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\epigraph{``Fate is not the river but the fisherman: run wild as you will,
it will reel you in before the end.''}{Queen Edda Norland of Summerholm, shortly before the surrender of her
crown to House Alban}



I was a city girl at heart so hunting had never been something I thought
all that fondly of.

Not that I hated it, either. Out in the country, away from walls and
merchants, a good stag or a few geese were a good way for my people to
feed their families. One that'd become increasingly common after the
Conquest, actually: with the removal of most nobles in the kingdom,
there were no longer great forests and fields reserved for the sole
hunting right of aristocrats. The Empire had required a yearly fee in
silver for the right to hunt in a governor's jurisdiction, but otherwise
been largely indifferent to the practice. I'd maintained the policy, and
why wouldn't I? It was a good way for my subjects to put meat on the
table, especially those who might not have otherwise been able to afford
it. But that'd been in the country, not in Laure.

There hunting had been a leisurely pursuit for the wealthy and the
\emph{noble}, practiced by great trains of riders and multiple packs of
hounds. Sometimes the animals being hunted were not even edible: by
ancient law foxes could not be hunted for sport in Callow, but wolves
and bears could and frequently were. It'd been a great deal of pageantry
and gold pissed away on reminding people that even under the rule of the
Dread Empire the rich and highborn were still important and worthy of
awe. The coin would have been better spent ensuring that the basins the
street drains emptied in near Nelly's Alley didn't fill up after rain
and so end up becoming an open-air sewer that stank up a good dozen city
blocks like you wouldn't believe come summer sun, in my humble opinion,
but what the Hells did I know?

I'd had them properly dug anew and done during my first year as queen,
even though Ratface had howled about the costs.

Still, general distaste for the spectacle or not it'd been impossible
not to pick up a few things about hunting being born in Callow. It
wasn't as simple business as riding a swift horse after a stag and
running it down with a spear, else highborn would not get to be so
bloody pretentious about the whole thing. You had to tire out the beast,
set dogs after it so it'd run itself to exhaustion. Only when it was on
the edge of collapse would it turn and fight, antlers down as fear
turned to despair, and only then was the kill to be made. If the nobles
had gone after the stag themselves from the start, their horses would
have tired out long before the stag would. I was after a beast of my
own, here in the Arsenal, so I'd used a method not so dissimilar to that
of my countrymen: to get the enemy running, I'd sent out a pack of
baying hounds.

The Mirror Knight's band was even now chasing down a conspiracy to bring
it into the light, though perhaps not the conspiracy they believed they
were. They were a cacophonous bunch, but for all that I believed they'd
be able to shake \emph{somethin}g loose. They certainly had the power
and numbers for it: four heroes and the Maddened Keeper, with Adjutant
to keep an eye on them and ensure they did not end up misusing the
authority I'd granted them. They'd begun their investigation with the
Hunted Magician who, all things aside, we could all agree was a shifty
fellow. Whether or not he'd been up to any sort of wickedness was not of
too great import, as far as I was concerned: more crucial was that the
heroes would be seen digging, and word would soon after spread it was
with my blessing. There was someone in the Arsenal with something to
hide, and ruby to piglets that little tale would get them moving. With
such fine hounds out in the woods someone's never was going to crack,
and they'd want to make sure their tracks were covered.

Following them should neatly reveal exactly what it was that was being
covered up.

Mind you, the hand behind the opposition was not some ingrate prince
with more greed than sense or a heroine fresh off her first nemesis'
death and looking to sink her teeth into another victory: it was the
Intercessor pulling the strings here. Just because she'd already struck
blows didn't mean she was going to stop hitting me below the belt. If
anything, it'd be the opposite. So I had to see to my own defences,
which meant keeping the goblinfire away from any open flames. The Red
Axe was a natural target there but seeing to her protection myself would
make me directly involved in her death if it happened, which would be
\emph{considerably} worse than her simply dying. No, someone else needed
to be charged with that else I was running into the risk that my
personal involvement had been the desired object from the start.

The Kingfisher Prince was of high rank, popular with heroes and his word
would mean a great deal to the likes of the Mirror Knight if he vouched
for me. That he'd been demonstrably competent and receptive to the
concept of the manner of war being fought over the Arsenal had sold me
on the notion for good, and so off he went to sae the Red Axe with a
signed set of orders from me granting him permission to do so under the
Terms. Gods help him, mine and maybe even Above if they were to share a
win instead of pissing in the communal porridge bowl out of principle.

