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It was what bound her and Masego that I found interestingly nuanced. The two of them were distinctly ‘involved’, but it was more an intimate partnership than anything like the chaste marriages people without inclination to sex sometimes entered in. Masego wasn’t inclined towards that either. Zeze seemed happy with the arrangement, anyhowm, and Indrani certainly was. While she’d let him set the lines, aware he hadn’t been made of quite the same clay than she and I in this regard, she’d not been afraid to speak up when she wanted something. It was how they’d come to share rooms in the Arsenal. Masego also considered anything she and I got up to as not related to him in the slightest, I’d confirmed on the one awkward instance where I’d tried to broach the subject with him.

He’d been confused at my bringing it up in the first place, since it struck him as a private affair, and once I’d made sure he was both aware and indifferent I’d been more than happy to drop the matter entirely. It’d been a relief. I didn’t count myself as particularly shy, but as I aged I’d noticed that I was getting more closed up about intimacy. There were just too many ways it could be used against me if it came to light.

Indrani’s part of this that was the trickiest. She was the one who had to draw lines and figure out limits. Distinctions. It was in the small things, like the way that after returning from a long trip, as she had yesterday, she always spent the night with Masego. She’d also been out in the wilds for about two months, though, so pretty early the morning after she came to visit me and I strengthened the privacy protections around my tent with Night. Quite a while later, we had a breakfast together. I was seated at the end of the table on my favourite seat, picking at the plate of sliced fruit my attendants had brought in and occasionally passing Indrani a cut of mango or passion fruit while I read through the papers Adjutant had sent me.

High Lord Sargon had sent a messenger to arrange talks, much as we’d expected he would, and they’d been set for midday on relatively neutral grounds. The envoys from the Steppes were settled in, I read, and soon we’d have the second round of talks so we had all the details hashed out before they left. Hakram would have to be there for those, as I fully intended for him to be my envoy up north.

Indrani was sitting cross-legged on the ground, absent-mindedly munching on the pieces I put on a plate in hand’s reach as we chatted and she carved at the underside of the table. I was careful with my sleeves as I devoured the mango – one of the few sweet things I liked, and so rare back home – since the green tunic I’d put on had long ones. It was a little warm for this weather, but I didn’t feel like having to explain the slight rope burn around my wrists should someone see it. Especially when the reasons for it had me in such a boneless, lazy mood. It was a rare enough these days, I wasn’t going to spoil it.

“So the two ducklings you picked up,” Indrani began, knife chipping away out of my sight.

I finished a piece of passion fruit, licking my fingers clean.

“Sadly,” I slowly replied, “you’re going to have to be more specific than that.”

She snorted.

“Really living up to that whole Queen of Lost and Found title, huh?” Indrani said.

I rolled my eye at her.

“Which ones do you mean?”

“Razin and Aquiline, the duckling lords,” Archer elaborated.

“What about them?” I said, cocking an eyebrow.

“Shouldn’t they be married by now?” Indrani said, then clicked her tongue.

She dipped deeper under the table, knifepoint scratching against the wood furiously. Missed a detail, had she? I pushed a few more slices of fruit onto her plate and slid it across the table closer to her.

“They’re going through with it after we take Keter,” I informed her.

“Bold,” Archer said, tone approving.

Actually very cautious of them, and so likely Razin’s idea. He tended to be better at that part. If they got married right now, they’d be a power bloc that the other two great lines of the Blood – the Champion’s and the Brigand’s – would feel strongly threatened by. With the Pilgrim’s Blood gone the way of dust, the Dominion no longer had an even theoretical ruler. Which meant after the war Levant would either fracture into smaller warring fiefdoms or another bloodline would take the Tattered Throne. An alliance between the Osena and the Tanja would be the clear frontrunner in the race, always a dangerous position to be in. As things stood, though, Lord Yannu and Lady Itima were a lot more likely to bet on one of them biting it in the war than try a knife in the back.

Why take the risk, when the Dead King might yet do the work for them?

“It’ll make for a damn good story, if they pull it off,” I admitted.

It was the kind of foundation a dynasty could be built on if they played it right. Indrani made an approving noise.

“You ever wonder what stories they’ll tell about us?” she asked, tone light.

“Probably that fucking story about me castrating an ogre,” I grimly said. “That one’ll follow me into grave, mark my words.”

“Don’t undersell yourself,” Archer said, and I heard the grin.

There was a beat of silence.

“You castrated him in single combat,” she said. “That makes it all the more impressive.”

I groaned, making an obscene gesture she didn’t even bother to look at.

“Our jaunt to Keter’s going to make a good one, I think,” Indrani mused. “It’s got all the good ingredients. The five of us and Akua, a journey into the Hells and the worthy enemies.”

