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\hypertarget{interlude-set-them-up}{%
\chapter*{Interlude: Set Them Up}\label{interlude-set-them-up}}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{\nameref{interlude-set-them-up}} \chaptermark{Interlude: Set Them Up}

\epigraph{``The Vales we held with valour

And swept clear the Wasaliti

But spring returns the enemy

As we grow old in armour.''}{Duncan Threefingers, Callowan poet}



Catherine Foundling leaned back into her seat, neck yet bloody but her
sharp smile unwavering. On her brow sat a crown, blackly won, and she
wore a mantle made of many woes. Facing her, sprawled on her seat like a
languid cat, the Wandering Bard shuffled a worn deck of cards.
Trickster's fingers danced, below light blue eyes and a smile that had
seen many a kingdom turn to dust. At her side waited a badly-strung lute
and before her a flask of silver lay open. Both women were smiling in
that way people did, when sharpening knives behind their back.

``So, what are we drinking?'' Catherine asked, flicking a glance at the
flask.

The Wandering Bard, whose name was now Marguerite, chuckled and set down
the cards. She took a delicate glass from the side and snatched her
flask, pouring a finger for the other woman.

``Ashuran \emph{haralm},'' the Bard replied, tone whimsical. ``Some call
it the very elixir of life.''

``Nice touch,'' Catherine admitted. ``But, as you might be aware, I have
recently been stabbed.''

``I may have heard of this unfortunate happenstance,'' the Bard said.
``Do you mean to say you won't be drinking after all?''

The Black Queen snorted.

``Crows no,'' she said. ``It means make it a double, my neck still hurts
like you wouldn't believe.''

``That's the spirit,'' the Wandering Bard grinned, and poured again.

The tanned queen picked up her glass, swirling the hard liquor within as
if she were appreciating the bouquet of a fine wine instead of playing
with shipborne rotgut.

``So cards, huh,'' Catherine said. ``I wouldn't have pegged you for the
type.''

``I enjoy the underlying truths of the game,'' the Bard demurred.

``Illuminate me, by all means,'' the Black Queen invited, sipping at her
drink.

Unlike the last time they'd shared it, she did not choke. Marguerite of
Baillons deftly began shuffling the cards again, a smooth and soothing
cut from hand to hand.

``Cards are unfair,'' the Intercessor said. ``Cards about luck and lies,
and sometimes there's simply no way to win.''

``That usually means you're not playing the right game,'' the Carrion's
Lord apprentice replied.

``Are you?'' the Wandering Bard smiled.

Catherine drank, the liquor warming her guts.

``Hard to tell until the end,'' she said. ``What did you have in mind?''

``How kind of you,'' the Bard mused, the undertone skeptical, ``to let
me choose this uncontested.''

``Can't win if there's no game,'' the Black Queen grinned, all teeth and
malice.

``Can't cheat without rules, is it?'' the Wandering Bard smiled back,
reaching for her flask. ``Fair enough. Have you ever played Affray,
Catherine?''

``That drunk's game?'' the dark-eyed queen said, brow rising.

The Intercessor cast a look at the now quarter empty glass in her hand,
then raised her flask for a silent toast.

``It's medicinal,'' Catherine Foundling protested, meaning \emph{point
taken}.

``Back in the day it was used as peacemaking ritual, in the lands that
became Lange and Salia,'' the Bard confided as she shuffled. ``It was
your Queen of Blades that brought it east, after she went about the
business of carving an empire across the Whitecaps.''

It was a simple enough game, one that could be played with any tarot
deck's Major Arcana. The first player would set down a card from their
hand, opening an `affray': players could set down cards one after
another, with the cumulative value of the cards of any of the twenty one
Major Arcana put down used to count who the winner of that affray was.
To win an affray granted a player one point. The trick was that there
could be up to five affrays -- or more or less, depending on variants --
on the table at any time, and a player could declare their loss and
clear out the affray by conceding the point. For that concession they
would gain the right to take back one of the cards they'd put down in
said affray.

``Nowadays it's a tavern game for people too drunk for more complicated
ones,'' Catherine snorted.

``The Langeni used clay tablets instead of cards,'' the Bard told her.
``Each of them standing for a life sworn to the resolution of the
strife.''

``That's just a battle without the steel,'' the Black Queen said.
``Nothing more or less.''

The Intercessor drank of her flask and did not disagree.

