webcrawl/APGTE/Book-6/out/Ch-014.md.tex

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\chapter*{Interlude: Truce}\label{interlude-truce}}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{\nameref{interlude-truce}} \chaptermark{Interlude: Truce}

\epigraph{``Raise the price by a coin of gold and you make enemies; raise
the price by a copper and you make losses. Profit lies in silver:
moderation without timidity.''}{Extract from `Discourse on Nature and Man', by Merchant Princess
Adorabella}



Above the foyer of the royal quarters in Rhenia hung a painting -- six
feet long, four feet high -- depicting the famous ancient Iron King
Konrad wrestling with what the artist had deemed a personification of
the concept of duty.

Cordelia sometimes thought of that painting, when the days grew long. At
first, when she grew from girlhood into womanhood, she had remembered it
for the stories her uncle had had told her about it. Of how her father,
a man she'd never known, had despised it ever since he was a boy and had
it taken down the same day he became Prince of Rhenia. He'd been known
to claim he would sell it to some art-hungry Alamans princeling in the
south and use the gold to buy a few more dwarven engines, though he'd
never gotten around to it before his untimely death. Cordelia's mother
had eventually ordered it put back up, being rather fond of it, though
she'd called the motif `Konrad Getting Beat By A Bald Bear' instead.
Sometimes Cordelia thought she'd only ever truly known her parents
through the stories of others, for even though she'd been fourteen when
her mother passed away Cordelia had only been graced to know a meagre
few facets of Margaret Papenheim.

Now that years had passed, though, she thought more of the motif. Not of
Old King Konrad, who stories told had let all eight of his children die
rather than surrender Twilight's Pass, but of what lay at a heart of it:
a prince, wrestling with duty. Was that not, in a way, what lay at the
heart of rule? To bear a crown was to swear yourself to making order out
of chaos, law out of anarchy, prosperity out of ruin. Cordelia had been
orderly even as a little girl, for Mother had never been prone to
coddling: it had been up to her to decide how her hours would be spent
when she was not seeing to her duties. She'd taken on seneschal duties
for the fortress-city by the age of twelve and extended her authority to
Rhenia's dependencies by the age of thirteen, and as her writ ran
further her hours became ever more precious and in need of careful
parcelling. Those habits had followed her into adulthood, into the Salia
and her rule as First Prince of Procer, and she was grateful for it.

There was simply so much to \emph{do} and too little time for all of it.
Cordelia would try anyway and parcel out ever ounce of her so that, at
least, all that she could do was done. The First Prince of Procer
delicately nibbled at the caramelized poultry she'd been served, then
took a sip of no more than two beats from her cup of water -- obeying
court etiquette to the letter. The two men seated across from her, who
had patiently been waiting for her to finish her bite and rinse it down,
only then began speaking again.

``Merchant Prince Fabianus has signalled he will not involve himself in
matters of Proceran debt,'' Louis of Sartrons told her. ``We've
established this is a firm commitment, and not a bargaining position.''

The old spy's face had always struck her as being rather skeletal, skin
pulled taut against the bones of an aristocratic face and only topped by
ever-receding tufts of hair. He was not a physically striking man,
looking more like a well-born coin counter than what he truly was: the
foremost patron of the Circle of Thorns, the secretive society whose
agents were the eyes and ears of the Principate abroad. Louis of Sartons
was not a close ally of hers, for the Circle preferred to maintain a
degree of distance so that it would not be swept into internal struggles
and so suffer in a way that blinded Procer to its enemies, but he had
come out boldly to support her when a coup had been attempted against
Cordelia. For this he'd earned a degree of trust, and a freer hand than
she'd allowed him before. The news he was bringing, however, were not
pleasant ones.

``That is a blade that bites both ways,'' Cordelia mused.

Most of the Merchant Princes and Princesses that ruled Mercantis were
not Named, and rarely more than influential firsts among equals, yet
their value as intermediaries with the banks and merchant houses of the
city they ruled was priceless -- if always priced. That Fabianus was had
formally stepped back from intervening in the matter massive loans that
Mercantis had extended both Procer and the Grand Alliance meant he would
not demand that the sums, lenders and borrowers be made public within
the Consortium as a growing number of merchants now demanded. It also
meant, however, that he would no longer facilitate those arrangements as
he had until now.