Metaphorical Hells, since it’d been Arcadia we traipsed through. Hopefully chroniclers wouldn’t ask too many questions about the plan in Keter. I’d yet to live it down, though in my defence it had sort of worked?

“The Princess of High Noon,” I suggested. “That was a good one for retelling. Masego found his eyes and all five of us had a hand in that win.”

It’d ended on a sour note, but that was war for you.

“Still can’t believe Vivienne didn’t even try to pawn that sun,” Archer grumbled. “What kind of a thief was she? It would have fetched us a fortune in Mercantis.”

“I think in a way she did,” I said. “It’s on her personal arms now, did you know?”

A white sun on Fairfax blue. If there was to be a Dartwick dynasty after me, I figured they were as good arms as any.

“My sources informed me,” Indrani mysteriously said.

The effect was somewhat spoiled by the way she groped blindly above the table to steal a few pieces of fruit I’d laid out to scarf them down noisily. Well, that and we both knew that by sources she just meant Hakram. The gossipy bitch.

“After Zeze pulled out that echo of the sun in Hainaut, people started telling the story again,” I mused. “Pretty sure it’s spreading quicker than it naturally should, too.”

Indrani’s head popped over the edge of the table, brown face openly curious.

“Hakram’s building her a legend?” she asked.

“He probably is,” I said, “but I don’t think it’s entirely natural, if you catch my drift.”

Names could form in a lot of ways, but one was the most common: like a boulder rolling downhill, gathering weight and momentum. In that moment in Hainaut, when the hour had been at its darkest and she’d ridden out to turn the tide, I believed Vivienne had sown the first seeds of a Name. I had mixed feelings about that, to be honest. It would be the final nail in my hopes of having the Liesse Accord ban Named rulers, should my guess turned out accurate. But if I was going to trust anyone Named with my home, it’d be Vivienne Dartwick. And the chances of that measure going through are getting slimmer by the day, so I might just have to water my wine there.

“I did notice people called her a princess even before you made that official,” Indrani said. “But it can be a thin line between the start of a Name and simple reputation.”

I grunted in agreement.

“Pretty sure I’m standing in its way, whatever it is,” I admitted. “I think it’ll only coalesce properly when she’s got the crown.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Archer said. “You’re looking at Names and Roles of Old Callow, and sure enough she doesn’t fit those properly, but if you go simpler-”

A guard popped in his head through the tent’s flap, and I realized with mild embarrassment I’d never loosened the Night-workings I’d put around the tent. I wouldn’t even have heard it if there was a hurricane outside.

“The Concocter to speak with you, Your Majesty,” the legionary said.

Ah, good. She’d finished her tests then.

“Let her in,” I replied.

The Concocter’s appearance had changed since she’d accompanied us to Praes, which I’d been told was a regular occurrence with her. Her hair was now aquamarine blue, pulled up in a bun behind her head, with matching lips and golden-yellow eyes. Though often sullen, for once the alchemist seemed in a pleasant mood. She offered me half a bow and Indrani simply a droll look, which Archer returned with an indolent wave of her hand before helping herself to the rest of the fruit.

“Your Majesty,” the Concocter greeted me.

“Concocter,” I replied. “You have results for me?”

“I do,” she said. “Of the three products we salvaged from Sudden Abjuration before shutting it down, two proved functional in the water of the aqueduct. The amaranthine salt rock dispersed too easily, however, so I would recommend the use of the evanescent powder instead.”

I pushed down a grimace. The salt rock would have bee easier to carry and less would have been needed, but I wasn’t going to be take risks with this. Well, not more than the plan involved in the first place anyway. It, uh, wouldn’t be the safest thing I’d ever done.

“How many bags of powder will be necessary?” I asked.

“At least eight, standard Arsenal measurements,” the Concocter said after a moment, calculating in her head. “Assuming the dimensions given by Lady Sahelian are accurate.”

“They should be,” I said. “Just in case, I’d request you make us ten bags. Better to have a margin of error.”

“It can be done by tomorrow morning, if I don’t sleep,” the villainess replied, sounding almost enthusiastic the thought. “As for the breathing potions they’re already done. Four doses, as you asked.”

Good, it was all coming together. Indrani let out a noise of surprise.

“The underwater breathing brew, you actually got it working?” she asked.

“I did,” the Concocter preened.

“Damn,” Archer said, sounding impressed. “It’s been what, over ten years? Congratulations. What was missing?”

The Concocter cleared her throat, seemingly embarrassed. I could understand why.

“Powdered dragon bone,” she said.

Which made each of those four vials she’d brewed me worth more than their literal weight in gold. My pipe was dragonbone, and that little artefact alone would be enough to buy you a large mansion in Ater. Thankfully, at least part of the bill for this was being covered by the Grand Alliance. Indrani laughed at the answer and the Concocter subtly tensed.

