It's the crows that draw my attention. The crows around the Podcastle are huge, four feet high and glossy black. Right now they're wheeling and diving around a man at the bottom of the curtain wall, below our turret breakfast room. The man flails wildly at the crows, shouting incoherently, and then goes on banging at the postern gate.

I shrug and return to the table. Porridge with almonds, my favorite! Though I have to eat carefully. Wide sleeves are in (oh, so very in!) this year, and mine go down nearly to the floor.

Rachel arrives, resplendent in a scarlet silk bliaut. "I didn't expect you for hours yet," I say. "The concert…"

"Was amazing." Of course it was. Guillame de Machaut is the hottest composer of the fourteenth century. Rachel hums a phrase of Ma fin est mon commencement and stops suddenly at the sound of cawing. "Crows?"

"John Darling," I say. "Banging on the postern gate."

She looks at me with bafflement.

"You remember. The troubadour." We're always getting troubadours. They come and sing their songs for us, and sometimes we buy them. Even when the songs aren't quite to our taste, we enjoy the troubadours. Nearly always. "Nick over at Castle Clarkesworld banished this one, if you recall. He issued that proclaimation?"

"Oh, yes, of course. I have a terrible memory for names." She goes over to the buffet table, lifts a lid. "Ooh, almond porridge. No tea?"

"The caravan from the Province of Unexamined Colonialism is late." I lift my cup. "Cook's made some sort of herbal tisane."

Darling's ranting reaches us faintly from below as Rachel settles gracefully into her chair with her breakfast. "Our very first," she remarks.

"Our first?" I take a spoonful of porridge. "I don't think he's our first."

"No, Ann, I'm sure. He's our very first banishment."

I swallow thoughtfully. "But if you lean over the battlements you can hear him quite distinctly. He's offered us only non-exclusive, one time banishment rights."

"But have we ever banished anyone before?"

"No."

"And if we banish someone later, we'll have already banished Mr. Darling, so they can't be the first. First banishment has irretrievably been expended. It is gone, whatever Mr. Darling's protests to the contrary."

"Hmm," I say, contemplatively chewing an almond.

"Consider first serial rights," says Rachel. "Suppose that Gutenberg offered to print copies of your tract on his machine. (Once he invents it, of course.) Even if he didn't ask for first serial rights, once he printed your text, you can't possibly still have the right to publish it for the first time elsewhere. That's gone."

"But…" I frown, thinking. "Obviously there's a serious philosophical problem here. Does a thing's nature remain unchanged even when you change its name?"

"Ann." Rachel looks at me as though I've gone daft. "Do you remember Geraint?"

That brings back memories! You never forget your first. "Oh, Geraint!" I feel myself blushing a bit. Little Sir Geraint. Well, not all of him was little. Just…well. It's like they say, it's not the size of your pike that counts, it's how well you thrust it in. Of course, I can imagine some combat situations where a small pike wouldn't help you much. And that sort of pike would make for interesting wars…

Rachel speaks, mercifully interrupting my train of thought. "What if he'd offered you one time, non-exclusive copulatory rights? Would that have made him somehow not your first?"

"Well, of course not! If we hadn't ever…"

I trail off. Rachel gives a sardonic smile. "…then you'd still have your pet unicorn."

"Oh, Fionn," I say, a little sadly – but only a little. Unicorns are beautiful creatures and excellent mounts, but there are compensations for losing their companionship. "Yes, I see now. I agree."

"But of course, Mr. Darling wasn't banished for his philosophical beliefs," says Rachel. "He was banished for his rudeness."

I shake my head. "There really was no call to smash that crockery over Cook's head."

Rachel looks wistful. "It was nice pottery."

"And what he said to the chamber maid…"

We both fall silent, remembering. Below us, Darling's thwarted curses waft up, leaving the air tinged slightly blue.

"You know, it's like that monkey," I comment.

"Which monkey?" asks Rachel.

"The one at the queen's banquet last month." Most dancing monkeys, you have to poke them with a stick to make them dance. But this one…

"The one with his own stick!" Rachel grinned. "He kept poking himself and poking himself and getting madder and madder."

"I wonder if Mr. Darling has a monkey suit?" I ask.

Rachel doesn't answer my idle question. She's finished her porridge and she goes to the buffet to lift another lid. "What is this? Fish?"

"It's cod."

"Cod? For breakfast?"

"Yes," I say. "I asked Cook especially to make it. It's practically the national dish of Fantasy."

"Surely stew is the national dish of Fantasy?"

"The other national dish," I explain patiently. "Cod with verjuice, ginger, and honey." She looks at me uncomprehending. "You know. Cod Medieval."

Rachel groans. "You've been waiting all morning to say that, haven't you."

"Yes," I admit. "Yes, I have."