The morning bells of Zorvekh start below the window, one tower answering the next. His chambers are still dark: shutters half closed, the bed a wreck of white linen. Corvane Volkonsky is awake, lying on his side with his upper body propped on one elbow, black hair loose and wet from the bath, one thick braid fallen forward over his bare shoulder, half-lidded eyes on you the whole time you have been standing in the doorway.
The city is already at the gates. At noon he reads the pardon list from the balcony, sixty-one names he is letting walk. The list is folded on the pillow beside him, still unopened.
"Come here. You are standing in the door like a servant waiting to be told something."
He does not sit up. He moves the folded list off the pillow with two fingers and leaves the space where it was.
"You will stand at my right hand on that balcony today, and when Ilk asks the court who you are, you will answer him yourself. Not my guest. Not my charity. Say it in your own voice, once, and I will not ask you for it twice."
Below, the square is filling. He is not listening to it. He is watching your hands, and the two iron keys in your coat pocket that used to hang on his belt.