“Yeah, not a lot of that going around Refuge,” Archer said. “Makes sense you wouldn’t have figured it out there.”

“I’d had good results with drake blood, it was a hint,” Concocter admitted. “Mind you, those pigs still drowned.”

The tension in her shoulders loosened, and I wondered if Indrani realized how precarious the entente she’d reached there still was. Having the Silver Huntress in camp had been as much a help as hindrance there. Cocky and Alexis tended to argue when left to their own devices, and the Concocter then often sought out Indrani, but the Silver Huntress was openly resentful of that and it was leading to friction between the three – Archer wasn’t the kind of woman who took kindly to being snipped at when she didn’t believe she deserved it.

“Encouraging,” I drily said, and she looked a little embarrassed for a moment.

“It’ll work, Your Majesty, I tested it myself,” the Concocter said.

“Your work has given me no reason to doubt you,” I calmly said. “Kindly send me word as soon as you’ve finished preparing the powder.”

The other villain understood it as the dismissal it was, and after the usual round of courtesies she was on her way out. I’d kept Indrani’s attention, though. I’d figured mention of the water breathing potion would do the trick.

“So, I see you’ve got plans,” Archer said. “Going somewhere, Cat?”

“I am,” I said. “And taking people with me, too.”

“Oh?” Indrani said, with transparently affected nonchalance.

The potion would be a new experience, something she craved like a drunkard craved the bottle, and on top of that she knew I wouldn’t be mauling my treasury paying for those for just any old place. I was going somewhere interesting, and she wanted in. Which made it good thing I’d planned to bring her from the start. While I could have teased her and strung this out, I decided to reward her having interacted with a fellow pupil of Ranger without anyone getting angry or bitter.

I was going to train it into her, I swore.

“Hey,” I asked with a winning smile, “wanna to come with me and Akua to rob a secret Sahelian vault full of horrors beyond comprehension?”

She choked in surprise and delight, hazelnut eyes alight with pleasure.

“You say the sweetest things sometimes,” Indrani grinned.

There was no one in the world like the Soninke and their highborn gloried in that.

Our party had come to the orchard first so that we would be able to look for traps before High Lord Sargon arrived. Hierophant led a mage cadre in combing through the spread of tall lemon trees, boots crinkling against the dry earth as the sun pounded down on all our heads. There was not so much as a hint of breeze today, the heat was suffocating. We’d agreed on bringing no more than thirty guards each, so twenty knights of the Order of Broken Bells sat the saddle in good order behind me. Inside those shells of polished and hymn-inscribed steel they must be cooking alive, but they made for an impressive sight. Decked in plate from head to toe, their chargers wearing carapace in black and bronze, they kept their shields close and their lances raised. Their banner hung by my own, dead for the lack of wind.

Masego had wandered off to sit under a tree after looking around, popping open a book larger than my head in what looked like an older dialect of Mthethwa, which left Akua and I to stand under the shade of a tall lemon tree halfway through the orchard. She had decided to wear my colours, today. The dress was a long one, going down to her feet, and it was of a traditional Wolof cut: the neckline was narrow and though it went beyond her collarbone it did not venture far. It clung loosely to her body, tied up at the waist by two sleeves of cloth that were part of the dress. It was black, though from the top of her collarbones to well below her tight there was broad silver-and-gold embroidery. It looked almost like a stole, though it was part of the dress, and the intricate patterns there matched those at the end of her sleeves and the cloth tied around her waist.

There was, as had become her habit, not a single piece of jewelry on her.

Stunning as she was, I might as well have worn rags for the difference it’d make. Still, I’d humoured the notion of royal splendour: though I wore a breastplate and greaves, because I wasn’t a fool, I’d put my hair in a long braid and worn my crown. The Mantle of Woe and my staff served as the regalia of my rule, truer to me than anything I might have dragged out of some dusty Fairfax vault, and instead of an aketon I had worn a thick black tunic touched with silverwork around the edges. Nothing as intricate as what Akua had on her, but then my bloody clothing wasn’t made out thin air. We made a memorable enough sight, I figured, and drew the eye enough that the little surprise I’d kept up my sleeve shouldn’t be noticed.

Then Sargon Sahelian’s party came riding into the orchard, and it was an effort not to stare.

All thirty of the high lord’s bodyguards were mounted on pale horses, a breed short-backed with a high-set tail, but little of the coat could be seen: long quilted armour in red, black and white covered them all the way down to the lower leg. The patterns were eye-pleasing, sharp triangles and long stripes colourful enough the thin strands of copper woven into the quilt were hard to make out. Enchanted, I thought. Those were definitely enchanted. The riders themselves were no less splendid. Their segmented steel lamellar bore a single pauldron on the right shoulder lined with lion’s fur, while from the left hung a long sash whose patterns matched those of horse’s armour – if you did not pay attention, your eye might be tricked in thinking them a single creature.

