webcrawl/APGTE/Book-6/tex/Ch-019.md.tex

\hypertarget{chapter-15-machinations}{%
\section{Chapter 15: Machinations}\label{chapter-15-machinations}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``A ruler should always join regicide plots: is the finest
possible teacher for a locksmith not a thief?''}

-- Dread Emperor Traitorous
\end{quote}

I poured myself another finger of aragh, since it was quite evidently
going to be one of \emph{those} days.

``A bold claim,'' I said, ``but I am open to the notion.''

The Hunted Magician would, by my reckoning, have spent Gods only knew
how many years pursued by a prince of the fae. Most likely through
agents as there would have been\ldots{} waves if a fae noble of that
calibre came into Creation to collect a debt, but the old Courts of
Arcadia had come by their reputation of always getting their due
honestly. It would have been a constant ordeal of enemies hidden under
glamour, pursuit that could not be shaken off by simple distance and
terrifying visions both sleeping and waking. The occasional complaints
I'd gotten about the man being cryptic, distrustful and generally
unpleasant now had an explanation. Living in a world where there might
be an enemy hidden behind any smiling face, with forced servitude as the
consequence of making even a single mistake, had a way of making people
paranoid to the bone.

The thing was that the kind of enemies I was up again did actually
warrant that level of caution. The Dead King had been three steps ahead
of the rest of the world this entire war, the Intercessor had been out
of sight for an unsettling amount of time and that was setting aside the
most dangerous enemy of all: simple, petty human nature. The trouble
here would not be the paranoia itself but figuring out if the Hunted
Magician's paranoia was the \emph{right sort} of paranoia.

``Two weeks ago, the Blessed Artificer received news that troubled her a
great deal,'' the Hunted Magician told me. ``I know not what they were,
but I do know that some of the other Chosen here began acting oddly
around the same time.''

``And how would you know that?'' I mildly asked.

``The Bitter Blacksmith was herself unchanged, and did not seem to
notice any difference,'' the Magician said.

I traced the rim of my cup with a finger.

``You misunderstand me,'' I said, \emph{and perhaps on purpose}, I did
not speak out loud. ``How do you know that the Blessed Artificer
received such news?''

The man did not answer, his face turning into a pleasant mask that was
just a little too sloppy to be believed. It didn't reach the eyes, which
to a Praesi would be counted as a beginner's mistake. He did not trust
me, which was fine, but that distrust was getting in the way of my
finding answers and that was not acceptable. Using coercion here would
only make things worse, I decided. Threats would serve to make me an
enemy and that was not the role I wanted to play in this conversation.
Another approach would be needed.

``I am observant,'' the Hunted Magician replied.

``So you are,'' I mused. ``You must work closely with the Artificer?''

His eyes narrowed.

``On occasion,'' he said.

``This is unrelated to the current conversation,'' I elaborated. ``I'm
told she wishes to lodge a complaint under the Terms about some device
being broken, and I would like some understanding of the technicalities
involved coming from someone else than the plaintiff.''

A chance to exert influence, which I knew he'd want to take: one did not
become the informal speaker for villains in the Arsenal by
\emph{accident}. It was ambition, and ambition was a familiar beast.

``It is not my field of speciality, but I do have some insights,'' the
Hunted Magician said.

``Do you know what it was meant to accomplish?'' I said. ``Or at least
what it might have been based on?''

``The underlying principles had some similarity to an artefact displayed
by the Repentant Magister last year,'' the Magician said, ``though I am
unsure whether or not you'd be familiar with it.''

Underlying principles, huh. No, that could still be shop talk between
colleagues.

``Made of the same materials?'' I asked, pitching my voice in surprise.

The Proceran mage suppressed a smirk. \emph{That's right}, I thought,
\emph{I'm just some uneducated mudfoot from Callow.} \emph{Lord your
knowledge of me, you know you want to.} I'd bet rubies to piglets the
man was highborn, and some of that stayed in the marrow even when you
left the life behind.

``Light favours different materials than sorcery,'' the Hunted Magician
told me. ``She chose them accordingly.''

``So you saw the device as it was being built,'' I said.

The man went still as stone.

``Adjutant,'' I mused. ``Do remind me -- can projects without official
sanction be built in the official crafting rooms of the Workshop?''

``They cannot,'' Hakram gravelled. ``Though it is allowed in one's
private quarters, on their own time.''

A beat passed.

``So,'' I smiled, ``you've been sleeping with the Blessed Artificer.''

