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\hypertarget{chapter-48-hilltop}{%
\section{Chapter 48: Hilltop}\label{chapter-48-hilltop}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``Faith is not an act of surrender but of conquest, for doubt lies
within us all.''}

Daphne of the Homilies, best known for ending hereditary rule in
Atalante
\end{quote}

Arranging it had been simple, in a sense. Just a matter of timing, of
sensing what people would want and how they went about getting it. When
you had that, as I'd once been told it was all just\ldots{} objects in
motion. And it'd had to be that, because more direct manipulation would
have been sniffed out in a heartbeat by the people involved. That was
the trouble with trying to beat people at a game they were better at
than you. I wanted answers, though, and I wanted them in a way that
wouldn't scar what I wanted achieved. And so here I was, in the darkened
warehouse standing before an open crate and holding an artefact in my
hands.

It didn't look like much, for such a dangerous thing.

A Callowan knight's lance was usually around nine feet in length but the
\emph{kataphraktoi} used longer ones, closer to twelve. The unraveller I
held in my hands was shorter than either, perhaps a little over six feet
in height, and lighter as well. It was easy enough to see why, as unlike
a lance of hardened wood the unravellers were partly hollow: at the
heart of them was a tunnel that went from the top to the bottom, with a
thin wire of cold iron hung up. The outside of unraveller was touched
with coin-like patches of metal, mostly bronze and brass, which
themselves were connected to thin metal wires within the wooden shell.

The most expensive part was the sculpted amethyst ring at the bottom of
the lance-like artefact, like a pommel to the wooden handle, which even
at rest hummed with magic. The rest was runic carvings in the wood to
stabilized the product, and a steel tip at the end of the unraveller
that was very carefully linked with the central cold iron wire without
compromising the artefact's ability to, well, be used as a weapon. It
needed to bite into bone or flesh before it disrupted the sorcery, which
was unfortunate but couldn't feasibly be fixed.

It wasn't that we weren't \emph{capable} of it, just that the materials
required would multiply the cost of production by at least ten. We'd not
be able to fill entire crates with unravellers, which would defeat the
entire purpose of that artefact's existence: having an answer to
necromantic constructs that we could mass-produce.

In the lamplight of the supply warehouse I studied the artefact closely,
testing the weight and the way the grip handled. Archer would need to
tinker with hers before she found a way to fire them by her bow, and
likely the Silver Huntress as well -- whose own silver recurve was
shorter than Archer's absurdly large longbow, but only in the sense that
it was the size of an \emph{actual} longbow. I'd need to have half a
crate set aside for them to tinker with, and maybe lend them Roland when
they got to it: the Rogue Sorcerer was only a passable enchanter, but
even Masego praised his artefact-handling.

``I don't get the cold iron wire,'' I admitted out loud. ``I've done the
readings you suggested, I get why the patches are there and at different
metal purities: it pulls at the spell structure in different ways, makes
it unsteady. But cold iron isn't supposed to be conducive to magic so
why put it at the centre?''

The stuff hurt fae, because having it worked without the heat of a forge
meant it didn't lose properties through the transmutation affect --
which I'd been chuffed to learn even Praesi recognized had been
discovered by a Callowan wizardess, Blaine Caen! -- so it was still `of
Creation' in a way that forged or wrought iron just wouldn't be. But all
I'd read about the stuff said it was kind of standoffish to magic, which
was why people used it to make boundaries in rituals so often.

``Because the Hierophant is a singularly brilliant mage,'' Akua said,
frank with her praise.

She'd chosen to stand at the edge of the lamplight and the shadows,
where the play of light and dark on her form was almost like a veil
thrown over her clothes. Tonight she'd chosen a simple sleeveless,
neckless silver dress in a wavelike pattern interrupted by slightly more
ornate stripes -- all of it covering a base of dark cloth. A thick
silver choker and a hat of silvery tinsel stripes ending in dark gauzy
veil completed the ensemble, making for a striking sight. It was one of
her finer picks since I'd known her, and by the occasional smirk she'd
clearly noticed my appreciation.

``I'm aware Zeze is a genius,'' I replied, rolling my eyes. ``If I could
get an actual explanation, though?''

She smiled.

