disappointing. I did so very much hope to continue living.”

“Yes, one does tend to form an attachment to it after a time,” said Sir Alistair.

“Still,” Henwick continued, wobbling a little, “I suppose plans do change.”

“That they do.” Sir Alistair withdrew the blade with the same careful precision one might use when removing a bookmark from a library book that isn’t technically due yet. “Terribly sorry.”

“Oh, think nothing of it,” Henwick assured him, though he was rapidly sinking toward the marble floor like a very polite sack of flour. “Just dreadful luck. Happens to the best of us.”

He lay down, tucking his arm under his head. “If someone could see to my estate, I would be most grateful.”

“Of course,” several courtiers murmured in soothing tones.

The king clapped his hands softly, as though applauding a rather pleasant lute performance. “Well, that settles the matter. Sir Alistair, the barley is yours.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Sir Alistair said, bowing precisely six degrees. “I shall endeavor to plant something tasteful.”

“Excellent,” said the king. “Now then—where is my tea?”