``The Circle believes he remains in favour of the arrangements but has
grown to fear assassination by his opposition if he does not bend,''
Louis informed her. ``Recusing himself allows him to give them an inch
without slighting us outright.''

Wiggling out was the mark of an eel, not a prince, Cordelia uncharitably
thought, but what else was to be expected from Mercantis? Not that the
merchants were entirely without reason to be worried of the loans
extended, for the First Prince had woven there a maze to obscure exactly
how badly the finances of the Principate were faring. By obtaining the
permission of the Highest Assembly to seek loans in the name of its
individuals princes and princesses -- all marked down, and to be repaid
by the Principate to the individuals in years to come -- she'd been able
to seek smaller loans from multiple royals in a shared `bundle' from
different banks and merchants, effectively spreading out debts in a way
that made it nearly impossible to assess from the side of the lenders.
The key to this had been requiring secrecy from the lenders in exchange
of higher interest, something she'd had the Circle of Thorns strictly
enforce.

The first two merchants who'd tried to break their written oaths had
been promptly assassinated, using some of the most painful poisons the
Circle knew of. None had tried after, not individually anyway: through
the great merchant guild known as the Consortium, which Mercantis
counted as both a court of law and ruling body second only to their
Merchant Prince, pressured was being applied for the hidden information
being made available not to individuals but to the Consortium `itself'.
It was a legal fiction, given that nearly all those who'd signed to
secrecy were also members of the Consortium, but one that might hold up
under the few treaties Mercantis kept with Procer. That even Merchant
Prince Fabianus was beginning to give way was bad omen for the Grand
Alliance's fortunes in the city. Possibly quite literally.

``This is no longer a purely Proceran matter,'' the First Prince
eventually said.

The older man bowed his head in acknowledgement, and with a look
Cordelia made for one of her attendants to approach. The young woman
curtsied, then silently awaited instructions.

``Please request of Ingrid that she inquire whether Lady Dartwick would
be amenable to having tea,'' she began, and for a heartbeat considered
when she could first spare the time, ``tomorrow, an hour past Noon
Bell.''

``Immediately, Your Most Serene Highness,'' her attendant replied.

\emph{Ghislaine}, Cordelia suddenly remembered, repeating the name in
her mind to better commit it to memory.

``Thank you, Ghislaine,'' she smiled, and the woman curtsied again.

Vivienne Dartwick would not have the authority or influence to settle
such a matter herself, but needed to be brought into the issue as the
first step into bringing in Catherine Foundling. The Black Queen,
Cordelia thought a touch guiltily, really was such a useful large club
to threaten people with. Where law and diplomacy failed to make a mark,
Queen Catherine's scowls and fearsome reputation had a way of bringing
out sweet reason from the most unreasonable of souls. Callow would,
besides, need to be told of the developments regardless: its treasury
was guarantor to some of the loans extended to the Grand Alliance and it
was the second-largest contributor to the war chest besides. Not that
Lady Dartwick had not ensured the kingdom would not benefit from the
process. If anything, she'd proved frighteningly cunning in finding ways
of seeing to that.

The notion of allowing repayment in nature for extended loans had, for
one, effectively erased twenty years of damage to Callowan horse-rearing
while simultaneously thinning the hordes of their traditional greatest
rivals in the trade, the Arlesite princes of the south. If Queen
Vivienne was to be her neighbour to the east, one day, Cordelia would
not make the mistake of taking her lightly. The former Chosen might in
truth have better gifts for ruling in years of peace than the woman
who'd chosen her for a successor. The blonde princess had another bite
of poultry, savouring the subtle aftertaste of the sauce, and then a
nibble of those perfectly steamed and spiced carrots. It was washed away
with a sip of water, afterwards, and even as she dabbed her lips with an
embroidered cloth the First Prince cleared her mind of unnecessary
thoughts.

The matters that would be brought to her attention by Brother Simon of
Gorgeault, formerly the head of the Holy Society and nowadays the Lord
Inquisitor of Procer, would require her full attention as well. Though
the well-formed man with the hair grown silver was no longer the leader
of the society of highborn lay brothers and sisters, it was because at
Cordelia's incitation the Highest Assembly had charged him instead to
root out corruption and wickedness within the ranks of the House of
Light, granting him worldly authority over the priests until his
\emph{inquisition} was at an end. It was reform at the edge of a sword,
all knew this, but after so many of the Holies had been caught publicly
backing her deposal the House had not had room to argue.