``While we're having this pleasant little chat, one pal to another,''
Catherine said. ``I've got a question to ask you.''

``I delight in giving answers,'' the Bard replied.

``You see, I've had this song stuck in my head all day,'' the orphan
queen said. ``I don't suppose you'd know anything about that?''

``Sounds troubling,'' the Intercessor said, glint of triumph in her eye.
``But you are in luck, as I happen to be something of an authority when
it comes to songs. Which one is it that haunts you?''

The Black Queen hummed the first few bars of `The Girl Who Climbed The
Tower' and saw the way the glint died, smiling at the sight.

``Ah,'' Catherine Foundling said. ``So there it is. Never you mind,
Marguerite, I withdraw my question.''

They matched eyes in silence, a moment passing.

``Seven cards each,'' the Wandering Bard said. ``Draw on drop, five
affrays.''

``I await your pleasure,'' Catherine Foundling replied. ``Hells, you can
even open the game.''

``Your kindness is without bounds,'' the Bard praised.

With light fingers she began to deal. One each, back and forth.

``Kindness?'' the Black Queen said. ``No.~I'm just recognizing that you
drew first blood, that's all there is to it.''

The last card was hardly down that they both took up their hands. Each
looked at their own, seeing how once more Creation had seen to the
details, and with a flourish the Wandering Bard set down her first card
and in the same gesture drew. What she revealed was a fair-haired woman
subduing a lion, Strength. The older name for that card, and the truer
one today, was Fortitude.

``The Mirror Knight,'' the Intercessor said. ``Lost and angry and
feeling it all slip away from his grasp. He'll take up the sword because
it fixes all he despises about himself.''

A card was set down over it, without missing a beat: a crowned and
dark-skinned man on a barren throne, the Emperor.

``The Adjutant,'' the Black Queen said. ``Faith with a cold eye,
patience without hesitation. He will steer them all away from the rocks,
because it is in his nature to mend what is broken.''

---

The Prince of Falling Leaves had lost patience, Christophe de Pavanie
saw.

Hammering at the wards hadn't borne fruit -- the enchanted steel gates
were still shut -- so instead he had unleashed the fullness of his wrath
on the stone around them. Some clever soul had seen to it this would be
no solution, and even now that the cube of rock surrounded by water
holding the Severance had been peeled open of protection by rot some
invisible barrier still prevented the fae from entering the room. Yet
the prince of the Fair Folk had grown darkly ruthless in his pursuit of
entry, snatching up Arsenal armsmen and making puppets of them before
throwing them across the unseen divide. The poor soldiers were slowly
forcing open the enchanted doors from the inside, using their blades to
pry them apart as they groaned in protest.

``Forward,'' the Mirror Knight bellowed, sword high.

The Vagrant Spear whooped, quickening her pace as she claimed the
vanguard. The royal fae's gaggled of attendants were sent out by him and
swept forth against the three Named, lords and ladies carved out of
frenzied dreams and wielding powers outlandish, but the Mirror Knight
and the Adjutant stood like tall stones as the tide washed around them.
There could be no strategy to this, no cunning: it was only a parade of
sneering faces and blades that Christophe must strike at, cutting when
he could and forcing through their blows as if they were but summer
rain. Yet his blade bit fae flesh too little, the Adjutant was tiring
and Sidonia was still half-blind. The Vagrant Spear took the first
wound, a deep slash across the face that added red to the savage paints
on her face, but the orc was not far behind in having a barbed spear
pierce into the side of his leg. On the sides, all the hallways leading
to this godforsaken place, fae were pouring in. The wayfinders were
returning, heeding the call of their lord and prince. Before long,
Christophe of Pavanie knew, he would be standing alone surrounded by
corpses.

Again. Too slow, too weak, too stupid, \emph{again}.

``Cross the wards,'' Hakram Deadhand roared.

None knew if they would be allowed through, for the Repentant Magister
was not there to speak of it -- and who was it that had sent her away?
Christophe of Pavanie, once more the gravedigger of finer souls -- but
what choice did they have? The Adjutant was the first to reach where
once stone had stood, before it frittered away into pebbles and dust,
and after resisting for a heartbeat the wards let him through. Without
hesitation the orc limped towards the enchanted soldiers, axe raised.
Sidonia was halfway to safety, when some wild-looking fae ran her trough
the side with a slender rapier of bone. Christophe swelled with anger,
screaming, and tore his way through the Fair Folk to get to her side.
The fae parted like mist wherever her struck, and though their strikes
glanced off his sides and shield with barely any effort the Mirror
Knight had never felt more \emph{impotent} than in that moment.

