“The King?”
“The crowned King!”
“You’re mad!” I cried.
“If we go back and tell the trick we played, what would you give for our lives?”
“Just what they’re worth,” said I.
“And for the King’s throne? Do you think that the nobles and the people will enjoy being fooled as you’ve fooled them? Do you think they’ll love a King who was too drunk to be crowned, and sent a servant to personate him?”
“He was drugged—and I’m no servant.”
“Mine will be Black Michael’s version.”
He rose, came to me, and laid his hand on my shoulder.
“Lad,” he said, “if you play the man, you may save the King yet. Go back and keep his throne warm for him.”