``Cold iron is resistant to magic, not repellant,'' Akua said. ``And it
is an unnaturally stable material, in the sense that it will take to all
forms of power by the exact same proportion -- Cosmas' Constant. In this
case the wire serves two purposes. First it stabilizes the magic coming
from varying metal purities as it is sucked into the amethyst ring,
which is why the unraveller does not simply explode in a shower of
shards when it is used. Secondly, it actually \emph{enhances} the
destabilizing effect on a necromantic construct: the iron wire's
resistance to magic means more of the construct's invested magic is
sucked in without it ever reaching the amethysts, and some of the runes
carves ensure that `wasted' magic does not turn to heat.''

Akua paused pushing herself off the wall and more fully into the light.

``It is an \emph{inspired} solution,'' the woman who'd once been the
Diabolist admiringly said. ``And not one I would have considered in his
place. I've always sought the elimination of waste in artefacts and
rituals, it would not have occurred to me to actively pursue it
instead.''

``Masego has his moments,'' I agreed.

I set down the unraveller atop the open crate, over the eleven remaining
ones cradled in cloth and straw. The real breakthrough had been the
amethyst ring though, or so Roland had implied, and that'd been a
contribution of the Blessed Artificer. It was a relatively cheap
precious stone, in Procer, which was why some Ashuran ship mages liked
to buy them in bulk in Valencis and enchant them to hold winds. The ring
structure was even an invention of her own, though it'd had to be
slightly reworked since it was being used to anchor an enchantment
instead of Light. While I might not get along particularly well with
Adanna of Smyrna, I was not complaining that she'd ended up as one of
the heroes assigned to my army.

``The Dead King will know we have these,'' I finally said, ``or at least
suspect. We've done enough field tests he can't have missed it.''

It was hard to notice something the size of a beorn or a tusk get struck
with a lance and then\ldots{} collapse, barely a heartbeat later as the
necromancy animating it shattered like glass. We'd been afraid that the
Dead King's necromancers would be able to raise them right back up, but
we were pretty sure by now they \emph{couldn't}. The Arsenal specialists
believed it might take as much as months of rituals to raise those
creatures, imbuing the different parts with different spells as they
were being assembled. It just wasn't something that could be done in the
field and on the fly, not even with massed mages.

``You were careful to use the prototypes only sparingly,'' Akua pointed
out. ``Hiding we have these was always a fool's errand, but we can still
take him by surprise with the sheer amount that can be fielded. He will
be expecting these to be Named-work, not a pattern that trained mages
and artisans can make on their own.''

Named were still arguably the source of the labour, since they'd been
the one to train these mages and artisans when it came to making these,
but her point stood. By now almost a full third of the Arsenal was
dedicating its time to producing stockpiles of these to send to the
fronts. There'd even been talk of starting workshops in Procer, though
I'd balked: the Dead King and Malicia both had spies, and if either got
their hands on the plans it'd make it much easier to figure out a
countermeasure. I wanted to extend our window of effectiveness with the
unravellers as long as possible, especially if it coincided with the
offensive for Hainaut.

Ideally, the Gigantes would then raise massive wards on the coasts
that'd keep the dead out and we'd have breathing room to make a
counter-countermeasure in time for the assault on Keter itself.

``We'll see,'' I finally said.

We'd only caught the Hidden Horror flatfooted a handful of times since
we'd unveiled the pharos devices, so while I was hoping to repeat the
experience I wasn't going to be relying on the hope. I cast a last look
at the lances, snorting.

``Something amuses, my heart?'' Akua asked.

``For all the cleverness that went into these fucking things,'' I said,
``they still have to be stabbed into the enemy. There's something almost
reassuring about that.''

Even when you put all the brilliance in the world into an artefact, in
the end you still had to find some thug to stick it into your foe. At
least folk like me would never be entirely out of work. I felt a tug
against my little finger, and I knew my patience had finally borne
results.I'd traced tripwires of Night around the warehouse entrances --
though no more than that, or I'd risk irritating the wards -- so I knew
it the moment the door opened even without needing to turn. Akua cocked
a brow in my direction, her superior senses having caught the sounds
without needing any such tricks. It was two people who were joining us
by navigating through the darkened maze of crates, it was easy to tell
when I pricked my ear.

I hoisted myself up to sit on the edge of the open crate before as they
strolled into the lamplight, Akua moving to lean against the side to my
left. Covering my bad leg as well as implying she was my left hand all
in the same gesture, I noted. \emph{Fucking Praesi}, I then added, but
not without fondness.