``I was simply visiting-''

``I would invite you,'' I mildly said, ``to consider very carefully
whether or not you want to lie to me.''

The Haunted Magician's mouth closed. Yeah, I'd thought as much.

``I like to operate by a simple rule, when it comes to keeping an eye on
my Damned fellows,'' I told him amicably. ``Don't make it my problem,
and I won't treat it like one.''

Looming behind me, a tower of muscles and fangs in burnt plate, Hakram
stared the man down.

``Are you going to be a problem, Haunted Magician?'' Adjutant growled.

``I came to lend aid,'' the man protested.

Good, he was off-balance. Time to press.

``So aid me,'' I smiled. ``Have you been sleeping with the Bitter
Blacksmith as well?''

He did not immediately answer, and I had to hide my utter surprise.
Godsdamn, that'd been a shot in the dark since he'd specifically named
her as well: I'd actually wanted him to deny it so I could twist it into
a confirmation he \emph{was} sleeping with the Artificer. The silence
was as good as an admission, though. I cocked my head to the side,
studying him carefully.

``I am impressed,'' I said, and he smirked, ``that you haven't gotten
your head caved in.''

Would you look at that, the smirk was gone. Probably helped that neither
of those heroines were fighting Named, I mused, though that hardly made
them shyly blushing maidens. Still if he'd tried to pull something like
that with, say, the Painted Knife and the Vagrant Spear? There'd be a
mistake-shaped corpse propped up in front of me instead of a living man.

``That makes you a useful source of information,'' I mused.

That reassured him as it was meant to, though he tried to hide it. If
I'd tried to assure him I held no ill intentions towards him he wouldn't
have bought it for a second, but from villain to another an open
admission of usefulness was one of the most prized guarantees of safety.

``You said the Artificer was troubled,'' I said, ``and others began
acting oddly. Expand on this.''

``She put an end to our trysts, irregular as they were,'' the Hunted
Magician admitted. ``And I saw her speaking with the Repentant Magister
frequently afterwards, when they have never been close.''

Shit, Nephele too? She'd not struck me as the scheming type when we last
met, but a flirty acquaintance wasn't exactly understanding in depth.

``And the oddness?'' I asked.

``They've several times gone to the general archives, both together and
separately,'' the Magician said, ``and the two times I spied on them it
was the old assembly transcripts they were going through. Specifically,
those of the monthly sessions.''

What were those for again? Roland had not long ago joked about bringing
up my complaint about lack of railings in one, but they couldn't be just
a general venting of complaints. It'd be a waste of time to make the ten
Named based at the Arsenal sit through these. Of course, asking would
make me look like I'd missed what he was implying. Which I had, but
\emph{he} didn't need to know that. Cowing people stopped working when
they saw you stumble.

``Allocation of personnel and resources, general financing,'' Hakram
said. ``Do you have a notion of what they were trying to piece
together?''

Ah, Adjutant to the rescue. So, going scavenging through the records of
what and who had been allocated to projects those two had been trying to
figure out the nature of one they hadn't been brought in on. There
weren't many of those, only three. As I recalled the Hunted Magician and
the Sinister Physician -- who was also one of mine -- were working on a
`plague' that would affect undead, under the appellation of Late Regret.
Roland and the Concocter were working on a brew that'd affect undead
like holy water and could feasibly be produced in sufficient quantity to
contaminate the northern lakes, called Sudden Abjuration. The last was
actually under debate to be opened to all Named, an attempt by Blind
Maker and the Repentant Magister to make an artefact that'd prevent the
Dead King from actively possessing undead within a certain range.

Only the last of the three was showing promising results, though it was
also the one whose success would be hardest to prove: Neshamah was
clever enough to pretend it was working to take us by surprise after
we'd come to rely on it. The Haunted Magician hesitated, and not because
it was Adjutant who'd asked the question. It was well-known to everyone
by now that when Hakram spoke it was with my voice.

``I believe,'' he finally said, ``that they were not interested in what
was in the records so much as what was \emph{not}.''

My face remained calm, because it was not the first time an ugly
surprise had been sprung on me today. Hells, it wasn't even the first
time \emph{today}. I reached for my cup of aragh and sipped.
\emph{Shit}. Was this about Quartered Seasons, then? Hierophant was the
only Named on that and we'd kept it very, very quiet. Hasenbach knew the
name and that it could yield a potential tool for deicide, but on the
Dominion side the only one I'd told was Tariq since Levantine nobles had
famously loose lips. I'd wanted the Pilgrim to be able to vouch someone
from Levant had been told and picked him in particular because it'd put
out any talk of dishonour the moment the Peregrine's involvement was
mentioned. It was even true that the funding and resources for Quartered
Seasons wouldn't be discussed in their little Named councils, since I'd
made it clear to Masego that if need be the crown of Callow would fund
it entirely on its own.