``The House of Light has formally decided to accept your latest set of
suggestions,'' Brother Simon said, a tad drily. ``The lands will be
ceded to the throne, under condition that they are to be ceded in turn
to the appropriate crowns.''

Cordelia was too well-mannered to smile in triumph, so instead she drank
a sip of water. With that last concession, it could be said that she had
subdued the Holies and the uglier aspects of the House of Light they
represented. Even after the public disgrace of the House during the
Salian coup attempt, it would have been a grave overreach to come down
too hard on it where the people could see: it would restore public
sympathy, and feed into the perception that she had a tyrant's grip on
the Principate. Instead, she had struck more subtly. First she'd
abolished every ritual power the House had over the office of First
Prince and the Highest Assembly itself, save for the right to directly
petition the latter -- one of the oldest and more importantly the most
\emph{well-known} of the House's privileges. Then, with the fetters of
tradition removed, she'd gone after the coin. The House was invited to
divest itself of all its merchant interests, donating such wealth to the
feeding of the refugees in the heartlands. The House was invited to
accept taxation on its holdings, if only while the Principate was at
war. And now, the Lord Inquisitor had confirmed that all the lands of
the House whose purpose was commercial in nature -- vineyards, orchards,
mines -- were to be ceded to the throne of Procer, which itself would
then cede them back to the appropriate princes and princesses.

For a price, which Cordelia would mercifully offer to be paid through
writing off any debt the treasury of the Principate might owe any such
royalty. In the same stroke she'd ensured that her office would not go
bankrupt after the war, curried favour with her subjects by restoring
lands to them and ensured the Holies would never again have the wealth
to ensure the degree of influence they'd been boasting for the last
century.

``The wisdom of the House illuminates the way in these dark times,''
Cordelia Hasenbach replied, long practice allowing her to keep even the
faintest hint of irony out of her voice.

This would devour hours and hours of her days for weeks to come, but it
was worth it: with a little inventiveness, she should be able to shuffle
around debts and debtors to secure another round of loans abroad.

``It shines what light it can,'' the Lord Inquisitor agreed, both praise
and warning in the same elegant turn of phrase.

Simon of Gorgeault, she sometimes thought, would have made a better
prince than most if fate had deigned to grant him that birthright.

``Furthermore,'' Brother Simon continued, ``though numbers will only
arrive tomorrow, I can already tell you that another company of priests
has volunteered for service on the fronts.''

This, at least, Cordelia would give the honour it was due. Every
Lycaonese child was taught that there could be no greater service to
one's own than to put your life between them and the Enemy.

``If you have names for me, the lists can be read to the people again,''
Cordelia offered.

It was both a gesture of respect and a way to raise morale, which in
turn tended to lead to volunteers.

``I will extend the offer to House,'' the Lord Inquisitor said, tone
grown warmer.

That saw to the immediate matters, she grasped, and just in time. With
one last touch of her fork, she brought a bite of poultry to her mouth
and swallowed, washing it down with water just before the first ringing
of Noon Bell in the distance. The two spies took their leave with the
proper courtesies, which she duly returned, and only then did Cordelia
allow her brow to crease as she looked down at her plate. There were
still two mouthfuls of poultry left, and one of sides. Her timing had
been off: imprecision, chaos, had won a small victory. The First Prince
left the meal unfinished, and allowed herself to be led to the
antechamber down the hall -- where she was deftly undressed by her
handmaids and helped into a dress more practical than the powder blue
court regalia she'd donned for her duties of the day until now. Grey
velvet was laced at her back and paired with matching shawl bordered in
golden brocade in deference to the chill that occasionally seized parts
of the palace.

Her escort to what her councillors had taken to naming \emph{l'archive
en vogue} -- the Vogue Archive -- was a familiar face. Captain Lois had
been a simple guardsman, when Cordelia had thrown herself down a
windowsill, and proved to be a man of his oath. He'd been among those
that helped her escape, and he'd killed to ensure she would not be
dragged back to Balthazar Serigny's feet as a prisoner. There were some,
after the coup, who'd said that the ancient palace of the Merovins
should be emptied of all Salians and only trustworthy Lycaonese be kept
in her service. These calls she'd resisted, and instead ensured both
honours and promotions for all the Salians who had proved loyal. She was
not First Prince of the Lycaonese but of Procer, and she would not let
fear taint who she was: leal service must ever be met with reward.

