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To Nicholas it seemed as if spring had established itself during the night when no one was watching, like someone furtively preparing for a surprise party, and festooned the world in green and white before dawn. He could have sworn the buds on that tree weren't there yesterday, and the tiny flowers embedded in the grass underfoot absolutely hadn't been, because he had performed a thorough examination on a beetle larva he found in the soil last night and certainly would have noticed. The gray, dilapidated shacks of the fishing community seemed incrementally less gray and dilapidated than they had been before, their unpleasant edges softened by forgiving sprays of greenery.

He found himself smiling as he took down his laundry from where it was draped to dry over a hedge. He must have been going about it too enthusiastically, because an old woman passing by was giving him a circumspect stare, as if smiling at one's laundry were a strange thing to do, which, upon reflection, Nicholas supposed was probably a sound enough opinion.

It was difficult to fold one-handed, but he managed to do it by pulling the corners together while his clothing was still on the hedge. Overall the process was still almost pleasant in comparison to washing on a ship, which had often relied on seawater when rainwater couldn't be spared; the salt in the clothes had kept them clammy and damp, especially when they had nowhere to hang but the close quarters belowdecks. There were few things as disagreeable as waking up on a raw morning only to dress in garments still moist and smelling of brine.

"That's one thing I'll never wax nostalgic about, at least," Nicholas said to the violin, which was sitting on a shabby bench in the shade with its case propped open. Lately he had taken to treating it like a convalescent. Most of the Plagueology texts he'd managed to acquire suffered from gaps in knowledge and were sometimes contradictory, but they seemed to agree on the possibility that a Putesco's prior condition and treatment might have some bearing on what it turned out to be like later on, which, frankly, Nicholas found rather alarming. A few weeks of apologetic care most likely wouldn't undo being jettisoned at sea and left to fester forgotten beneath a pile of papers for months, but he felt it couldn't hurt to try, even if the effort made him uncomfortable. He couldn't shake the illogical and ridiculous feeling that the violin was watching him, especially when he had his back to it. Occasionally the light glanced off its tarnished embellishments in a peculiar manner that reminded him sickeningly of being taken with fever aboard The Lady's Favor, much in the same way that a tune from the past had the capacity to resurrect unwanted memories, and every time he turned around he half-expected to see it transformed.

He forced himself to stack the laundry next to the violin instead of on the other side of the bench, where he wouldn't have had to look at it as closely. "You're going to be wonderful," he told it unconvincingly, even as he wondered when he started saying these things out loud, and it glittered silently back.

Gradually over the past few minutes Nicholas had become aware of a conversation going on, which he assumed, based on its volume, was being carried on the breeze from somewhere nearby -- perhaps the fish market, where loud bartering was common. Thus he didn't bother investigating its source, even when a peculiar phrase (riding leaves? Surely he'd heard that wrong) broke off and isolated itself from the indistinct whole. The fish market was known for many things, after all, but sobriety wasn't one of them. And so he continued to make his way slowly along the hedge, attributing the increasing clarity of the voices to the changing direction of the wind. That is, until:

"STOP! Hwe desire each hwone of hyou fools to cease this ridiculous bombardment at hwonce! Hwould hyou order a queen?"

Nicholas froze. The voice had seemed, just for a moment, quite ridiculously, to have originated from the shrubbery. After another moment's hesitation he smiled to himself, shook his head, and continued folding. More than a decade at sea had taught him that oceanic air currents could be strange, fickle things; they could make distant cannon-fire sound near, while at the same time tearing away a neighboring man's voice and rendering his speech inaudible from a foot away. One could trust the whims of the salt breezes no more than one could rely on a mirage of trees and water in the middle of a desert. He felt, therefore, that the voice's provenance was quite solved: it was some harridan at the market who, after indulging in too much liquor, had begun to style herself as royalty.

Nicholas set aside the second to last piece of laundry and peeled back the hem of his sole remaining shirt. He looked down at the group of Plagues holding court within his hedge. Then, with no discernible expression on his face, he put the bottom of the shirt back over them.

He stood and stared into the middle distance for a few seconds, preparing himself, before he lifted it up again.

"I'm very sorry," he said. "Are you using this?"

"I, er, yes, very well," Nicholas said, cleared his throat, and then gave an awkward but (he hoped) sincere-looking bow to the Queen, feeling rather as if he'd just been inserted into a children's story without his consent. It wasn't entirely a bad feeling. If he befriended these Plagues, perhaps they would allow him to ask a few questions and take some measurements. He hadn't had the chance to actually speak to a Plague yet, let alone observe one in close quarters. The nearest he'd even gotten to an Excito was, in fact, when one had scuttled unnervingly over his shoe near the end of the Council meeting. That day had left him with mixed feelings about Plagues, particularly the Caedos or Infitialis variety; not knowing what to expect with his own violin was beginning to make him apprehensive.

These ones appeared to be Servos, which was reassuring. And chess pieces? Fascinating. He wondered if it was impolite to ask a Plague about his or her object of origin. After a moment of hesitation, he got down on his knees to put himself at a level with them instead of looming down from above. It afforded him less visibility, but the hedge hadn't fully leafed out yet, and he thought it might help convey his benign intentions. (Or allow them to attack his face, but he tried not to lend that possibility too much serious consideration.)

"You're most welcome to it, Your Majesty," he replied, "although that shirt's a bit worse for wear, I'm afraid -- life at sea, you know. Would you like me to exchange it for a newer one?" Even if they took it with them, although he couldn't imagine how they might manage such a thing, losing a new shirt in exchange for actual field experience with Plagues was more than an even trade. Then he paused, frowning. The last part of the Queen's announcement had just sunk in. "Did you say Imisus?"