``I'll take it as a courtesy you tripped the wire at all,'' I called
out.

Especially given who I was addressing.

``You overpraise me,'' the Grey Pilgrim drily replied, stepping into the
light.

``There is no point in skulking around allies,'' the White Knight
pointedly told him before following suit.

Tariq had a way of slipping past any and all measures I wove around
myself with Night. He couldn't fool the Crows, at least, but the
Peregrine's habit of turning up unexpected and without warning was not
abated by anything else I could call on. He'd not been anywhere this
good at it back around the days of the Graveyard, but then if I could
learn about heroes they could most certainly learn about me.

``Though I wonder that you saw fit to place such a measure at all, Your
Majesty,'' Hanno said, sounding genuinely surprised.

``Named are a nosy breed, Lord White,'' Akua smiled. ``And there are a
great many of them in Neustal. As always, it is a pleasure to see you.''

``Lady Sahelian,'' the White Knight blandly replied, inclining his head
the slightest bit then turning to me. ``The Adjutant pointed me here
when I sought a conversation with you. Is now an agreeable time?''

Of course it was, I'd picked it.

``If you don't mind my shadow,'' I shrugged.

``Such sweet things you call me,'' Akua drolly noted.

``Could you not send her away?''

I turned a steady look on Tariq, who did not look apologetic in the
slightest. And though I could have chided him, as it was rude to ask
audience and then quibble over the given terms -- even more so for two
heroes to corner me in the dark and ask me to send away my only nearby
ally -- I held my tongue. I'd gone to a spot of trouble to arrange a pit
fight between two of the finer speakers I knew, so I was in no hurry to
spot it. Akua took my half-beat of silence as the open field it was, and
took to it without any visible hesitation.

``I assure you, Peregrine, that no disease will come of addressing me
directly,'' Akua smilingly replied.

I kept my expression blank. The danger with getting answers Akua had
always been that she was a better manipulator than me -- it meant I
couldn't put my finger on the scale, try to guide an outcome, without
her likely noticing it. But Tariq was perfectly capable of matching wits
with her, and in his own way Hanno could be said to be even sharper.
It'd taken me long to learn the lesson that sometimes doing nothing was
the best way to get what you wanted, but I'd gotten there eventually.

``If you'd prefer,'' Tariq politely acknowledged, turning to face her.
``I distrust you, Akua Sahelian, and do not want you to be part of this
conversation. Please leave.''

She hid the surprise skilfully, but I knew her well. A Praesi blind
spot, this one: the Pilgrim just wasn't proud in that way that the Named
of the Dread Empire were. On the contrary, in his own way he was humble
enough he was perfectly willing to make a request like this without
batting an eye. It made a lot of her usual social arsenal effectively
useless, since he simply did not \emph{care} about the hierarchal
nuances she was so adept at using. Now came the interesting part,
though, how the shade would deal with the challenge. Conflict was always
told the tales that smooth faces hid away.

``I recall no reason for there to be distrust between us, Grey
Pilgrim,'' Akua replied. ``And your companion's silence beg the question
of whether your opinion is shared.''

\emph{Mhm}, I thought. Better than kicking this back to me as the person
who could dismissed her -- not that I'd expected her to, she'd be well
aware that if I'd wanted to intervene I already would have -- but I
wasn't entirely satisfied with the answer. The first part floated, but
the second still smacked too much of trying to turn heroes on each
other. But was this old habits dying hard or just social ploy to suss
out where the White Knight stood? I couldn't quite tell yet.

``You are a criminal, Lady Sahelian,'' Hanno frankly replied, ``but your
sins were committed against Callow and you are in the custody of its
queen. It is not my place to meddle in this. I would caution you,
however, against confusing respect for your warden as tolerance for the
most egregious mass-murderer of our age.''

The Sword of Judgement wasn't one to pull his punches, it had to be
said. But there was a reason I'd wanted him as part of this
conversation: unlike the Grey Pilgrim, whose own dabbling in horror
might have made more wary of bringing up the Doom of Liesse, Hanno
absolutely could and \emph{would} go there. That was a sting I'd wanted
Akua to feel so that I might see what it brought out.

``I neither seek nor expect your esteem, Lord White,'' Akua said. ``But
I had hopes for courtesy, at least. Or is it too much to expect of a
hero?''