``If you would allow me the honour, Your Most Serene Highness?'' Captain
Lois offered along with his arm.

Cordelia did, though lending an arm was as far as she intended to ever
indulge the flirtation. She'd had discreet liaisons over the years, with
men and rather more rarely women, but becoming involved with one in her
service would be\ldots{} uncouth in many ways. Her own people's
traditions encouraged sharing a bed with one of the `pleasant trade'
rather than involvement with one's fellow soldiers but this far south it
was seen as frivolous for an unmarried woman of her rank to dally with
courtesans of any gender. Especially if there were lands in line to
inherit, as was the case with her. The Rhenian princess had therefore
been forced to be most careful in her dalliances, indulging only in the
company of those who might never be a hazard to her position or
reputation. The affairs had been rare, and after the first
heart-wrenching time she'd had to part from a man she held deep
affections for Cordelia had never again allowed them to linger.

Still, that did not mean she could not appreciate a well-formed calf or
a muscled arm.

The First Prince's guards moved aside when they reached the threshold of
the Vogue Archive, for access to what within was restricted by both
ancient enchantments and much more recent wards. Cordelia parted with
her escort with a courteous smile, pressing her palm against the heavy
oaken door before her. Sorcery crackled against her skin, like a
minuscule gust of wind, and the door opened without a sound as the old
enchantment recognized her right to enter. The wards buzzed against her
ears as she crossed the threshold, but the blonde Lycaonese paid it
little mind: already her mind was on the sight awaiting her. This had
been a great salon, once, where the Merovins had entertained others in
the sort of amusements where none were expected to be wearing clothes by
the end of the evening and the company of the beautiful was much
encouraged.

The need for discretion -- the people of Salia would have raised brows
upon hearing of the diversions of their rulers -- had seen enchantments
laid on the doors leading into the room, restricting for whom they would
open. That and the size of the salon had been the deciding factors in
Cordelia ordering the beating heart of administration settled within,
and there was no trace left to see of the original trivial purpose of
the Vogue Archive. Great tables covered in sprawling maps of the
different regions of the Pirnicpate as well as broader Calernia had been
set down, each matched with bureaus seeing to the reports from such
regions and foreign locales. The maps themselves were adorned with
sculpted stones and silk ribbons representing trade arteries and supply
lines, garrisons and crucial resources.

The Order of the Red Lion, whose mages swept in and out of the room
regularly, kept reports and notes as fresh -- \emph{en vogue} -- as was
possible, resulting in a living and breathing map of the Principate of
Procer that had allowed Cordelia and her councillors to avert enough
crises over the previous two years that she could not remember when
anyone had last argued to cut funding for the Archive. Trusted and
thoroughly vetted scholars, traders and officials swarmed the great hall
like ants in an anthill, filling scrolls of their own as the read
through reports. Those scrolls headed to the very back of the hall,
where on a raised dais the keen minds the First Prince had appointed as
her foremost analysts had been granted desks of their own. Theirs was
the task to sift through the mass of reports and identify the disasters
that would plague Procer and the Grand Alliance before they came to
pass, warning Cordelia so that they might be averted.

The Rhenian princess's entrance was met with a pause in the intricate
dance of duties as bows and curtsies were offered, though when she
returned them with a nod the sudden hush broke and activity resumed.
Cordelia took the time to pass by some of the tables and speak, as she'd
scheduled for, praising the Segovian bureau for the sea supply lines to
Bremen they'd successfully forged and encouraging the Aisne bureau to
redouble its efforts to find a way to keep that principality's granaries
and treasury afloat after the ravages the Carrion Lord had inflicted
there. Callowan grain would not be able to feed the heartland forever.
The Levantine bureau approached her with an intercepted communication
from the Holy Seljun of Levant trying to formalize diplomatic relations
with the Kingdom of Callow through ambassadors as well as a list of the
most likely individuals the Dominion might send should such an offer be
accepted, which made for interesting reading.