Sidonia had rammed a knife through the hollow of the fae's chin, by the
time he got there, even as the warrior twisted his grip and ran through
her lung. The Mirror Knight smashed down the \emph{animal} with his
shield, fury boiling out, and dropped his blade to pick up the Vagrant
Spear even as the fae swarmed him like flies. Step by step, keeping
Sidonia safe under the shield, he retreated to the safety of the wards
as the Fair Folk harassed him. It was onto wet stone he stood, a wounded
friend clutched tight in his arms, and Gods forgive him but \emph{he had
sent away their only healer}. He would have wept of it, but what would
weeping do? Sidonia could still make it through this, if the fae were
scattered and help sought. But could he abandon the Severance for the
sake of one soul, to its likely destruction?

No, he thought as he laid her down, he could not.

To the side, the Adjutant slew the third struggling soldier with a clean
stroke through the neck but it had been a moment too late. The doors had
been open, just a finger's worth, and the crack the steel gave as it did
had the ring of the inexorable to it.

---

``I didn't think you'd send the Deadhand out with that valiant lot right
from the start,'' the Bard acknowledged. ``You usually keep him in
reserve for longer.''

``He was the only one who could do it,'' Catherine shrugged. ``Can you
imagine if I'd sent Archer with them instead?''

The Intercessor chuckled.

``That would have been my affray before long, true enough,'' she said.
``He's a steady sort, your man, I won't argue that. But he can't spin
gold from straw, Catherine. The Mirror Knight has been left to fester
for too long, the sickness sunk into the bones.''

``I'll not speak to Christophe of Pavanie,'' the Black Queen said.
``He's not one of mine, and I know him little. But I have put my faith
in Hakram Deadhand many a time, when the day grew dark, and I was never
once disappointed.''

``Your father's daughter indeed,'' the Wandering Bard said, and it was a
compliment to neither. ``I told him then and I'll tell you now: love
always fucks you over.''

``If you want the right to lecture me,'' Catherine Foundling replied,
unmoved, ``\emph{win}.''

As if prompted by the words, the Bard set down her second card. A black
spire of stone piercing even the clouds, as pale lightning struck at it:
the Tower.

``Ruin onto your Truce and Terms,'' the Intercessor said. ``The Red Axe
slain in blind revenge, heroes and villains at each other's throats
beyond what can be mended.''

The other woman gave answer without batting an eye, her card dropped
atop the other with insolent nonchalance. It showed a fair prince,
riding a chariot pulled by horses both black and white: the Chariot.

``The Kingfisher Prince,'' the Black Queen said. ``Alamans iron forged
in a Lycaonese forge, daring with duty holding the reins. Authority and
trust, crowns earthly and not.''

Under her breath, barely noticing it, she hummed the tune to a familiar
song that spoke of foxes and kings.

---

``It appears we've run into a spot of trouble, my friend,'' Prince
Frederic of Brus jovially said.

Soldiers crowded both ends of the hallway, perhaps sixty in whole? Not a
small amount, considering the garrison of the Arsenal should not surpass
three hundred in whole. By the looks of them it was a mix of bearded
Levantines and the latest issue of the mold buried at the heart of
Callow that kept churning out gruff, middle-aged soldiers with hard
eyes. No Named or creatures, by the looks of it, but Frederic's eyes
were not so fine he would trust them without condition.

``Let me go,'' the Red Axe grunted. ``I'll make it out on my own.''

Doubtful, considering she was currently bereft of the weapon that'd
earned her the Choosing, but admittedly it sometimes paid to keep your
coin on Chosen when the odds were long. Regardless it was simply out of
question that he might let an unarmed, shoeless and manacled woman be
captured by a band of soldiers. The sheer dishonour of such a thing
would force him to abdicate, shorn his hair in contrition and never
again enjoy a vintage more than a year old.

The Prince of Brus might even have to drink wine from Callow in penance,
which was simply too horrid a fate to contemplate.

``No need for that,'' Frederic assured her. ``I do happen to have a
smattering of royal blood in my veins, which comes in useful on
occasion. I should be able to talk our way out of this.''

