"Bontarc, our king, grieves mightily for the dead prince," Volna said.
"All Nadia grieves for Jlomec, lady," Prokliam said, and added hastily: "Although I must admit I do not grieve more than the next man. No, no, it is a mistake to think I was Jlomec's favorite."
"Be that as it may Bontarc grieves so that for a while at least some of the affairs of state will be in my hands."
"I hear and understand lady."
"Good. If anyone comes—anyone at all, whether wayfarers from Ofrid or others—with news of how Jlomec died, they are to be brought at once to me. Is that understood?"
"Yes, my princess." Prokliam the seneschal bowed low once more.
"Serve me well in this, Prokliam, and you will be rewarded in measure."
Prokliam smiled. "I will be the personification of discretion," he said boldly, baring his toothless old gums.
"Then perhaps I will still the rumors that you were the dead Jlomec's favorite."
Prokliam dropped at the royal feet and touched his lips to the royal toes. Then he bowed out of the room.