\hypertarget{chapter-14-audience}{%
\section{Chapter 14: Audience}\label{chapter-14-audience}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``To boast of an opinion unchanged is to boast of wearing child's
clothing.''}

-- Atalantian saying
\end{quote}

The Mirror Knight's appearance had me surprised, but the three other
Named that followed him out pushed that over the edge and into
consternation.

One of those I was already familiar with: the Blade of Mercy's youth and
greatsword would have made him memorable enough even if I'd not once
ripped out his arm to throw it in another hero's face as a distraction.
Another Alamans, like the Mirror Knight, and one who'd strenuously
argued against the Terms before they were forced through with the
Pilgrim and the White Knight's backing. The other two took me a moment
to place, as I'd only ever heard of them through reports. But heard of
them I had, and they were not unknown quantities. Short, stocky and
painted in colours that belonged to no Blood, the Exalted Poet looked
like he belonged in a Dominion shield wall instead of the pleasure
palaces of Levante he was said to have been conscripted from. Archer had
mentioned to me he'd once been among the Hidden Poets, some highly
prestigious Levantine society of poets and singers, until he'd somehow
touched upon some truth of the Heavens through his words. Yet for all
that he did not wield Light -- he was a spellcaster, if a middling one,
and likely how the band had come through.

The last of the four was a Callowan, though she wasn't one of mine in
any sense. She'd allegedly fled in the early years after the Conquest,
and she was the only one who did not openly consider herself one of
Above's champions. The Maddened Keeper looked instead like a perennially
exhausted woman in her early twenties, skin drawn and pale and her dark
hair ratty. Her threadbare robes ever rumpled and she was thin, but
there was a sense of\ldots{} menace about her. Not like a snake coiling
but rather like a diseased thing, the sight of which had you withdraw
your hand out of fear and disgust. She was host, it was rumoured, to a
great many old secrets that should have stayed unknown -- and had even
turned herself into a living seal on a Hell Egg from Triumphant's days.
After the Mirror Knight himself she was the one of that bunch I'd be
most wary of fighting. I knew from personal experience that one didn't
rub elbows with entities on the darker side of the fence without
learning some rather nasty tricks.

``Mirror Knight,'' I said, tone cool. ``I was under the impression your
duties kept you in Cleves.''

Adjutant fell on my left side to cover by bad leg, as naturally as
taking a breath, and he did not need to reach for a blade for the heroes
to tense. Christophe, for that was the Mirror Knight's name, looked as
surprised to see me as I was to see him. The Blade of Mercy's hands
closed around the handle of his greatsword so strongly the metal creaked
as he stared me down with pale eyes and clenched teeth. I was meant to
be respectable, these days, so I refrained from asking him how his arm
was doing. The Poet looked calm, and had even warily stepped away from
the Blade, but the Maddened Keeper was looking at me blearily through
the long strands of her ratty hair.

``And I was under the impression I need not answer to you, Black
Queen,'' the Mirror Knight replied, back straightening.

``Christophe, you speak to the anointed queen of Callow,'' the Rogue
Sorcerer mildly said. ``Have you forgotten your courtesies?''

Roland had stepped between myself and the newcomers, while I was
studying them, and though he seemed calm I recognized the tension to his
stance from the last time he and I had been in a mess together. He'd not
known about this either, then. I'd not expected him to, but these days
my trust came slower and died more swiftly than ever before. The world
had gotten larger, the older I got, and ever more complex. There were
fewer certainties left in my life than I'd like. To my surprise,
Roland's admonishment actually seemed to strike true with the Mirror
Knight. A flicker of something like regret passed across his face, and
the man offered me what a generous soul might call a bow.

``That was not one of the usual portals,'' Masego suddenly said, voice
cutting through the room. ``And there is more coming.''

The glass eyes beneath the cloth were staring at what I would have
thought to be nothingness, but then I was not the Hierophant. There were
only three other Named with Christophe, I noted once more. I'd thought
him one short of a band of five, and that a good sign, but was he
really?

``What are you doing here, Mirror Knight?'' I asked, tone grown colder.
``The Arsenal is not a hostel anyone can visit when the whim strikes.
Explain yourself.''

My gaze swept by the armoured hero and onto the rest of his companions,
flat and unfriendly.