Now, it wouldn't be enough to simply wait and see now that the hunt had
been sounded. Which was why Archer was hitting up her old acquaintance
the Concocter for answers, a conversation that should end up with the
latter spitting out a part of the Wandering Bard's design here. It had
to have been a long-term scheme, I figured: the Red Axe and the Wicked
Enchanter had been tools of opportunity, but the tools to use
\emph{them} had already been in place. The smuggling, the precise timing
used to guide the Enchanter onto the path of the heroine that'd kill
him? That'd been arranged long before, one of no doubt many levers to
nudge along the happenings within the Arsenal. After that it was just a
matter of the Intercessor getting the right Named close enough, and she
could get it all to begin rolling downhill.

The Concocter wouldn't know the whole web, I was aware of that: there
should be at least one outright accomplice to the Bard in here, as well
as several agents unwitting and not. But by dragging into the light what
she knew, I could get a glimpse of what the levers were meant to
accomplish. And once I knew that, well, I could smash the Intercessor's
game to pieces with a sledgehammer and force her to swallow the broken
shards with a smile. So there we were, I'd considered after the
Kingfisher Prince had set off. The Mirror Knight's band were out there
turning over primarily -- one hoped, at least -- stones, Archer was
finding me a thread to tug at so the net might unravel and the charming
Prince Frederic was making sure this wasn't about to violently turn on
me.

Now, the Bard would see those stories in motion same as I did. The
question was: if I was her, where would I strike at?

Setting the Mirror Knight after the Kingfisher would have been obvious,
except my little letter and Frederic being trusted had cut that disaster
off before it could start looming. The Concocter wasn't officially one
of mine, but with what Indrani had told me about her I could easily
unmake any attempt to claim that `the Black Queen's agent was
persecuting a heroine'. The Mirror Knight's band could be tricked I
figured, even with Hakram keeping an eye on them, but there wasn't a lot
that could physically threaten them. At this point I'd be willing to let
them encounter an early setback without intervening, anyway, since that
should ensure they later brutally crushed whoever had beat them this
early in the pattern.

My trouble, right now, was that I could not see an easy way the arrows
I'd loosed could be made to swerve. Out in the open the Intercessor
couldn't beat me, because even if I was distrusted I was still
recognized. A figure of authority, backed by other figures of authority.
Yet Archer should be unearthing part of her machinations where I'd sent
her, and using violence to prevent her of doing that would reveal part
of the machinations as well: whoever struck at Indrani would be one of
the Bard's trusted hands, and pumping them for information would be even
more useful than shaking some insights out of the Concocter. There
probably were ways to beat my hand, but I didn't know what they were and
that meant I couldn't prepare for them. Or, at least, prepare in
specific.

There was going to be an answer, and I would have to react to it. While
I could not prepare for the specifics for the unknown, I could prepare
\emph{for} the unknown. Practically speaking, that meant assembling a
team to handle whatever came crawling out of the woodworks on the
Intercessor's behalf. Calling back anybody I'd sent out would be a
mistake, unmaking the story they were playing out, which meant if I was
to gather some sort of bastard band of five I'd need to pick from the
rest of the Arsenal's Named. Four comrades, huh? I could do that. First,
I'd naturally needed a trusted second.

Thankfully I had a spare lying around.

---

``I've just had to put out a library fire,'' Roland of Beaumarais, also
known as the Rogue Sorcerer, mildly told me as he washed his hands free
of ash. ``I don't suppose you'd know anything about that?''

``I know lots of things, Roland,'' I vaguely replied.

His hands left the now-clouded water of the basin and he methodically
dried them with a cloth.

``Books, Catherine?'' he said, sounding agonized. ``Castles, armies,
ancient architectural wonders, I can make my peace with them all. But
\emph{books}, Catherine? A line has to be drawn somewhere.''

``If such a thing had been done, it would not have been done lightly,''
I said.

``You haven't even been here a whole day,'' he complained.

Actually, I mused, this could also work.

``You're right,'' I said. ``I'm a reckless, dangerous woman who'll do
anything to win.''