Good, I thought. She'd not countered by going after the bloody records
of heroes like the Saint or the Pilgrim, even though it was the easiest
and most effective parry. Tariq would answer he'd killed to prevent
suffering, the debate would get religious -- for lack of a better term
-- and enter grounds where no one could truly win. It also meant that,
deep down, Akua did not think of the Folly as something on equal footing
with Tariq seeding innocents with the plague to catch Black. Or, at
least, she recognized it was not an argument that could be made and be
considered to hold water.

That'd be a lesser prize, but still a prize. A few years back, she
wouldn't have \emph{cared} that people believed her to be wrong when she
was espousing Praesi -- more accurately Praesi highborn -- philosophies.
She would have said the words anyway, and should circumstance prove her
right down the line pointed to that as evidence of the Wasteland's dark
but undeniable wisdom. Now she was avoiding that sort of talk even when
trying to win the argument by other means. Her definition of winning, of
how it could be achieved, had shifted. And not because she was being
coerced or fearing punishment.

It'd sunk into her, the act. Maybe no more than the slightest drop, but
that was all it took.

``It is unpleasant to talk of butchery,'' the White Knight calmly
replied, ``but it is not impolite. The burden of snuffing out a hundred
thousand lives is yours to bear, Lady Sahelian, and your discomfort with
the truth of that is of little import to me.''

``You know very little of what you speak of,'' Akua quietly replied,
``yet display great certainty. There are many sayings on people who
behave in such a manner. What do you know of my follies, save what
others have told you?''

``I know enough,'' Hanno simply said. ``And this conversation is waste
of time.''

``Is it?'' she mused. ``The two of you have decided I am to be
dismissed, and there is nothing more to be said of the matter?''

She clicked her tongue.

``Though my hands are dripping red, White Knight, and I'll not deny this
or quibble over it, I have dealt fairly and openly with you and yours,''
Akua said. ``I have no expectation of ever seeing the scales of Liesse
settled, but that sin is not yours to ask answer for -- so what have I
done to you, to deserve this scorning?''

\emph{Ah}, I thought. \emph{And there it was.} I'd been right, then,
this conversation had been needed. The nudge over the crest of the hill
was still required so that she'd finally be able to see the slopes on
both sides. Some part of her, perhaps the same that she allowed to enjoy
the companions she'd made, still thought that so long as the mountainous
horror that'd been the Folly remained far away and she was good and
loyal and lovely she could have her warm place in the sun. She spoke the
words as I'd said them to her, but it'd not really sunk in that Liesse
\emph{wasn't something that could be atoned for}.

That even if she saved ten lives for every one she'd taken, she would
still be the same woman who'd murdered an entire city.

I couldn't be the one to lead her there, though. I couldn't deny it
either -- it was true, all other considerations aside -- but to keep my
role I could only agree to this and not be the one that brought it up.
Otherwise she'd know there was a deeper game, beyond the one I'd
admitted to. The long price that had yet to be paid. I couldn't be the
one to blot out that hazy hope, otherwise she'd ask herself \emph{why} I
would do that. Why, if I was manipulating her, I'd do away with the
mirrored oasis that was being genuinely one of us. And I couldn't have
her ask that question, not yet.

I reached within my cloak, the gesture drawing no attention.

``I've known a great many monsters,'' Tariq pensively said, ``but in
your own way you are among the most tragic -- how you were raised, how
you were shaped, it robbed you of the ability to understand what you did
even as you did it. But it has begun to dawn, I think. The \emph{scale}
of the evil in something like the Doom, the way it ripples out into the
world. How ugly such a thing fundamentally is, so unlike the stories of
glory and triumph.''

The thing that made Tariq dangerous, I thought, was that he was being
sincere. This wasn't a veiled insult or a threat or some stratagem: he
was genuinely grieved by what he saw in Akua. How accurate what he saw
might be remained debatable, but the way the shade's face went solid for
the fraction of a moment -- as if she was locking it by will -- told me
she'd read his sincerity and it'd struck deep. I'd been in her place
before, as it happened. There'd been a reason I wanted Tariq here.

``Fair dealings and courtesy change nothing, Akua Sahelian,'' the
Peregrine said, almost gently. ``You killed a city. There is nothing to
be done, in the wake of that, that will buy you trust.''

She did not look at me, but I felt her attention shift my way. I forced
my face into stolid blankness but just a beat too slowly -- not even on
purpose, it'd been simple luck.