``That question stands for the rest of you,'' I said. ``Two of you ought
to be in Cleves, and the --''

``Hooves,'' the Maddened Keeper suddenly said. ``Someone rides.''

My brow rose. That implied whatever was coming was not with them, which
only further added to my confusion. Supplies, maybe? There would be
carriages and wagons for those. It should be too early for it to be my
own, though I supposed time did tend to get rather fluid when it came to
places like this. No telling what it was.

``You tneed to ask why I am here, Queen of Faithlessness?'' the Mirror
Knight sneered. ``Fine, play your games if you must. I am here to
prevent the murder you've plotted.''

The what now? Wait, was he talking about the way Prince Gaspard of
Cleves might bargain himself into a slit throat if he didn't curb his
ambitions? Because I'd not even begun to pursue that, choosing instead
to delay until I spoke with the First Prince before beginning to act.

``Have we been plotting murder?'' Masego asked, sounding a little
bemused. ``People never tell me these things. You should write more
often, Catherine.''

I closed my eyes and sighed. The last part was probably true, I'd give
him that at least.

``See, even the Hierophant admits it,'' the Blade of Mercy triumphed.
``A murder here in the Arsenal, where no word will escape of it-''

``This is absurd,'' Roland flatly said, ``and beneath you as well,
Antoine. Are we now nothing more than a pack of street thugs throwing
around wild accusations? We set down rules to address suspicions like
the one you have brought, and swore to follow them.''

``\emph{Va te faire foutre}, \emph{Sorcier},'' the Blade of Mercy cursed
in a hiss. ``You might have forgotten the butchery at the Camps so you
can get comfortable playing the wizard in your little tower, but we are
not all so eager to be bought out of our principles.''

``What principles would these be?'' Hakram gravelled. ``All I see is a
handful of Named who were caught breaking agreements and now spin
unlikely tales to dig their way out.''

``It is no breach of the Terms to come to the Arsenal,'' the Exalted
Poet said in Chantant, and I started at how gorgeous his voice was.

Warm and full-throated, like honey for the ear. I could understand why
he'd never had to work a day in his life, with a voice like that: people
would have thrown coppers at him just to hear him list out the chores of
the day.

``That may be true. Lacing your voice with sorcery when speaking to
other Named \emph{is}, however,'' Hierophant said, tone gone icy.

The warmth left me, gone as if by a snap of the finger. I frowned,
eyeing the Poet rather more warily than before.

``Who throws wild accusations now?'' the Blade of Mercy said.

``Keep your lackeys in hand, Black Queen,'' the Mirror Knight ordered
me. ``This is disgraceful.''

My fingers clenched around my staff of yew.

``What,'' I asked very gently, ``did you just say to me?''

``Did I perhaps stutter?'' the Mirror Knight smiled.

I breathed out, mastered the frozen vicious thing that was roaring in my
veins. \emph{At seventeen, you arrogant little shit, I would have
answered that sword in hand.} But now I had responsibilities, and no
matter how fucking satisfying it would be to make the prick spit out his
teeth it would also be a major incident. The Truce and the Terms, I
knew, would already be stretched to a breaking point by the killing of a
villain no matter how the matter was resolved. If the representative for
Below's lot assaulted the most famous Proceran hero alive the same week,
they might just snap. I told myself this again and again until the
anticipation of that smirking jackass bleeding from the mouth had left
my knuckles, and only then spoke again.

``Under the Terms, I judge your presence here to be suspect and your
behaviour needlessly provocative,'' I said, voice cool. ``You will be
held under guard until the White Knight is here to speak on your
behalf.''

Outrage was the answer, and the Blade of Mercy laughed scornfully, but I
was not finished,

``Set your weapons down on the ground, right now,'' I said. ``All of
you. You will use neither sorcery, Light nor Name until it is made
explicitly clear to you it is permissible once more.''

``I did not mean to breach the Terms,'' the Exalted Poet said, raising
his hands, ``and will not add further insult to the injury.''

The voice was just as gorgeous as before, I thought, but it wasn't
so\ldots{} attention-grabbing anymore. Huh, interesting. A little like
fae glamour, then? That made him an odd duck compared to the usual
Dominion lot, who rarely resorted to tricks on the more subtle side.

``You bloody coward,'' the Blade of Mercy swore. ``Have you no pride?''