\emph{But there's only many so people within the Arsenal, and for some
parts he would have needed helping hands}, I thought. For drudgework and
fetching records or even assembling mundane objects. Hells, just the use
of limited ritual resources like high quality scrying tools or rare
substances were trails that could be followed if you knew where to look
-- which Nephele would, since she was in on one of the quiet projects.
The two heroines had been trying to figure out what had been used by
figuring out what hadn't been allocated in the actual sessions:
resources and staff that mysteriously never made it to the discussion,
unexplained holes in the budget. Even if they had managed to pull it all
together it still wouldn't be enough to actually know what Masego was
trying to accomplish, but it might be enough to allow them to make a few
educated guesses. Which as lot more dangerous than them actually
knowing, in my opinion.

``Interesting,'' I finally said, putting down my cup. ``But it's the
killing of the Wicked Enchanter you mentioned when making claim of a
plot.''

``There have been rising tensions for weeks,'' the Hunted Magician said.
``Incidents occur more and more frequently, and become graver -- and
then, in a fortress the size of the Arsenal, the Red Axe and the Wicked
Enchanted simply \emph{happen} to meet. Someone filled the cup, Black
Queen, and then arranged for the drop that would make it run over.''

And the thing was, that made perfect sense to me. But then I was
speaking to a man for who paranoia had been the path to survival for
years and coming back from fighting on a front against the Hidden Horror
for two straight years. I was inclined to believe him because I'd grown
used to death hiding in every shadow, which meant my judgement was not
unbiased\emph{. And if I tighten my grip too strongly around honest
mistakes by heroes}, I thought, \emph{I might just cause the incident I
am trying to avoid.} There were more than twenty Named in the Arsenal,
if I -- a villain, however respected I was in some quarters -- acted
like I was trying to cover up something then \emph{someone} was going to
do something stupid. And when the first stone in the avalanche came
down, it'd be beyond my power to turn the tide back.

``That is speculation, not proof of anything,'' I said.

The man's face fell into a mask again, this time tying to hide his
anger.

``But I mislike the shape and timing of this,'' I conceded. ``You were
right to bring this to my attention. I'll take the situation in hand
personally.''

Anger was gone, a mix of relief and wariness in him instead. He must
have been halfway decent at this at some point, I thought, since the
reflexes were there. He was badly out of practice, though, and he'd
learned some self-defeating habits since. Another detail adding an entry
to the `highborn who fled from the consequences of his actions' tally I
was mentally keeping.

``Then I can only thank you for granting me this audience, Black
Queen,'' the Hunted Magician said, bowing in his seat.

I didn't invite him to stay and share a drink, though it would have been
good politics, as my mind was already considering what needed to be done
and I was reluctant to let the pot keep boiling while I played courtesy
games. Instead I rose to escort him out, then closed the door behind him
and leaned against the wooden frame. Hakram poured himself a finger
aragh in the cup the Magician had not used, then sat down on the edge of
the sofa to sip at it.

``Two Named, if not more, were led to start digging around one of our
most dangerous secrets,'' I said. ``Another two Named, between who
conflict is good as certain, happened to run into each other here. And
now the Mirror Knight was sent here to prevent a `murder', when even
with the fluidity of time in the Ways it's near certain he was warned
about the circumstances before they took place.''

I grit my teeth.

``Once is accident, twice is coincidence,'' I began-

``Thrice is enemy action,'' Hakram finished.

Except that, when it came to Named, coincidences were nothing of the
sort. Which meant my enemy had drawn first blood and then struck again
before I even realized I was in a fight, so I was in dire need of
catching up. I limped back to low table and took my drink in hand,
tossing the rest of it back in a single swallow.

``You have a plan,'' Adjutant said.

``I have a step,'' I corrected. ``What I need is someone with utter
disregard for other people's privacy, an inveterate hunger for juicy
gossip and a pathological need to screw with everyone until it's clear
what makes them tick.''

``Wouldn't it have been simpler,'' Hakram asked, ``just to say Archer?''