Nicholas cleared his throat, stalling for time. Were all excitos like this? His optimistic plans of teaching his Plague how to read and write, discussing history with it, engaging in intellectual discourse about the nature of the plague itself, and perhaps engendering a modest interest in insect taxonomy (this one more optimistic than the rest) began to dim. The bishop-shaped Excito, at least, seemed marginally more discerning than its fellows -- it stood to reason that Plagues were like humans, with a range of mental ability.

"Ah," he said. "Unfortunately, I was injured on my last voyage and can no longer sail. The arm, you see," he added, in case they hadn't. From what he had read it wasn't terribly unusual for a Plague to be missing a limb or two naturally. "And though I'd like to travel, I'm currently in possession of a Putesco, which makes my situation more tenuous." The thought of his violin suddenly transitioning into Excito while aboard a ship, of all places, was alarming. Would it remember anything about its prior experiences as a violin, or would it be a blank slate? It seemed rude to ask. But maybe if he could isolate just one of them...

"Would your bishop like to accompany me to oversee the selection of the new shir--canopy, Your Majesty?" he asked. He hastily clarified, "Of course, your eye for canopies is surely superior, but I'm a bit… dirty." This was at least partially true; living in a shack in a fishing village did have a tendency to leave one somewhat ripe.

"I'm afraid I worked as a ship's surgeon, and was not actually a sailor," Nicholas explained. "I suspect I would have been unsuited for it even before I lost my arm." He paused, thinking that it might serve him better in this case to be as unsubtle as possible, and added, "So no, unfortunately, I cannot."

The possibility of these Excitos somehow harming his Plague hadn't occurred to Nicholas, but now he was struck by the unsettling -- and cartoonish, but no less unsettling for that -- image of them absconding with the violin like an army of ants marching off with an apple slice at a picnic. He continued to feel vaguely unreal as the bishop climbed onto him. Nicholas had never been fanciful, even as a child. He'd abandoned imagination games at an early age. Now, however, he felt as if a living child's doll had marched up his arm and begun speaking. Conversing with the Court as a whole had been somehow different; now, with an Excito actually standing on him, addressing him individually, he found himself wholly out of his depth. If he were the type to burst into hysterical laughter, he probably would have. Living on a ship for over a decade had not prepared him for this.

He straightened carefully. "I'm very sorry," he said to the bishop. He was grateful to find that his voice sounded relatively normal, contrary to his expectations. "I do hope to travel to Imisus eventually, but it may not be for some time yet. The Black Court is your, ah, enemy?"

Nicholas started to turn around, but then thought better of turning his back on the Queen and instead awkwardly inclined his head in as deep of a bow he could manage without risking tipping the bishop off his shoulder. Then he awkwardly sidled away.

The old woman, who by now had nearly reached the end of the road, glared at him suspiciously from a distance.

"Ah," Nicholas replied, as he made his way back over to the bench. He tried to walk in such a way that he might avoid jostling the bishop, which dredged up an ancient memory of his mother making him play the harpsichord with coins balanced on the backs of his hands. When they were some distance away from the Queen he asked quietly, "Forgive me if this is a rude question, but is it common for Plagues to retain the characteristics they possessed as items? Not just in appearance, that is, but in temperament and habits as well?" If this were the case, the battle between the two courts, as much as it resembled the plot of a street corner puppet show, made a great deal of sense.

He offered the bishop his hand when they reached the bench, in case he wanted to be lowered down to take a closer look at the "canopies." The potential loss of one of his nicest shirts did not bother him. His nicest shirts were not, after all, very nice -- though some were at least unstained and unpatched. "I suppose you wouldn't have any money," Nicholas said thoughtfully, and the idea of an Excito purchasing its own passage was ridiculous anyway, not least of all because the money might merely be taken away and pocketed by the middleman. He hesitated before suggesting, "What if someone put you in the post, in a large box? It sounds -- well, it sounds horrible, but it wouldn't be much different than traveling in a ship when one considers the size difference. Ships are terribly cramped for humans. It could be cushioned, holes drilled for air…"

If they even breathed, that was. Nicholas didn't even know that much. But of course they had to, didn't they? All living organisms respirated, in one fashion or another.

"Perhaps a very attractive-looking box?" he finished weakly.

"That's a fascinating question, actually," Nicholas replied, with automatic enthusiasm. "Are people's dispositions inherited, or are they the product of…" Realizing belatedly that the bishop's question had been rhetorical, his voice trailed off in favor of an uncomfortable and slightly disappointed silence. It did seem, however, that the answer to his previous question was at least partially a yes. The chess queen looked like a queen and had subjects; therefore she behaved like a queen. The same principles, apparently, applied to the bishop and the rest of the court. But was their behavior innate? If the queen had been isolated and raised separately from the rest, with no concept or understanding of royalty, would she still have acted like one? If she then encountered an opposing chess Plague without having been told about the game, would she still identify it as an enemy?

He frowned and shook his head. Clearly this wasn't something these Excitos, or perhaps any Excito, could tell him -- he would have to apply his own research and observation if he wanted a satisfactory answer.

"That would be immensely generous of her," Nicholas said, as he reached down to retrieve both the bishop and the chosen shirt. He scoured his brain for ideas, and a prior comparison returned to him in a different light: puppet theaters were often transported around in very gaudy-looking boxes. Perhaps he could acquire one secondhand (the plague would likely see to it that there were more available than usual) though he vaguely dreaded the thought of the looks he might receive, purchasing puppet show materials with only one arm. He looked over his shoulder at the Queen, and decided it would be worth it.

"I am a scientist, yes," he replied, returning to the hedge and the Court within, "or at least I like to think of myself as one, though I'm not currently affiliated with the Council. Would you happen to remember the man's name?"