``Roland,'' the Mirror Knight gravely said, ``did you not hear her
speak? Hear the threat she threw at our feet like challenger's glove?''

The Rogue Sorcerer's face was a blank mask.

``If Hanno had given the order to a group of Named, I would have backed
him without hesitation,'' Roland replied. ``Christophe, swallow your
damned pride for an hour. It is not worth what your swaggering threatens
to bring down upon all our heads. I do not know what brings you here,
but I have \emph{been} here all this time and I tell you now that you
are mistaken.''

The Mirror Knight hesitated. I kept my mouth shut, even though by all
fucking rights in the eyes of Gods and crowns just my giving the order
here should have been enough, because I was not so enamoured of my pride
that I'd knife a method that seemed to be working.

``It was a villain that was slain,'' Roland continued, ``and-''

``See,'' the Blade of Mercy spat, ``\emph{see}? It is \emph{exactly} as
we learned. Some wizard rapist got nothing more than he deserved and now
they would slay a Chosen in cold blood for it.''

``And how did you learn this, I wonder?'' Adjutant asked, voice calm.

``Orcs have-'' the Blade of Mercy began-

``Finish that sentence,'' I mildly said. ``And I will have to answer
it.''

I met his eyes, pale blue, and idly ran a finger just to the side of my
shoulder. About where I'd ripped his out with my bare hands, the last
time we'd fought. The boy flinched, until his eyes glowed with Light and
he leaned forward instead.

``Answer the Adjutant's question, Christophe,'' Roland said. ``Something
is afoot.''

``I will not unmask our friend in these walls so that you might silence
them and hide the next sin from our eyes,'' the Mirror Knight harshly
replied. ``Queen you might be, Catherine Foundling, but you are \emph{no
queen of mine}.''

Was I supposed to be stung by that? I sometimes pitied Cordelia
Hasenbach for the fact that the blunders of her nation's heroes
inevitably reflected on her and counted my blessings that the closest
thing to a hero I had to answer for was Vivienne Dartwick. Once in a
while, I supposed, I did get a stroke of luck.

``I didn't ask you to kneel,'' I said. ``But I did ask you to put your
fucking sword on the ground, \emph{Christophe}. I can't help but notice
you haven't even managed that much.''

``And what will you do, if I do not deign to indulge you?'' the man
smirked.

``Do not think,'' I softly said, ``that I will not beat some sense into
your empty head, if you leave me no other choice.''

``What do I have to fear of Night?'' the Mirror Knight chuckled.
``Perhaps this is for the best, yes? Too long have better souls tread
softly around your pride for fear of your \emph{power}. You are in dire
need of a-''

I'd have to aim it carefully, to finish it one blow. Just tossing Night
around like some Secret-drunk ispe wouldn't do anything, the man had
survived being submerged in acid with only light discomfort. The trick
to it would be-

``Hooves,'' the Maddened Keeper sighed. ``I told you.''

The portal's opening was silent, though the shiver of power was not. A
rider came through, leaning low against the neck of the horse to avoid
hitting their head, and there was no missing the power wafting off of
them. \emph{Another} one?

``Weeping Heavens,'' I swore, throwing up my hands. ``Is this a secret
magic fortress or a bloody fish market?''

``We do have ponds,'' Masego helpfully told me in a whisper, ``and some
of them have fish.''

``Thank you, Masego,'' I sighed. ``But the fish weren't the point of the
comparison.''

``It's not a very good comparison, then,'' he informed me.

I did not answer that, because I had better things to do and also I
couldn't think of anything that'd be a match for that serious
earnestness he'd spoken with. For a moment, looking at the rider
straightening in the saddle, I was genuinely unsure whether I was
looking at a man or a woman. But then I caught sight of the ornate
kingfishers carved into the armour and put one and one together.
Frederic Goethal, the Prince of Brus. More importantly, the Kingfisher
Prince: the only ruler Named in Procer I'd ever heard about outside old
legends. Prince Frederic, I decided as I took in the perfect blond hair,
slender jaw and fair skin, was \emph{ridiculously} pretty. The mass of
ribbons in his hair would have looked ridiculous, I thought, if a closer
look did not reveal they were purple and silver. The Dead King's
banners, torn up and made into vain ornaments.

The Prince of Brus had style, I had to give him that.

``My, it seemed I've stumbled onto quite the assembly,'' Prince Frederic
laughed. ``I dare not claim it was sent for on my behalf.''

