




The palace begins to eat itself. The great repeal cracks apart on the senate floor and the king's answer is to let the sickness spread. The herald lays down the podium and walks out with a box. In a high-backed chair the king muses on the one power nobody disputes — the pardon — and his shadow tries on a crown. The little lawman who was first to kneel stands alone at the end of the corridor, publicly named beleaguered. And a smiling money-man from the gold towers saunters in through the door. Count his days. There will be eleven.
Readers' Corner
Letters from the readership on Week 110. Pick a pen name — no account needed.
Opening the mailbag…