---

I'd meant for Indrani to come to us but apparently she was currently
eating, not all that inclined to move and the attendant we'd sent to
fetch her was afraid of her. Which, in all honesty, was probably smart
of him. So instead I limped my way down to the meal hall with Hakram at
my side, the two of us and our guide passing through corridors ghostly
empty. The Alcazar, the part of the Arsenal meant to host important
guests, was apparently connected to quite a few other sections by
private halls not meant to be used by anyone else. It made sense, I
supposed. If Cordelia Hasenbach needed to use the Mirage, she wouldn't
want half the scholars in this place to watch her every time she headed
there. I learned from our chatty guide that Archer had ignored her own
guest rooms in the Alcazar to bunk elsewhere -- Masego's quarters in the
Belfry, at a guess -- and that she'd never bothered to use the private
eatery in there. She was eating the same commissary fare as everyone
else, which I found odd given her appreciation for luxury.

It all made a great deal more sense when we entered a hall that could
have seated four hundred and I saw she was the only person in it,
sprawled lazily on a bench as she dipped pieces of bread in melted
cheese and popped them into her mouth. Indrani did not need decadence to
be brought to her, she brought decadence wherever she was.

``Did you make the kitchens cook this for you alone?'' I called out.
``I'd call it abuse of power, but honestly by your standards this is
almost reasonable.''

Practically inhaling another dipped piece of bread, Indrani swung around
and rose to her feet in a single fluid gesture. It would have been a lot
more impressive if she didn't have a string of melted cheese hanging off
the corner of her mouth.

``Your Queenly Majesticness,'' Archer solemnly bowed, smothering a grin,
``your most humble servant hath returned. I now pray most faithfully
that Your Great Regality will smile on-''

With great pleasure, I stopped leaning on my staff just long enough to
smack her on the crown of the head -- or would have, if she'd not
twisted around and caught the yew before pulling. Before I could so much
as insult her I was made to stumble, caught by the waist and led into a
dip before she kissed me. If I put a hand behind her neck it was purely
to hang on, not because I was trying to lean into it and feel a little
more of her. She withdrew with a smug grin, leaving my lips pleasantly
bruised.

``You smell like cheese,'' I told her.

``You sound a little breathless,'' she replied, the smugness deepening.

``From trying not to breathe it in,'' I scorned, then parted from her
with a step to the side.

``That aragh I got from you?'' she asked, sounding interested.

I leaned forward and stole a piece of bread from her plate, dipping it
and deftly popping it into my mouth. Huh, that really was quite good.
Adjutant cleared his throat, reminding Archer that he was also there.
The attendant had retired during my passing moment of distraction,
though the more honest word for it might have been \emph{fled}.

``I'm happy to see you too, big guy,'' Indrani warmly said, clasping his
arm. ``But you've got too much teeth for a dip of your own, if that's
what you're hinting at.''

``You've got too little to warrant a hint,'' Hakram replied without
missing a beat. ``But it's good to see you too, `Drani.''

Even as I laughed at the casual verbal backhand she'd received with a
stunned \emph{oof}, the tall orc picked her up in a hug as easily as if
she were bag of turnips. She shrieked in laughter, her `surprised
struggling' somehow ending up with him being smacked on the side of the
face quite a lot. She was put down on the long table little bird and
tried to bat away my continuing pillaging of her meal -- there was some
Arlesite sausage there, the good stuff with the spices from the Free
Cities, so I'd gleefully helped myself -- only to be ignored by right of
queenly prerogative.

``Did you come all the way here just to eat my food?'' she complained.

``Callow pays for part of the food budget,'' I said, chewing on a
mouthful, ``so in a sense it was really always \emph{my} food.''

``It's sad how power will go to the head of even the most sensible of
women,'' Archer sighed. ``And you too, I guess, but-''

I threw a stripe of mustarded venison at her, though as expected she
caught it. I'd been hungrier than I'd thought, I mused as I stole a
stripe for myself. There was a sweet taste to the sauce as well that was
delicious, and I let out a little noise of pleasure. In a sense the way
I'd been when I'd still been Sovereign of Moonless Nights, requiring
neither sleep nor food, had been better. It'd certainly been more
efficient. But I still remembered the nights where it had all been like
ashes in my mouth, when nothing but the hardest of liquors had tasted of
anything at all, and I could only count my blessings that I was now rid
of those times.

``Is no one going to offer me anything?'' Hakam drily asked.

We ignored him, since it wasn't that large a plate.

``We have something of a problem,'' I told Indrani.

She nodded.

``I brought the killer in from the cold and didn't keep close enough a
watch on her, that's on me,'' Archer frankly said. ``Mind you, the man
had it coming if even half the stories I heard are true.''