From the corner of his eye, he caught the sight of an approaching
half-company of crossbowmen. It seemed to have been what thee
surrounding soldiers were waiting for, as a moment later a captain in
Dominion armour and paint hailed them.

``You are surrounded and were caught red-handed helping a prisoner
escape,'' the Dominion warrior said. ``Surrender now or be served the
sword.''

Whoever it was who'd arranged this, Frederic thought, had been careful.
There was not a single Proceran soldier here, someone who might have
trusted or deferred to a prince of the blood -- on the contrary, trying
such a thing with this lot was a lot more likely to have them using
those crossbows. The Callowans in particular still remembered being at
war with the Principate and were a famously touchy lot when it came to
foreigners. Not without reason, but in the current circumstances that
was rather unfortunate.

At least it smoothed away any notion he might have developed of this
being a betrayal by the Black Queen. Cordelia had told him once that
Queen Catherine had a fondness for soldiers and the common folk,
sometimes at the expense of those of higher births, which given the
First Prince's diplomatic tendencies likely meant that the Black Queen
would bake an entire pie out of dukes to feed an urchin child from the
street without batting an eye. She was not the kind of woman who would
sacrifice her own countrymen, her own soldiers, to carry out so petty a
scheme.

Like as not, Frederic mused, this was part of the trap. A Proceran
prince, the sole Chosen among them, slaughtering Callowan soldiers to
help a killer escape justice -- even if Queen Catherine came out in his
support, which would be\ldots{} delicate, the mere appearances of this
would have the Army of Callow brought to a boil. Someone, Frederic
Goethal thought, was trying to sow dissension within the Grand Alliance
at a time where unity was one of the few things standing between them an
annihilation.

Someone was going to have to \emph{die}, evidently.

``I understand that you have a duty,'' the Kingfisher Prince called out.
``Yet so do I, and I have reason to believe that this woman's life is in
danger. That is why I sprung her from her cell.''

``I don't care if you've got duty or if you've got the clap,
princeling,'' the Dominion captain said. ``Drop your sword and kneel,
\emph{now}.''

``I will do this, on my honour,'' the Prince of Brus replied, ``if you
can assure me that I will be placed in the same cell as the Red Axe, and
that my sword will be returned to me when I am in that cell.''

It was possible that Frederic would be able to fight his way through
this, though far from certain -- Dominion foot was hardy and sharpened
by years of raiding, while the Callowans were veterans from half a dozen
ludicrously brutal wars -- but it would be a slaughter. Against such
numbers, it would be vanity to attempt anything but his utmost. That
meant killing blows, and the full might of his Choosing behind him.

``I must not have been clear,'' the Dominion captain shouted, ``this
isn't a negotiation, princeling. But it's your last warning, though, so
drop that \emph{fucking} sword.''

If it came to a fight, Frederic Goethal thought, in a very real sense he
had already lost. What did he have he could bargain with, here? Should
he simply surrender, and from a visible and reassuring position of
weakness try to make his case then?

``You shouldn't have come,'' the Red Axe whispered. ``It'll make it all
worse. Just step back and act strange, I'll say I used my Bestowal to
make you do it.''

``I do not believe I could ever come to enjoy Dormer reds,'' Frederic
confessed, ``so I shall have to decline.''

``Hold,'' another voice called out. ``What's this all about, then?''

It was a Callowan lieutenant who'd spoken out, a stout orc with a
scarred face and a wary look about him.

``Stay out of this, Inger,'' the Dominion captain said. ``You are
outranked.''

Ah, how embarrassing -- about her, the prince silently corrected.

``Outrank my ass, Hassar,'' the orc growled. ``I'm not shooting a
fucking war hero without at least asking \emph{why} first.''

That, the Kingfisher Prince decided, sounded like a way to turn this
around.

---

``Agnes continues to hold a grudge, I see,'' the Wandering Bard said.
``She really ought to know better than to meddle by now. It never
helps.''

``It's a tired old game, this one,'' Catherine Foundling said. ``This
pretence that you \emph{know better}, that you are the natural mistress
of all our fates and we do offence by pulling our own strings. I'd
oppose you for that alone, even if you were all you try to pass for.''

``You oppose me because there is no part of you that can tolerate being
used instead of user,'' the Intercessor replied. ``Everything else you
add atop of that is a justification attempting to be just.''