He cocked his head to the side.

``Have you been drinking?'' he asked.

Well, yes. But that was not related to this. I decided, for the sake of
tactics, to ignore his rejoinder.

``Which is why you should come with me,'' I said. ``Be the voice of
reason, keep me out of trouble. Prevent me from burning more
libraries.''

A beat passed.

``Not that I've done that,'' I added.

Another beat passed.

``But hey, the day's young,'' I added with a hopeful smile.

He twitched a little. Still, under the harried exterior I could see
something sharpen in his eyes. The understanding that none of this was
as casual as it looked, or without calculation.

``The way Archer tells it, your last designated voice of reason once
stole the entire sun,'' Roland said.

``She's still complaining we never got to pawn that off, isn't she?'' I
sighed.

``I expect sooner or later the litany will be put to verse,'' the Rogue
Sorcerer said. ``Still, large boots to fill.''

He shrugged.

``I've nothing else planned for the day, however,'' he said. ``So I
supposed I might as well.''

``That's exactly the kind of spirit I'm looking for,'' I said, clapping
him on the shoulder. ``Come, Roland, we have an important task ahead of
us.''

He shot me a steady look.

``I don't suppose you could tell me a little more, that I might equip
myself accordingly?'' he asked.

I hummed, then thoughtfully clasped my chin.

``We're going to cram as many potential traitors as possible into a band
of five, then dabble into some stirring heroics,'' I replied.

``Ah,'' Roland of Beaumarais nonchalantly said. ``We'll have to take a
detour through the Workshop, then. It's where I keep my war artefacts.''

\emph{Good man}, I thought, and smiled.

---

``Her name is Adanna,'' Roland said as we walked, ``and she was born, as
she tells it, in Smyrna.''

``It's got roots in Mtethwa,'' I noted. ``Not a common Soninke name,
though. You said she's highborn?''

``She certainly behaves like it,'' the Rogue Sorcerer said. ``Though
there is a distinct Ashuran bent to her manners.''

``What colour are her eyes?'' I asked.

``Golden,'' he replied. ``It is quite unusual, even for a Chosen.''

I let out a low whistle.

``That's not just highborn, that's from one of the old lines,'' I said.

Born in Smyrna, was she? It was one of the two cities of the
Thalassocracy of Ashur, its capital. Hells, that must have been quite
the tale. It would have been a point of pride for the Wasteland family
they'd fled to have them assassinated, and old families like that tended
to have a few grimoires' worth of nasty tricks to pull.

``She's made her disaster for the Dread Empire and all those who dwell
within it quite clear,'' Roland said. ``It has been one of the reasons
she so frequently clashes with Hierophant.''

Which was why Masego wouldn't be part of this band, among other things.
I also wanted him free to be a source of knowledge and wisdom for any of
the three stories I'd loosed, which he couldn't be if I was dragging him
along for mine.

``Hierophant's not here,'' I said. ``And she requested an audience with
me, you said. We can have words as we move.''

``I expect that was not quit what she wished for,'' Roland said, ``but
regardless, here we are.''

That last part had not been an outburst of fatalism on the Blessed
Artificer's behalf but instead Roland informing me we'd reached the
Artificer's quarters in the Workshop. We'd already picked up the Rogue
Sorcerer's artefacts, which were now stuffing his pockets and sleeves,
and it'd not been a long walk from there. The bare stone hallways here
were little different than anywhere else in the Arsenal, and though I
would have enjoyed visiting the great workshops of \emph{the} Workshop
-- birthplace of wonders that it was -- there was no time for
sightseeing. Instead we found ourselves in front of a neat wooden door,
and without ceremony I knocked against it with my staff a few times.
Mere moments later it was wrenched open to my surprise.

``I've told you already, I won't-''

Adanna of Smyrna, wearing small spectacles over her golden eyes and
garbed in clothes I would have expected more of some kindly toymaker
than a powerful Named, was visibly taken aback when she realized who it
was standing at her door. Realizing that the Rogue Sorcerer was at my
side did nothing to help he confusion.

``Good evening,'' I said. ``I see that look on your face means I won't
have to bother with introductions, Blessed Artificer.''

``I am, yes,'' the dark-skinned woman said. ``I know of you, Black
Queen. And Roland as well.''