Eyes just a little too sharp for me to find them beautiful lingered on
me, and the Prince of Brus offered me a theatrical bow from atop his
horse.

``Queen Catherine, I must say it is a fine pleasure to meet you in
person at last,'' he said. ``I am, one might say, an admirer of your
work up in Hainault.''

The heroes I'd been about to draw on looked utterly befuddled by a Named
prince of Procer quite literally riding into the middle of the
confrontation. It calmed the waters some, took the edge off the stormy
urgency everyone had been feeling in their air.

``I hear good things of you from my people, Prince Frederic,'' I
replied, meaning every word. ``Or do you prefer your Name instead?''

``There is less difference between one and the other than I would have
thought,'' the man mused. ``But Frederic is all I would require of you,
Queen of Callow.''

``How forward,'' I said, smothering a grin, but did not outright deny
him.

It was just an Alamans thing, the grandiose manners and bold
suggestions, but it was still flattering in its own way. Dismounting
smoothly, the Prince of Brus set foot on the stone and offered a
sweeping bow to the rest of the Named here.

``I am Frederic of the House of Goethal, Prince of Brus,'' he introduced
himself.

``Did we invade that?'' I heard Masego ask Hakram in a whisper. ``He's
very polite, if we invaded that.''

``We haven't,'' Hakram replied in a whisper. ``Too far north. And
technically speaking we never invaded Procer. We were invited into
Iserre by Prince Amadis Milenan.''

``Oh, I get it,'' Masego said, tone brightening. ``We never killed any
Procerans either, we just stabbed them and then an unrelated death
ensued. Politics is all about ignoring causality.''

I decided, after a moment, to pretend I'd never heard that. The
Kingfisher Prince greeted several the other two Proceran heroes by both
Name and name, which seemed to rather move them, and charmed his way
through introductions with the Poet and the Keeper. Who was, if I was
not mistaken, blushing. Roland stood at my side, a rueful look on his
face, and shrugged when I raised an eyebrow as if to say, \emph{Alamans,
what can you do?} The glance I traded with Hakram was more laden with
meaning. \emph{Retreat}, I asked him with my eyes, \emph{or press
forward?} He studied the heroes and the Prince of Brus for a moment,
then nodded. Forward, he was saying. I was inclined to agree. Though in
principle the Mirror Knight and the Blade of Mercy were of equal
standing to the Kingfisher Prince, in matters of Truce and Terms at
least, the way they behaved spoke differently. They were deferring,
treating the man a superior whether they were conscious of it or not.

And I'd been around Alamans long enough now to learn that their culture
frowned on making a scene when a superior was there to see. The trait
was even more pronounced in highborn, who would be expected to `remain
graceful' to the extent that they'd have to face even an utter disaster
with a smile and a pithy phrase instead of genuine emotion. It galled me
that I'd have to use someone authority's as well as my own, but not so
much that I wouldn't actually do it. I stepped into the circle, Hakram
and Masego trailing behind, inserting myself into the ongoing
conversation.

``- it was the of the Bitter Blacksmith's make as it happens, though not
the one here,'' the Prince of Brus said, touching the sword at his hip
with a smile. ``The younger brother of the pair. His blades are in high
demand, and Revenants have learned to fear their sight.''

``I am sure that stories would be best traded in comfortable a place
than this room,'' I said. ``Your horse will need stabling as well,
Prince Frederic.''

``Every time title is used, Queen Catherine, my heart breaks a little
more,'' the man said, hand over his heart.

``Frederic, then,'' I smiled, against my own better judgement, but the
mirth went away as I turned to the four unexpected guests. ``As was
discussed earlier, your unexpected presence at the Arsenal means you'll
have to remand yourself to the custody the guards until the White Knight
can be scryed. I expect you've no issue with this?''

``None at all, Black Queen,'' the Exalted Poet immediately conceded.

``A place with little light, please,'' the Maddened Keeper said. ``Queen
of Lost and Found.''

My eyes narrowed as I looked at the haggard woman. That was not one of
my better-known titles, much less by someone who should not have ever
gone anywhere the Firstborn. This one was worth keeping an eye on. I
smiled at the Mirror Knight and the Blade of Mercy, who were both doing
poorly at hiding their anger. But they were only two against many, and
likely to disgrace themselves in everyone's eyes if they fought back
against my very reasonable \emph{request}.