``Have you ever been beaten twice in the same century before?'' the
Black Queen mused. ``Gods, twice in the same \emph{decade}? The Tyrant
of the Augur, and maybe now a third headed your way. It has to sting,
that your grip is growing loose after all these years.''

The Intercessor laughed.

``How very badly you want me to be your enemy,'' she said, as if awed.
``To be \emph{malicious}, out to get you. As if I was not simply
snuffing out fires before they swallowed too much, no small number lit
by your hand.''

``You feed on agency, Intercessor,'' the Black Queen said, tone cold.
``You are a parasite sucking the blood out of all you touch. Whatever
you might once have been, that is what you are now: mad as any Tyrant,
callously make use of all the world to fight your war on Keter.''

``Yours is a rout, Catherine,'' the Intercessor said. ``I watched, for
two years. I waited. And what do you have to show for it? You teased out
a few of his tricks and buried a kingdom's worth of dead as the price.
You are out of your league. You are \emph{failing}.''

``You lie as easily as you breathe,'' the Black Queen replied. ``These
plans have been years in the making, you did not wait a whit. You simply
cannot tolerate that this war can be fought in any way but with your
hand at the helm.''

``Where are the devils, Catherine?'' the Intercessor said. ``Where are
the hosts that darken the skies, and the demons he has kept leashed for
centuries? Where are the rituals that poison the land and the sorceries
never before seen? I'll tell you the truth of it.''

She leaned forward, eyes hooded.

``Your alliance is not great enough a threat to warrant the use of any
of those,'' the Intercessor said. ``\emph{You do not worry him}.''

``You must know, deep down, that the truth of you is unpalatable to any
who grasp it,'' the Black Queen said, hard-eyed. ``Why else would you
remain half-hidden, pulling strings instead of serving as an advisor to
the greats of this age? You talk about the Dead King, again and again,
as if the horror of him in any way excuses what \emph{you} are.''

``As is your habit, you talk of-''

``\emph{Gods, have I had} \emph{enough} \emph{of that},'' the orphan
girl snarled. ``This insistence that we don't understand while you don't
explain, that we are ignorant when you do not teach, that we are blind
when you keep us in the dark. You are not somehow beyond us, you leech.
You're not too important, too big to be judged -- not when you spend our
lives like coppers. Being old and hard to kill does no exempt you from
consequence, and even if it's the last thing I do I will carve the truth
of that into your fucking skull.''

``How many times I've been in this seat, the subject of that same
indignation spoken through a different tongue,'' the Intercessor said.
``And do you know how it comes to happen, that I am lectured again?''

She smiled mirthlessly.

``Because I do what is necessary anyway,'' the Wandering Bard said.

``You might be fighting a monster,'' the Black Queen said, ``but what of
it? The rest of us are, after all, fighting \emph{two}.''

The other woman softly laughed.

``A leech and a scavenger,'' the Wandering Bard mused. ``My, but what a
pair we make. So, my friend, from one bottom-feeder to another -- shall
we settle the order of precedence among the base and hungry?''

A card was put down on the table, smoothly but without gentleness.
Grey-clad and tanned, bearing a lantern and a staff: the Hermit.

``Fear and treason, conspiracy,'' the Intercessor said. ``Your fishing
rod of crowns untouched but the fisherman drowned by the tide anyway.
The Hierophant, \emph{slain}.''

It was carefully, almost delicately, that a card was placed over the
last. Two figures crowned with roses and holding hands, a radiant sun
above them: the Lovers.

``Archer,'' Catherine Foundling said, her voice clear as a frozen pond,
fury gone cold. ``Love like greed and feet unrelenting -- Gods have
mercy on whoever you sent after him, because she \emph{will make them
into meat}.''

---

It had taken Indrani longer to figure that she needed to go after Masego
than to figure out where he actually would be.

Cat had been no help at all, disappearing from the corpse the moment she
heard what there'd been to say, but eventually Archer had pieced it all
together. She'd gone to the Belfry because she figured Catherine would
be there, and she'd been right, but that'd been true for a reason: Cat
had come here to keep Autumn's grubby little hands off of the stuff in
Masego's quarters. This debt business the fae talked about, it was about
breaking the most promising stuff in the Arsenal -- the Bard, for some
no doubt godawful reason, must have wanted it gone. Except the fae
that'd gone for Quartered Seasons had gotten slaughtered wholesale, and
presumably two traitors had died in the failure as well: the Poet and
the Monk, both gone. It seemed like a right mess for the Bard's side,
but who the fuck ever knew with that one? She was all twists and turns
and nipping at her own tail.