``I believe you might even care for a few others,'' Tariq said. ``But
there is nothing redeeming in this, my dear. Even the most terrible of
us can love.''

``I am not your anything, Peregrine,'' Akua replied, tone forcefully
cold.

Overcompensation, I decided. She didn't control her voice anywhere as
well now that she was a shade, though she'd gained in other ways.

``Then I withdraw the address,'' the old man said. ``It is not enough to
avoid doing evil, Akua. You have to do good. Even when there is no
reward. \emph{Especially} when there is no reward.''

I almost smiled. There went the last piece I'd been waiting for.
Selflessness, the greatest of virtues in someone like the Pilgrim's eyes
-- a virtue he clutched most desperately, I expected, considering some
of the things he'd done over the year at the behest of the Choir of
Mercy. And Tariq had spoken of it just after effectively telling her
that the Folly was not something she should ever expect to dig her way
out of. \emph{And now}, I thought as I watched Akua Sahelian, \emph{you
see the view from atop the hill. One slope goes back down the way you
came, into the beliefs of the Truebloods. But the other one feels just
as pointless, doesn't it? Because you know there'll never be a payoff, a
redemption, a settling of accounts.}

But she stood atop the hill now and her eyes had been opened to the
choice. She knew she'd have to make it, sooner or later.

That'd been what I needed from these two. I'd been\ldots{} lenient,
perhaps. I'd let us get comfortable, too used to tiptoeing around the
lines while indulging in the unsaid. It would have been too easy to stay
there, if the bleak light of truth hadn't been shone down on all of this
again. But it didn't feel good. I'd not really grasped, when I first
conceived of my revenge, that it would punish me as well. Maybe it was
better this way, I decided. A long price should cost you something to,
require that you put something of yourself in it. It was too easy to get
drunk on the bloodletting otherwise. What I'd wanted from this has been
delivered, though, so there was no need to drag this out any longer. I
struck a match on the side of the crate, lighting my pipe and pulling at
the mouth.

It got their attention, shaking them out of the conversation.

``You wanted to talk,'' I told the heroes, blowing out a ring of smoke.
``So talk.''

Hanno looked mildly irritated, but spoke up anyway.

``There are two major matters,'' the White Knight said. ``The first is
the missing army of two hundred thousand undead. The Iron Prince
mentioned that our oracles were all in agreement that it was not in the
capital, but there are ways to fool soothsaying.''

``There are,'' I agreed.

I was hardly unaware, given that Black had run a game against the Augur
for months by moving his army fast and picking his battles at the last
moment. I raised an eyebrow, inviting him to elaborate.

``An army unseen is the blade of fate,'' the Pilgrim said. ``For those
Bestowed by the Heavens most of all, but any Bestowed can try that
luck.''

Meaning that force was bound to appear where and when it'd fuck up our
plans the most. They'd come to me instead of Prince Klaus with this
worry because I'd been Named, and understood the tricks of fate. The
Prince of Hannoven would listen to them, he was not fool, but not
necessarily believe or understand in the way that I would.

``It was kept in mind when the campaign was planned,'' I assured them.
``There's only so many places that army can be, right now, and while I
agree it's probably not guarding the bridge as would be most convenient
there are limits to the pull a pattern like this has. I'm not dismissing
your concerns, to be clear, but you have to understand him having the
wind in his sails won't work like it would with a living army.''

Confusion on both their faces, which wasn't unexpected. Both of them
were experiences heroes, and familiar with war, but neither had ever
commanded troops.

``The d dead will get fewer supply accidents on the move and maybe good
weather,'' I mused, ``but it won't be a great uplift like it would be
with a living army. Undead armies already don't tire and don't have to
worry about morale, there's just \emph{less} for providence to give
them. Besides, to be honest the wind's more in our sails than the Dead
King's.''

I pulled at my pipe, then spat out a mouthful of smoke.

``We might not have a story we can ride,'' I elaborated, ``but we've got
a \emph{lot} of godsdamned heroes to weigh in on our side of the scales.
That counts. Believe me when I say that, because unlike everyone else
here I've fought armies with that many heroes attached before.''

Hanno cleared his throat.

``To be clear,'' he said, ``you have a contingency?''

``Several,'' I replied.

Not the kind of stuff you talked about at a war council, but I did have
pieces in place. Hasenbach had been more than willing to indulge my
paranoia, considering our common opponent was the Hidden Horror.