``Of course,'' the Mirror Knight said. ``We will do what is right.''

``We always do,'' the Blade of Mercy said, looking at me defiantly.

I glanced at Roland, who nodded. I'd trust him with seeing to that,
then. I knew not the officers that must be spoken to or the places the
heroes would have to be stashed away until Hanno could either free my
hands to deal with this mess or deal with it himself.

``I'm sure one of the guards can show you to the stables,'' I told
Frederic Goethal. ``I'm afraid I cannot claim the same.''

``Every hour parted from you will be a torment,'' the Prince of Brus
assured me, ``but I may be able to withstand it, for the promise of a
cup of wine shared at a later date?''

``Best you bring the bottle,'' I told him, tacitly accepting, ``I know
little of Proceran wines.''

Even when it came to Callowan bottles, I only knew so much. Gods, I
realized with some amusement, I could name more sorts of liquor than
wine.

``A journey of discovery is always a pleasant evening to share, Queen
Catherine,'' the Kingfisher Prince smiled, and with a bow took his
leave.

A charmer, that one, I considered. That made him that dangerous, if
rather pleasant. The heroes left, until the only ones here in this
strange room in this strange place were of the Woe: Masego and Hakram,
who I would trust so long as I still had it in me to trust anything at
all. I breathed out, then, appreciating how close to fighting this had
come. The heroes were bucking the Terms and bucking them \emph{hard}.
Those two Proceran hotheads were trouble, had been from the start, but
I'd thought that Hanno's word would be enough to keep them in line. That
belief was starting to wane, unfortunately, and if words failed then
there was only one way left.

``Fuck,'' I muttered. ``This is going to get worse, isn't it?''

I knew better than to believe house arrest would keep a hero contained.
Which meant I now had to take this situation in hand before the fucking
idiots broke the agreements that were keeping Named pointed north at
Keter instead of squabbling.

``Find me a room I can received people in, Zeze,'' I asked Masego. ``And
then get me the Hunted Magician.''

``Are you not going to settle into your quarters?'' Hierophant asked,
cocking his head to the side.

``I'll rest when I'm dead,'' I sighed.

Better that than everyone else dying, I supposed.

``And Hakram-'' I began.

``I'll see what bottles I can rustle up,'' the orc agreed.

Ah, Adjutant, that prince among men. What would I do without him?

---

I'd expected to end up in a glorified scholar's nook, but perhaps that'd
been naïve of me. After all the Arsenal had been built on the Grand
Alliance's gold with the understanding that it would be receiving some
of the finest minds from three nations as well as packs of Named.
Moreover, for something like the Mirage -- that great enchanted room
that'd been sold to me as the sorcerous step beyond scrying -- to be
worth making, there would have to be fitting accommodations for the few
people on Calernia that would actually be allowed to use that room. That
meant that an entire wing of the Arsenal, named the Alcazar, had been
built for that purpose. There were luxurious private quarters, there,
and private dining rooms, but also the kind of parlour where a prince or
a queen could receive important guests away from prying ears.

Masego had cut me loose in the wing after bringing me there, admitting
he was less than familiar with the place and so of limited use, and
instead gone off to find the Hunted Magician. The attendants here,
though, had sorted me out. I'd requested something `intimate', which was
what rich people called small, since I'd not brought a household with me
and the villain I was going to receive was both Proceran and mostly
likely highborn. Better the lack of personal attendants be taken as
preference for privacy then an admission I'd simply not brought any. Or
had any, to be honest. Even when I'd spent most my time in Laure, I'd
kept a rather modest house by royal standards. Enough that Anne Kendall
had once praised me for my frugality, and that thought had me reaching
for the bottle of \emph{aragh} that Hakram had somehow gotten his hands
on.

I'd been a while since I'd last thought of the once Baroness of Dormer,
who'd been my Governess-General and died so senselessly in the Night of
Knives. Her and people dearer to me, like Ratface, whose death Malicia
would one day answer for.