``Splendid,'' I said. ``I've need of your services for a bit, as it
happens. I'll give you a moment to change and equip yourself.''

``Equip myself?'' the Blessed Artificer blinked. ``For what?''

``Trouble,'' I vaguely said.

Yeah, looking more closely at her she had that highborn look down to the
bone: quite literally, as those high cheekbones were one of those
telltale marks of Soninke nobility. This Adanna of Smyrna had not quite
inherited the inhuman good looks of Wasteland aristocracy, though she
was far form ugly. I supposed having met Malicia in person and spent
years in Akua's presence had rather skewed my standards when it came to
beauty, anyway. She'd definitely not inherited the Wasteland social
schooling, anyhow, as it took her a full three heartbeats before she
recovered from the onrush of surprises.

``I do not recall agreeing to lend you my aid, Black Queen,'' the
Artificer said, chin rising. ``And if you believe that the Rogue
Sorcerer's presence will be enough to bully me-''

``I do believe you've just indirectly called me a tool,'' Roland noted,
though he sounded rather good-humoured about it.

``- into compliance then I assure you, you are sorely mistaken,'' the
heroine finished.

She had that look about her, like a cat ready to hiss the moment a hand
was extended, but then that in the first place she'd assume I would need
Roland to bully anyone told me exactly how I needed to handle her.

``Please lend me your aid,'' I bluntly asked.

Ah, so she \emph{had} been taught to hide her emotions some. She wasn't
great at it -- Gods, but they would have eaten her alive in Praes -- but
she did smooth out her surprise after a moment.

``It is for a noble purpose,'' Roland told her.

Noble might be a bit of a stretch, I mused, but did not contradict him.

``And you requested an audience, as I recall,'' I said. ``We can see to
some of that as we walk.''

The golden-eyed Named hesitated.

``What is it you require of me, exactly?'' she asked.

\emph{Gotcha}, I smiled.

---

In what I hesitated to call a stroke of luck, given the amount of Named
in the Arsenal, the last two Named I'd decided on were in the same
place.

``You know I respect your judgement a great deal,'' Roland murmured,
leaning towards me.

``People only ever say that sentence with a but implied,'' I said.

He shrugged, not denying me.

``This seems like it will make a terrible band of five,'' the Rogue
Sorcerer assessed.

``Yes,'' I grinned, ``just genuinely terrible, wouldn't it be?''

He cursed under his breath in what I recognized to be tradertalk.

``Last time I saw you that savagely enthusiastic, I was thrown off a
balcony,'' he complained.

``If a villain throws you off it, it's really more of a cliff,'' I said,
echoing an old foe.

One who'd deserved both better and worse than what she'd got, but that'd
been the lesson of the Proceran campaign hadn't it? That I was not
facing righteous steel things glinting of Light but people of flesh and
blood, with all the complexities of character that implied. Though we'd
been quiet in our little talk, we'd not been \emph{that} quiet: the
Blessed Artificer overheard, and was not shy in offering up her own
assessments.

``One's useless, the other is \emph{drunk} and useless,'' Adanna of
Smyrna said.

Well, I couldn't deny the drunk part at least. The Arsenal held within
its walls hundreds of people, who while they might not have been forced
to come here had not been aware of exactly how long or \emph{where} they
would be. Given the concerns about the Dead King's inevitable interest
in this place and the fact that relative secrecy was the Arsenal's best
defence, we'd known form the beginning that people would only rarely be
able to leave once they'd been brought into the fold. As a consequence,
aside from what had been tacked onto the seat of Grand Alliance's
research and artifact-crafting to fill its secondary role as a
communication relay for rulers and high officers, thought had been given
to the \emph{entertainment} of all the men and women we'd cram into here
possible for years on end.

That was the niche the Frolic was meant to fill, in essence. Accessible
only through the central halls of the Knot -- as well as a discreet
tunnel coming from the Alcazar -- that part of the Arsenal had been
built as a sort of ring made up of diversions. One section was
essentially a sprawling tavern, another a private little brothel, a
gaudy strip was a gambling house and there'd even been a fighting pit
tacked on. Callowans and Procerans were fond of dogfights, but the more
exotic beasts Levantines liked to throw into pits had been deemed too
expensive and dangerous for consideration. Duels and brawls, though,
were allowed. Only to first blood and with healers in attendance, but a
few hundred people could not be squeezed in tight between walls for
years without some fighting erupting.