The Wicked Enchanter had been, from what I beginning to grasp, broadly
disliked and held in disgust. It shouldn't be difficult to find out
exactly why, though likely unpleasant, but that wasn't what caught my
attention. He'd been a villain even other villains were lukewarm about,
one the heroes would be able to hold up as the kind of monster deserving
the headman's block instead of the protection of the Truce. That was a
problem, since it meant this wasn't just a thorny little mess to
arbitrate: it was a knife someone had aimed at the Truce and the Terms
themselves.

If the Red Axe was killed over this, I suspected the heroes would riot.
If the Red Axe wasn't killed over this, I knew sure as I knew my own
breath that the \emph{villains} would riot. And on top of that, just
adding more more disastrous insult to the injury one of the heroes I'd
find it most difficult to beat into humility without killing him, the
Mirror Knight, had just blown in with supporters and no warning to
meddle. If it even looked like I was lenient on the Red Axe, the
perception among the villains I spoke for would be that I'd been leaned
on by one of the luminaries of the other side and given ground.

I'd look weak and Below's champions did not follow weakness, much less
obey it.

``We're in a fight, `Drani,'' I murmured. ``And it's starting to look
like we showed up to it already bleeding. I'm going to need you.''

Archer's hazelnut eyes turned serious as she leaned forward.

``You have me,'' she said. ``Are the heroes taking a swing?''

``I don't know yet,'' I grimly replied. ``But we're in a story, Archer,
make no mistake. And it's one meant to cut us deep.''

\emph{And it might just be my imagination}, I thought, \emph{the habit
of seeing a grinning skull in every dark corner\ldots{} but} \emph{I can
almost the smell the cheap booze in the air}, \emph{hear the mocking
tune from the badly strung lute.} I took the pretty silver knife on the
side of Archer's plate, idly flipping it through my knuckles as I
stepped back from the table.

``There are now,'' I said, ``twenty-three Named within these walls.''

That we knew of. Certainty was a necessity for Named, if you wanted to
ever be more than a middling swordhand in the middle of nowhere, but
this early and when the game afoot was still shrouded it would be a
mistake to believe we knew everything about the board there was to be
known.

``The Arsenal usually counts five heroes, three villains and two Named
of unclear allegiance,'' Hakram said.

I took to tapping the flat of the silver blade against the side of my
fist, thoughtful.

``The Concocter's one of ours,'' Archer said. ``She keeps it quiet but
the things that end up in her cauldrons aren't always the sort the
Heavens would approve of, if you catch my drift.''

Charming. Five to four, then, and with the Doddering Sage being the only
uncertain -- though more because his bouts of lucidity were rare than
because of any reluctance to pick a side, as I understood it. That was
still ten Named who stayed in the Arsenal on a more or less permanent
basis, and most of them would have ways to communicate with the outside
world beyond those the Grand Alliance had made available to them.

``You've got four,'' I said, eyes turning to Archer.

``Half and half,'' she cheerfully said.

And she'd brought in the Red Axe as well, who was now being held in a
cell. Then another five Named after that: the Mirror Knight and his
close friend the Blade of Mercy, the seemingly cautious Exalted Poet and
the ambiguous Maddened Keeper, and last of all the gallant but decidedly
dangerous Kingfisher Prince. Throwing in Adjutant and more generously my
own nascent Name brought us at twenty-three. Twelve heroes, nine
villains and two whose nature was not so clear-cut. Enough that the
villains would feel outnumbered, and dangerously so since one of them
had just been killed. Yet the heroes would feel pressured as well, given
the quality of the opposition: four of the Woe were here, and our
reputation was a weighty thing. The two poor bastards in between would
be seen as potentially decisive in any clash, and so worth forcing the
allegiance of -- either to get rid of liabilities before blades came out
or to secure a nasty surprise to spring on the opposition when they did.

It was a murderous brew someone was pressing to the lips of the entire
Truce and Terms, and all it'd take was for one fool to be scared enough
to drink.

``The Arsenal regulars are the thread that should be quickest to
unwind,'' Adjutant said. ``Someone set the Repentant Magister and the
Blessed Artificer after a secret -- it may truly be Quartered Seasons,
it may be something else. But they were contacted, and that is a
concrete thing.''

There were five under Above in these Arsenal `regulars': Roland, the
Blind Maker, the Repentant Magister, the Blessed Artificer and the
Bitter Blacksmith. The Hunted Magician had implied that his `close
study' of the Blacksmith had revealed no change in mood around the time
the Magister and the Artificer began digging, so she was not a likely
suspect. I closed my eyes to think.

