“Sir,” Gryle spoke, his voice thready with anxiety, “my lady is quite kind and generous. For a man who would help her back to her rightful place, I’m sure—” Festa waved his hand, dismissing it. “Oh, you can stow it, chamberlain,” he said, not unkindly. “The gods know I’ve told my wife a lie or two when we’re in the sack and I’m after a husband’s wants—such lies were how my first son Wellum was born, after all. Aye, and the words are pretty enough, I’d say. Shit, when the mood’s on me, I guess I’m just about the most poetic son of a bitch alive, as is every husband. Still, when we wake up the
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