Better to give a clear and controlled outlet for that strife than let it
erupt out of sight, where there'd be no healers waiting.

What I was looking at, though, was not anger being settled with first
blood. It was a crowd of maybe half a hundred cheering at one of the
sloppiest fistfights I'd ever seen. The part of me that remembered
fighting for coin in another pit was almost offended by how fucking
terrible these people -- these Named! -- were at hand-to-hand combat.
The three of us stood in the shadows of the entrance hall, looking down
at the fighting pit and the rafter above it, and let the sound wash over
us.

``Fallen,'' the crowd howled. ``Fallen, Fallen, Fallen.''

The Fallen Monk was one of Indrani's band, and one of the villains on
our rolls that heroes tended to react the most violent to. That was not
because his sins were so great compared to the rest of Below's lot, but
because once upon a time he'd instead been known as the \emph{Merry}
Monk. A Proceran hero from their southern lands, whose very public fall
from grace had been the talk of Salamans for year: it wasn't every day
someone force-fed one of the Holies until her belly literally burst.
Archer counted him as better at sneaking around than Vivienne had been
back in the day, and good as a bloodhound when something needed to be
found in a town. When it came to fighting, though, aside from being able
to take some punishment and being quite useful against Light-users she'd
never considered him anything all that special for a Named.

Fortunately for the overweight and very clearly drunk middle-aged man in
cloth robes, his opponent was even worse a brawler.

The Exalted Poet's face paint, which had been a neat affair of black and
red when I first saw him today, and since been damaged by a purpling
black eye and an amount of sand that really could only have come from
having his entire face \emph{shoved} into it. His lack of shirt made it
clear that they made them muscled in the Dominion, but for all that he
was built like a warrior he certainly wasn't performing like one: the
punch he threw at the Fallen Monk's face was met with a mirror on the
other side, the two of them rocking back when they hit each other. The
Monk stayed up though, if rocking on his feet, while the Poet took a
dive and had to hastily push off the sandy ground of the fighting circle
before he could get kicked in the ribs by the fat fallen priest. By the
amount of empty bottles the audience had carelessly left around in the
stands, they must have been at this for some time now.

``It is written in the Book of All Things,'' the Fallen Monk shouted
red-cheeked for the audience, ``that those who are worthy of the love of
the Heavens will be blessed with their golden love. Bless me, you mighty
asses!''

The watchers cheered on, and someone threw a wineskin at the villain for
what was evidently not the first time this afternoon. The former priest
guzzled down what looked like some pale wine, even as the Exalted Poet
got back on his feet and charged -- even when tackled in the belly, the
Monk kept drinking as he went down.

``They are perfect,'' I solemnly announced. ``Exactly what I was looking
for.''

``It cannot be that hard to find a fool and an idiot,'' the Blessed
Artificer replied.

``The Monk has a body count of over a hundred, as I hear it,'' Roland
noted. ``Though I suspect close quarters were not involved.''

Actually, the more I watched those two the less I was convinced that he
was right. Sure, the Monk stumbled around a lot and got tackled and took
punches. Yet, almost as if by happenstance, never at an angle that'd
hurt him much: bruises might ensue, but little more. Either was damned
good at taking hits, or he was a better fighter than what he was letting
on here.

``If I fetch them myself, Black Queen, can we then proceed to more
important matters?'' the Blessed Artificer asked me. ``You have yet to
hear the complaint I mean to lodge.''

Somehow, I suspected that if I let her handle that we'd not have five
Named up here but three down there. Roland suddenly stiffened, which
caught my attention, and he discreetly gestured to our common right --
though somewhat behind me. Up there, sitting on a bench and leaning back
against the wall, another Named was reading a book. Sallow-skinned and
thin-haired, the Sinister Physician had always looked to me like the
last person you'd ever want to let cut you open. His skills as a healer
were beyond dispute, though, if not his occasional indulgence in taking
vitality or souls as payment or even his clear obsession with
immortality.

``They've observed the rules, then,'' I murmured at Roland. ``They're
meant to have a healer at hand.''