``So we find them in their rooms and make them spit out a name,''
Indrani mused.

``As it happens, the Blessed Artificer has already requested an audience
to lodge a complaint under the Terms,'' Adjutant gravelled, pleased.

Something about that had me begin tapping the side of the blade against
my knuckles, the coolness of the silver against my skin grounding me.

``It's bullshit,'' Indrani flatly said. ``She was pushing Zeze, not the
other way around. I don't think she meant to actually blind him -- she
looked surprised by how harsh his reaction was -- but she was definitely
trying something.''

``What he means is that we should now consider ourselves watched at all
times,'' I said without opening my eyes, ``and that an audience
\emph{she} requested is a reason to meet in private with her not even
the heroes can grumble about.''

\emph{As it happens}, Hakram had said. That was what had raised my
hackles. It'd happened and it'd happened in a fight where coincidence
was nothing more the flimsiest of the lies at play. A story had been
offered up to us: Adjutant, Archer and the Black Queen met with the
Blessed Artificer. It was the only the first step, though, the air of
the tune. Through guile and reason those three would reveal the
machinations hidden in the shadows of the Arsenal, to prevent madness
from seizing the halls and keep the peace. It was a pretty story, true,
and for more than a few Named it'd be a serviceable horse to ride. For
\emph{us}, though? I was a warlord, a killer and maker of pacts.
Adjutant was my right hand and guardian, Archer was my blade and my
eyes. It was a good horse but one for which we'd make poor riders, which
made it a shit horse in every way that mattered. After all, no matter
how good the horse if an ass was riding it'd still lose the race. We'd
been offered that hook so we might bite it and be reeled in to our
defeat.

Another angle was required here. The villains? There were four among
them that were Arsenal regulars: Masego, the Hunted Magician, the
Sinister Physician and, if Indrani was correct, the Concocter. I was
inclined to believe her, given that they'd known each other back in
Refuge when they'd been pupils of the Lady of the Lake. But no, it was
still the same story from a different angle. We'd shake the tree until
truths came tumbling out, and they would. I was not so naïve as to
assume that if some plot was afoot there would not be at least one of
mine involved. The Hunted Magician himself was not exempt from the
suspicion for having brought this to me in the first place, for though I
doubted he had the skill or know-how to hook me onto a losing story that
did not mean he was not the tool of someone who \emph{was}. Trouble was,
we only had so much to go on here and following any of those threads
would take us back to the end I was trying to avoid it.

``It's a shit horse,'' I muttered. ``But it's the only one we've got,
isn't it?''

Ah, but that was my mistake. I was trying to win according to the rules
when I should be trying to win despite them. If you were forced to run a
race you could only lose, then the only way to win was to \emph{cheat}.
I opened my eyes and found both Hakram and Indrani were watching me in
silence. Waiting, knowing from experience that if I'd emerged from
inside my head it was with an idea.

``This is a story,'' I repeated, and smiled.

I twirled the knife across my knuckles, enjoying the blur of silver and
movement that danced according to my will.

``And we might not know how it goes, not exactly, but we know the
\emph{shape} of it,'' I mused.

We three curious souls would learn things from our first step that only
caused more questions, struggle and search and perhaps even tangle with
a mysterious or misguided opponent. It'd go downhill from there, though,
but when it all seemed like it was going to fall apart we'd get a moment
of revelation from an unlikely source that flipped it all upside down
and allowed us to turn it around at the last moment. \emph{We} wouldn't,
of course, because we were not the heroes of his story. I was likely to
be executing the Red Axe before long, so it'd be like a chicken trying
to fly in a sparrow's tracks if I tried to act like I had the right to
that sort of providence.

``The thing about providence, though, is that once you understand how it
works you can predict it,'' I told them with a smile. ``It can't do
something out of nothing, and it uses the most appropriate tool for the
job.''

And of the ten Arsenal regulars, who was it that was the best fit for a
revelation at the edge of disaster? I caught the knife and flicked it
down, smiling when it bit into the table with a satisfyingly sharp
\emph{thunk}.

``We're going to speak to the Doddering Sage,'' I said. ``To see if
going backwards from the revelation allows us to quicken the pace.''

Disaster was on the horizon, I thought, I was in over my head and even
the trusted companions at my side might not be enough to get us through
this unscathed. And still, as I hummed the first few notes to the old
rebel song \emph{The Fox In the Woods}, I found myself smiling.

Gods, but it was good to be home.