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Oary had to divest himself of his own weapon, honoring this new move. His Avars grumbled but stayed back. Smash the Ogre moved nearer them, retaining his post. This encouraged them to keep the peace.

The line formed, the palace personnel coming eagerly forward to verify the person of King Omen. The first was an old man, slow to move but given the lead because of the respect of the others.

“Hello, Borywog!” King Omen said, grasping the man’s frail arm. “Remember what a torment I was when a child, and you my tutor? Worse than my father was! You thought you’d never teach me to spell! Remember when I wrote the name of our Kingdom as HONESTY?”

“My Lord, my Lord!” the old man cried, falling to his knees. “Never did I tell that abomination to a soul! It has to be you, Your Majesty!”

The others proceeded through the line. King Omen knew them all. The case was becoming conclusive. King Trent stood behind him, smiling benignly.

Suddenly one of the men in the line drew a dagger and lunged at Omen. But before the treacherous strike scored, the man became a large brown rat, who scurried away, terrified. A palace cat bounded eagerly after it. “I promised to stand bodyguard,” King Trent said mildly. “I have had a certain experience in such matters.”

Then Oary was at the head of the line. “Why, it is Omen!” he exclaimed in seeming amazement. “Avars, sheathe your weapons; our proper king has returned from the dead. What a miracle!”

King Omen, expecting another treachery, stood openmouthed. Again King Trent stepped in. “So nice to have your confirmation, King Oary-we always knew you had the best interests of the Kingdom of Onesti at heart. It is best to resolve these things with the appearance of amicability, if possible. Dor, why don’t you conduct King Oary to a more private place and work out the details?”

Now Dor was amazed. He stood unspeaking. Grundy appeared, tapping Dor on the leg. “Take him into an anteroom,” the golem whispered. “I’ll get the others.”

Dor composed himself “Of course,” he said with superficial equilibrium. “King Oary, shall we adjourn to an anteroom for a private discussion?”

“By all means,” Oary said, the soul of amicability. He seemed to understand the rules of this game better than Dor did.

They walked sedately to the anteroom, while King Omen continued to greet old friends and the Avars fidgeted in their isolated mass. Without Oary to command them, the Avars were ineffective; they didn’t even speak the local language.

Dor’s thoughts were spinning. Why had Oary welcomed Omen, after trying to deny him and have him assassinated? Why did he pretend not to know where Omen had been? And why did King Trent, himself a victim of Oary’s treachery and cruelty, go along with this?

Why, finally, had King Trent turned the matter over to Dor, who was incompetent to understand the situation, let alone deal with it?

Irene, Smash, and Amolde joined them in the anteroom. Oary seemed unperturbed. “Shall we speak plainly?” the Mundane inquired.