I saw no need to seek the other villain out, as it happened. I'd not
come for him. But that he was here, though, was interesting: at the very
least, it meant he wasn't \emph{elsewhere}. At first glance anyway.

``Check if it's an illusion,'' I told the Rogue Sorcerer.
``Discreetly.''

``You are ignoring me, Black Queen,'' the Blessed Artificer impatiently
said. ``If that is all you sought me out for-''

``I'll see to it myself, Artificer,'' I replied.

Her open irritation I didn't particularly care about, or even the threat
to leave she'd obviously been building up to. I knew an empty threat
when I heard one: for all that the heroine at the very least disliked me
and had some axes to grind with Roland, she was too curious about where
this was headed to leave now. I'd not missed her constant
not-quite-subtle glances at my staff, either. While it was my
understanding that Light and miracles where her wheelhouse and the
length of yew I'd retrieved from the heart of Twilight after its birth
was not exactly either, neither was it simply a staff. And as there was
no sorcery at the heart of that difference, perhaps her interest in that
undefined otherness should have been expected. A halfway clever Named
could to a lot, with the undefined.

``So?'' I pressed the Rogue Sorcerer.

He released what he'd been clutching in one of his pockets, breathing
out.

``Not an illusion,'' he confirmed.

Good, that was one more Named accounted for. Time for me to get bring in
our last two comrades, then. The audience that'd been cheering for the
two brawling Named all the while had not noticed the three of us, as
we'd stayed in the shadows of the hall, but when I began to limp down
the stairs a few caught sight of me. My face might not have been all
that recognizable, but even this bare a crown and the Mantle of Woe were
enough for exclamations of Black Queen to shiver through the crowd. I
ignored the attention and made my way to the edge of the pit, looking
down at the two Named whose brawling had ceased when silence spread. I
flicked a look at the people up here.

``Dismissed,'' I said, voice ringing.

Not one argued otherwise, and they filed out with a rather subdued mood
hanging over them. Of the two Named below, only the Exalted Poet looked
embarrassed at having been caught slugging it out in the sand with a
stranger.

``Your Majesty,'' the Fallen Monk jovially greeted me, his Lower Miezan
crisp and perfect, ``a pleasure to meet you in person.''

He raised a wineskin, not even the same one I'd seen thrown at him
earlier.

``I hear from a common friend you're partial to the pales, so it would
be my honour to surrender this triumphant bounty to you,'' he continued.

I snorted.

``Tempting,'' I said, ``but I've had enough to drink for a while. I'm
here to inform you that Archer has lost you to me at cards.''

The middle-aged man cocked an almost incongruously delicate eyebrow.

``On a good hand at least, I hope,'' he said.

``Half a good hand,'' I said, then added, ``seen double.''

That startled a laugh out of him.

``I am in your service for the day, then,'' the Fallen Monk bowed,
adroit for all his impressive girth. ``Though I cannot think of what you
might require an old priest like me for.''

``You'd be surprised,'' I said, and turned my stare to the Exalted Poet.

Sadly enough, he'd put a shirt on again. He bowed very graciously,
though, so I'd allow it.

``We meet again, Black Queen,'' the Levantine hero said.

Yeah, that voice was still like getting honey poured in my ear -- and
drawing on Night just the slightest bit ensured there was no sorcery
adding on to the impression this time.

``So we do,'' I replied. ``As it happens, our common acquaintance the
Monk was not the only man I am here to look for. I've a need for your
particular skills.''

``Indeed?'' the Poet replied, sounding surprised. ``I am most flattered,
Honoured Queen, yet also befuddled. What is it you might need them
\emph{for}?''

I reached for my pipe, in the inner pockets of my cloak, and took it in
hand while I went fishing for a packet of wakeleaf. I was about to tear
it open, when a tremor went through the Arsenal. A second happened a
moment later, stronger, and I felt the very stone around us shiver.
\emph{You horrid wench}, I thought towards the Bard, \emph{you could
have waited until I actually lit the damned pipe.}

``Don't you hate it when a question answers itself?'' I said, matching
the Exalted Poet's eyes.

I had my answer about how it was the Intercessor would avoid the story
arrows I'd loosed at her, at least.

If you couldn't move the arrows, I supposed instead you could move
\emph{everything else}.