``Then I will put my trust in that,'' the White Knight said.

Tariq looked less convinced.

``It is a strong story,'' he reminded me.

``How'd it work out for you, at the Graveyard?'' I pointedly asked him.

Thousands of cavalry from all across Procer, readying for a surprise
charge out of Arcadia into my forces, had instead been tossed back into
Creation in a murderous tumble of panicked horses and broken bones. It
was a good trick, I wasn't going to argue against that -- I'd used it
myself against Summer, during Five Armies and One -- but it wasn't as
foolproof as he was making it sound. Especially not when the other aside
had superior mobility, as we did against the dead.

``It took a third party to make it fail,'' the Peregrine said. ``There
is no third party here, Catherine.''

``I'm not sharing the contingencies,'' I bluntly told him. ``Lord Yannu
was brought in on the relevant ones, as the strategist sent by the
Dominion to the Arsenal, but I'm not thinning the secret by further
spreading it. If you can't deal with that, take it up with the
appropriate authorities.''

The old hero sighed.

``You are the appropriate authorities,'' Tariq reminded me.

``And I'm telling you it's handled, so don't worry your pretty little
head about it,'' I replied with a winning smile.

While no general, the Pilgrim could at least recognize a lost battle
when he was fighting one.

``The other matter is the one I would prefer privacy for,'' he said.

He didn't flick a glance at Akua, but I did. She'd been silent, her face
like a mask, but those golden eyes missed little and she'd been
listening closely.

``That's nice,'' I commented.

A beat passed and I cocked an eyebrow.

``So, what is it?''

Hanno looked mildly amused as he answered in the other hero's place.

``We followed the First Prince's suggestion and it bore the results she
predicted,'' the White Knight said. ``With a hero handling the scrying
ritual and myself serving as the interlocutor, the elves finally
accepted to talk.''

Unlike when it'd been a hero making the ritual but someone else serving
as the diplomat, which got us a beat of connection with the sorcery
before it was shattered, or when Hanno had first attempted to make
contact through the ritual of Arsenal mages and the elves had simply
warded against the ritual. Of course the finicky little pricks wouldn't
bother to answer to any less than the appointed leader of Calernia's
heroes, with his busywork done by another fucking chosen of the Heavens.
They might be even worse vultures than the Choir of Endurance, who'd at
least not been so godsdamned pretentious about it.

``Let me guess, they're keeping the Spring crown?'' I drily said.

``In essence,'' Hanno admitted. ``They've agreed to make sure their
ritual does not destroy the surroundings, or damage the fabric of
Creation, but my attempt to discuss alliance against the Dead King were
brusquely rebuffed.''

Typical. Well, they'd had a border with the fucker for like a millennium
so I supposed I shouldn't be too surprised.

``The return of the Spellblade's body was remarked upon,'' Hanno then
told me. ``It was implied that to return the courtesy no claim would be
made on the crown of Autumn.''

``All heart, those elves,'' I grunted.

Well, at least we weren't dealing with a war on one more front. That was
always worth celebrating.

``Ah, and one lasting thing,'' the White Knight said. ``They asked if
the Ranger is part of the Truce and Terms, and when I informed them she
is not warned us against allowing her to sign them. They would take this
as an act of war.''

I closed my eyes and sighed. Well, it wasn't like she'd been going to
sign those anyways. They involved too much not-killing-strangers-for-fun
for the Lady of the Lake, by my reckoning.

``Duly noted,'' I said, opening my eyes.

As expected, news about the crowns -- which I'd learned there would be
from Masego this morning in a private chat, hours before this lot got it
going -- had prompted the Pilgrim to want to expel Akua. I'd not been
sure as to what the news would be, but in the end that'd not really
mattered had it?

``We're done here, I believe,'' I said

Neither saw fit to argue the point, though by the look on the Pilgrim's
face this wasn't the last I'd be hearing about contingencies. Good luck
to him, since he was headed out with the eastern army and they'd be
leaving in two days -- before my own force set out. I suggested to Akua
we return to my tent to take another crack at planning our route, which
we'd taken a break from to visit this warehouse in the first place, but
she begged off.

``The new wardstones for the Third require adjustment, dearest,'' Akua
told me. ``I will see to that first.''

\emph{Lie}, I thought. \emph{You just want to be alone.} I didn't call
her out on it. Why would I? My plan was working.

It brought me no joy, but my plan was working.