She thanked the young woman who'd brought her the scroll and requested a
more comprehensive report be made over the matter and sent to her. That
would see to a third of the quarter-bell that Cordelia had allowed
herself for reading this evening, by her own estimation, which was an
acceptable way to spend the time. The First Prince's feet took her up
the low steps and onto the dais, where the three appointed analysts that
were currently awake and serving were awaiting her. One was a
distinguished merchant of low birth, Maria Fernanda of Treville, who'd
turned the ailing fruit trading family business she'd inherited into one
of the foremost trade societies of the south by virtue of being able to
read trends in demand in time to capitalize on them. The second was
Brother Alphonse of the Montresor monastery in Creusens, who Simon of
Gorgeault had personally recommended as being the finest policy hound of
the Holies prior to their fall.

The third and last in attendance was more complex a presence than a
merchant and a priest: the Forgetful Librarian was undeniably a
brilliant woman, but she was also Damned and largely unwilling to
entertain the notion of someone having authority over her. That she'd
been born to a family distant kin to the House of Brogloise ruling in
Cantal had only encouraged what Cordelia suspected was an instinctive
resentment of anyone who might have a claim on her hours, not to mention
seen her wealthy enough a villain few had suspected her of even
\emph{being} one before the Archer had caught her in the middle of
trying to steal manuscripts from Mercantis bought at auction and headed
for the Belfry. A great many dead hired swords and several bruises
later, the Forgetful Librarian had accepted the Truce and the Terms and
been assigned to Salia by the Black Queen at Cordelia's own request.
There were good reasons for that, though on some days it was necessary
for the Rhenian princess to reminder herself of this more than once.

``Your Most Serene Highness,'' Brother Alphonse greeted her, hastily
rising to his feet and bowing.

Maria Fernande mirrored him, but a heartbeat slower on the draw, but the
Librarian had yet to raise her eyes from the book she'd been reading.
Only when she turned the page did she look up, and sharply nodded.

``First Prince,'' the mousy-looking woman said. ``Right on time. Shall
we get to it?''

Cordelia ignored her, smiling and gesturing for the other two to return
to their seats before taking her own.

``Librarian,'' she said, tone mild. ``You have something to report?''

``You might say that, Your Highness,'' the Damned said, closing the
book. ``Maria read through the reports on trade through with the League
and the Dominion, and I matched this with the records of tariffs between
principalities south of Salia. The numbers I arrived at are worrying,
when the substance of the Principate's debts is taken into
consideration.''

``And why is that?'' Cordelia asked.

``We suspect,'' Maria Fernanda intervened, shooting a warning look at
the Damned, ``that the Principate had become fragile, Your Most Serene
Highness.''

Brother Alphonse cleared his throat.

``It is our conclusion that, unless regular trade routes are opened anew
with League and Ashur,'' the priest delicately said, ``Should Mercantis
cease propping up the treasury Procer the entire Principate might come
down like a house of cards.''

A talk might be required, Cordelia faintly thought as the explanation
continued, with the Black Queen.

---

``Half past the hour would suit me better,'' Vivienne replied. ``Though
if it is a matter of great urgency, something might be arranged.''

``We would not dare impose on your time in such a haphazard manner, Lady
Dartwick,'' the tall woman facing her said. ``I will relay your answer
to Her Highness and see to it that your staff is kept informed of any
and all developments.''

Lady Vivienne Dartwick, heiress-designate to the Kingdom of Callow,
watched with a bland expression as the First Prince's own chamberlain
bowed and retired. She was not blind to the courtesy Hasenbach was
extending by sending the very head of her household, Ingrid Backhaus, to
arrange a meeting to `drink tea'. Neither was she particularly moved by
it, though. For the First Prince to be seeking out such an arrangement
meant that the ruler of Procer needed to address something by informal
channels of diplomacy -- given that Vivienne did not yet have an idea of
what was in need of addressing, she was inclined to chalk any courtesies
up to the woman trying to butter her up before the talks. Cordelia
Hasenbach wielded pleasantness and courtesy with an uncomfortable degree
of effectiveness, Vivienne had found, so it was best to remain wary.

It was a delicate line to walk, between being Hasenbach's friend and her
foe. Never to trust too deep or to give offence unprovoked, and though
the dark-haired woman knew she was not half bad at these games she had
not been \emph{born} to them as the opposition so often was. Catherine
could afford to ignore most of this, swagger in with a drink and quip
and turn everybody's plans inside out, because she had the charm and the
\emph{raw power} for it. Vivienne had neither, so instead she tread as
carefully as she had when she'd been the Thief and the evening air had
smelled of ambush. She leaned back into her seat and let out a long
breath, wondering if she should send for the Jacks now or later:
whatever had moved Hasenbach to seek a meeting, it'd be best if she knew
of it \emph{before} that meeting.