I gulped down the thimble I'd filled, the roaring warmth of the Taghrebi
liquor spreading down my throat, and leaned back into the cushiony
Proceran sofa I'd claimed as my seat. The parlour was not large, two
sofas and a low table taking up the greater part of the room while
service tables and tapestries took up the rest. It would serve for my
purposes, as would the bottle of aragh set on that nice polished table
along with one wet thimble and one still dry. Adjutant stood behind my
seat, to the side, since he was here as my second and not a villain his
own right. I'd not expected for Masego to return with the Hunted
Magician, since he'd see little point in walking back and forth the
Arsenal for courtesies he only dimly paid attention to, so I was not
surprised when it was only the Magician that was announced by
attendants. The man was ushered in, and as he bowed I took the time to
study the man that Hierophant's indifference to matters of status had
allowed to become chief among the villains of the Arsenal.

Nearing or past thirty, I decided, well-dressed in fine robes but
leaning towards the practical -- and I did mean \emph{well} dressed, not
\emph{richly} dressed, which smelled of nobility to me. Good-looking and
well-groomed, the stubble on his face sculpted, he was dark of hair and
his eyes straddled the line between grey and blue. No one knew his name,
only his Name, and the mystery around him had so far remained
inscrutable. He cleaned up nicely, I thought, but that wasn't why I kept
staring at him. There was something about the Hunted Magician, something
strangely familiar. It was on the tip of my tongue and it was irritating
me I couldn't quiet spell it out.

``Queen Catherine, it is my honour,'' the Hunted Magician said, bowing
respectfully.

I stared at him, some part of me feeling like I could just order him to
kneel and he would. The certainty of that thought was what surprised me,
because there was no room for so much as the shadow of a doubt in it and
that was not something that came upon me often. Not anymore, thank the
Gods. And just like that, it fell into place.

``Oh,'' I said, ``you poor dumb bastard. Which Court is it that you sold
your name to?''

The man twitched, then looked at me what I could only call naked fear. I
was almost surprised Masego hadn't noticed it, but then I supposed that
was not he part of fae nature Hierophant was familiar with: he'd studied
fae, made use of them, but he'd never felt that power coursing through
his veins. He knew it like a rider knew a horse, while I knew it like
the horse knows the stride.

``I-'' the Hunted Magician began, mouth gone dry. ``I do not know what
you mean, Your Majesty.''

``I can \emph{smell} it, Magician,'' I said. ``They've still got a claim
on you, and a debt like that can be pulled at by more than the true
debtor. Can't be Summer, or I'd feel like smashing your skull open, and
if it was Winter you would have physically balked at lying to me. So,
which is it: Autumn or Spring?''

``It is true, then,'' he quietly said. ``You were, for a time, queen
amongst the Fae.''

``I scavenged that crown,'' I said, ``and it ever sat ill on my brow. I
was glad to be rid of it. Answer my question, Hunted Magician.''

I did not Speak -- I'd lost the talent when I ceased being the Squire,
and my new Name was not so close to coalescing that I could call on old
tricks -- but he shivered anyway. There was an echo of power there that
had a call on him, much as he would like to deny it.

``Autumn,'' the villain answered. ``It was Autumn I bargained with.''

\emph{And you use Maviii runes that not even Masego can seem to figure
it out,} I thought, \emph{so I don't really need to ask what you
bargained for, do I?} Ancient knowledge seemed a petty thing to sell
your name for, but then that'd never been my calling.

``Good,'' I smiled. ``Then I have a use for you, Magician.''

``I have evaded the eye of the Prince of Falling Leaves, remaining free
of eternal servitude,'' the Hunted Magician angrily said, ``I'll not
suffer the yoke of the Black Queen instead.''

``I'm not going to make you into a puppet,'' I snorted, ``I'm going to
speak to Hierophant so that you might be brought in onto a project of
ours that the Kingdom of Callow backs above all others. You have the
potential to greatly contribute, and so be greatly rewarded.''

Masego had been running into trouble proving his Quartered Seasons
theory, but if we could bring into the work someone who had a lasting
tie to Autumn then doors would open. And I'd just discovered I could
squeeze the Hunted Magician rather hard if I felt like it, so I was even
fairly comfortable bringing him in. Already my mood was improving.

``That can wait for later, though,'' I dismissed. ``You wanted an
audience, Magician. Well, you have it.''

I gestured vaguely, inviting him to proceed. The man straightened in his
seat.

``The death of the Wicked Enchanter was not happenstance, a stroke of
fateful misfortune,'' the Hunted Magician told me. ``This is a plot,
Black Queen, and we are all in danger.''