The bottom line of it, though, was that it'd been a pretty shit plan to
send a bunch of fae after what was probably one of the single most
warded rooms in the entire Arsenal. Indrani figured that even if the
Artificer hadn't bottled up the fairies near the bottom of the Belfry
they would have been stuck hammering at that door for at least an hour,
if not more. Fae were infamously shit at dealing with thresholds, and
while Olowe's Theorem suggested that a bastard realm like the Arsenal
would only have weaker versions of creational laws like those weak
didn't mean \emph{absent}. For a supposed weaver of wiles like the
Wandering Bard, it was a lackluster effort. It'd tied up a lot of Named,
though. And when Indrani had considered Quartered Seasons with a cold
eye, thinking about how she would have scuppered that ship, the answer
had been pretty obvious: Hierophant.

The material stuff could be built up again, but if Masego was dead that
project was dead in the water. It was his theories, his rituals, his
methods from beginning to start. Even if his notes got passed to someone
else, it was doubtful they'd be able to keep going. There just weren't
that many mages with that kind of talent in Calernia. So, that must have
been the play then: striking loud at the front gate, then slipping
through the back to slide the knife. Zeze wasn't helpless, but he wasn't
exactly invincible either. More worryingly he had some pretty dangerous
weaknesses, for someone who knew where to look.

After that it'd just been a matter of figuring out where he was, since
he obviously wasn't in his rooms. Archer had almost smacked herself in
the back of the head when she'd realized she was making this a lot more
complicated than it needed to be: the outer wards of the Arsenal had
been broken through by Autumn, and Hierophant had been one of the mages
to set those foundations down. He wouldn't be holed up or spoiling for a
fight right now, he'd be fixing those wards and making sure that the
entire Arsenal didn't start splitting in pieces between multiple layers
of the Pattern. Which, uh, would be\ldots{} unpleasant to anyone
happening to be in one of those pieces when they split. Archer didn't
need four Named to watch Masego's back, though, and there'd be other
fires to put out. So she sent Roland and Cocky where she figured they'd
be most useful, and went on with only the Blessed Artificer at her side.

Adanna of Smyrna was exhausted, grumpy and running out of Light baubles
to use but she have did one very important thing to contribute: she was
one of the few keyed into the wards that surrounded the Chancel, the
part of the Arsenal where the central warding array was.

They cut in through the Alcazar's tunnels, since they were deserted and
a shortcut, and got through the first checkpoint smoothly enough. It'd
been stripped of guards, which boded ill but might well have a mundane
explanation given that the Arsenal was currently under attack. The two
of them passed by the restricted stacks, Indrani feeling the hum of
those heavy wards against her skin, and then the large room called the
Mirage. Yet before they arrived at the bottom of the stairs leading to
the second of three checkpoints protecting the central array, Archer
caught a familiar scent in the air. Blood. Somewhere close to here
someone had spilled blood, and recently. She raised a hand, signaling
for the Blessed Artificer to halt. The other woman did, after a beat.

``We're not alone,'' Archer murmured. ``Assume an enemy, blood was
spilled.''

``Do you think the Hierophant is wounded?'' the Blessed Artificer
whispered back.

``There'd be a lot more holes in the everything, if someone stuck him,''
Indrani decided. ``But it might be where the guards are gone.''

She gestured for the Blessed Artificer to follow her, quiet as she
could, and they withdrew some. The smell had been coming from the near
the Arsenal treasury offices, Indrani figured, so it was worth a look.

Archer caught the reflection of magelights on steel just before the
blade slid between her ribs.

---

Catherine Foundling drained her glass dry and learned forward. Hands
hidden beneath a cloak laden with many victories, eyes cold, she cracked
her neck the saw way she had back when she'd still fought for silvers in
the Pit.

``I'd say it's about time to get started in earnest, isn't it?'' the
Black Queen said, smiling the smile of a woman who'd ransacked a
shatranj board before coming there.

Hands carelessly plucking at the strings of the badly-strung lute on her
lap the Wandering Bard hummed, fingers too deft for the clumsy sounds
they brought and eyes looking at places that were not in this room.

``I couldn't agree more,'' the Intercessor said, smiling the smile of
someone whose sleeves were filled with half a dozen decks of cards.