``Let us resume, Henrietta,'' she finally said. ``Word from the
Observatory, you said?''

Henrietta Morley was heiress to the Barony of Harrow, Ainsley Morley's
eldest daughter, and so the proper address would have been \emph{Lady}
Henrietta. They'd grown close enough to dispose with much of the
formalities in private, however, as was only necessary if the heiress to
Harrow was to remain as her secretary and advisor. That she was a
thoroughly competent was only to be expected, given that Baroness
Ainsley could not afford a weak successor given her rambunctious
vassals, but even if she'd been a moonstruck fool Vivienne would still
have found some place for her in her Salian `court'. Ties to the
baronies of the north, the last great landed nobles in Callow save for
Duchess Kegan herself, were important in keeping the latter constrained.

Naming Henrietta her personal secretary had been a sign to the disposed
nobles stripped of their lands by the Conquest and the Liesse Rebellion,
too, that Vivienne was not as determined as Catherine to keep the
highborn at a distance -- after all, while Cat had used nobles and even
appointed some to great offices she'd never kept any of them
\emph{close}. That'd been reserved for the Fifteenth, for the Woe, for
those who'd borne steel in her name. But Vivienne saw these same man and
women as a valuable resource: educated, often still wealthy by lowborn
standards and often influential those nobles could be used instead of
slowly ushered into oblivion. It'd be a waste to let them stay unused,
where any rebellious hand might pick them up besides.

Besides, if the former thief was to be queen one day it wouldn't hurt to
have a good relation with the future Baroness of Harrow.

``Fresh as of an hour ago,'' Henrietta agreed, tucking back her hair.
``Lady Fadila has deemed the contents of the missive she passes on to be
demanding of your immediate attention.''

Vivienne's brow rose. Fadila Mbafeno was something of a liability, in
her eyes -- she'd once been a servant to Akua Sahelian, which as far as
she was concerned was disqualification enough from holding office
anywhere in Callow -- but she'd remained as the informal head of the
Observatory by virtue of being effectively impossible to replace and
more than slightly competent. The dark-haired Callowan might not like
the Soninke sorceress, but she did respect her judgement.

``Whose missive is it?'' Vivienne asked.

``Our friend in the east,'' Henrietta delicately replied.

Ah, and there went her day. That meant Dread Empress Sepulchral, that
ruthless old bat from Askum, who the heiress-designate to Callow trusted
about as, well, a Dread Empress of Praes. Sepulchral was repugnant in
nearly all regards, but too useful as a check on Malicia to ignore. In
appearance, at least. The `civil war' in the Wasteland had been going on
too long and too \emph{oddly} for Vivienne to take the surface stirrings
of it as face value anymore. That the former High Lady Abreha was foe to
the Tower was beyond doubt, however, and regardless of all the rest that
made her useful. Sepulchral had naturally gone out of her way to
cultivate her usefulness to both the Grand Alliance at large and Callow
in particular with typical Wasteland canniness. That often involved
passing on information that neither the Jacks nor the Circle of Thorns
would have gotten anywhere near otherwise.

``You've the transcribed message?'' Vivienne asked.

``Translated from the cypher and ready for your perusal,'' Henrietta
agreed.

The scroll she presented held a seal in dark blue wax, the Observatory's
own. The wax was enchanted to turn to dust the moment the seal was
broken, which made it clear whether the message had been spied upon on
its way to the hands it was meant for.

``Thank you,'' she replied, taking the scroll.

The wax frittered into fine blue dust as she broke the seal, and she
blew it off the edge of her desk before turning sharp eye to what had
been written.

``Dire news, my lady?'' Henrietta asked.

Vivienne grimaced.

``Our friend sends us a timely warning,'' she replied. ``Malicia is
about to bite our fingers off in Mercantis.''

And wasn't that going to sting, a kick in the Grand Alliance's
moneybags? Something needed to be done before the fingers felt the teeth
closing in, and for that Vivienne required more than what she had at
hand. Fortunately, last word had Catherine on her way to the Arsenal.

Vivienne was overdue a visit, she decided.