They each bore a spear, a shield, and curved sword and three javelins. All glittered with rubies and ivory. Light cavalry, I thought. They’d break under a charge of my knights, but my men would die of exhaustion before catching up and those javelins looked nasty. Javelins could punch through plate, if you knew how to throw them. Ornate helmets added the final touch, rounded tops bearing bright red feathers with an eye-catching mouthguard made of two ivory tusks atop a coloured veil of mail.

Splendid as they were, though, the soldiers were nothing to the three nobles that had come. To the sides of Sargon Sahelian were mage nobility, amber-eyed and smiling. Over silk coats they wore breastplates entirely decorative – they went only halfway to the belly – but beautifully crafted, inlaid with gold filigree and rib-like white enamel stripes. They wore gorgeous red cloaks bordered in gold, and at their sides were jewel-encrusted swords too pristine to have ever seen use. Each wore a king’s ransom of artefacts as earrings and bracelets, necklaces and trinkets. Beautiful and poisonous, they laughed as they pressed forward their horses.

The High Lord of Wolof made them both look like beggars. For half a heartbeat I thought he had dressed severely, a simple painted scale armour over a red coat, but then the ‘scale’ caught the light. It wasn’t painted, I realized. It was made of precious stones, every last scale: garnets and tourmaline and rubies, sapphires of every tone and colour, onyx and chalcedonies and amethysts. I found the sheer waste fascinating, in a repulsive sort of way. The hem and sleeves of his coat were embroidered with black and white maze-like patterns that were dizzying to look at – enchanted, probably – while High Lord Sargon’s shoulder-length black hair was flecked with pale feathers longer than any bird I knew could grow.

Golden eyed like his cousin, the High Lord of Wolof rode in the shadow of the lemon trees and his retinue followed. The dappled light danced lightly across the colours, making it seem as if they shivered like waves on a pond, and my breath caught in my throat at the sight of them all. Beautiful and terrible, as Akua had once proclaimed at the Doom. There really was no one in the world like the Soninke, was there? Sometimes, about some things, their arrogance was not unwarranted. One of the two nobles peeled ahead of the rest, reining in his mount thirty feet or so away from us. I felt the weight of his gaze sweeping across us for a moment before he offered a short bow.

“You stand before High Lord Sargon Sahelian of Wolof, he who rules over the temples antediluvian and the vaults of forbidden knowledge,” the man announced in Mthethwa, his voice pleasantly rich. “You may kneel in awe.”

How nice of him to give us permission. We were a stiff-kneed bunch, Callowans, so no one took him up on the kind offer. To my surprise, Akua took a step forward. The noble’s eyes moved to her, gone wary the way you would when encountering a venomous snake.

“You stand before Queen Catherine Foundling of Callow, the Black Queen,” Akua announced, tone light and amused, “she who has broken gods and bargained with them, stolen the sun and contended Choirs three. Your boasts are shallow, Naiser Mutinda.”

The man sneered down at her.

“The once-proud daughter of Wolof returns a lackey,” he said. “Disappointing.”

I drummed my fingers against the side of my staff.

“You’re wasting my time,” I mildly said, staring at the man.

He hesitated but Naiser, since that seemed to be his name, wasn’t quite brave enough to mouth off to me to my face.

“High Lord Sargon blesses these talks with standing of truce,” the nobleman said.

The actual reason he’d come, this. Making sure we couldn’t take swings at each other without consequences.

“So do I,” I said. “Now let him talk for himself, lackey, before I begin to lose patience.”

“There was no need for that sort of talk, Naiser,” an urbane voice chided. “My cousin’s return is something to celebrate, not take offence to.”

Sargon Sahelian had dismounted while we entertained his man, the noblewoman to his side having followed suit, and as Naiser deferred to his liege lord I took a moment to study him more closely. The precious scale armour somehow didn’t look ridiculous when worn on foot, which surprised me, but not as much as the realization that the High Lord of Wolof wasn’t actually good looking. His chin was a little weak, the arch his eyebrows uneven and his nose too large for his face. He was far from ugly, but I’d gotten used to unearthly beauty being the norm among Wasteland aristocrats. The pageantry called attention away from it, though, and for a moment I thought of Cordelia Hasenbach.

“Do I pass muster then, Black Queen?” the High Lord of Wolof amusedly asked me.

Huh. It’d been a while since someone had called me out on studying them.

“I’m just amazed your armour doesn’t actually seem to be uncomfortable,” I replied, half-serious.

He laughed, revealing white but slightly crooked teeth.

“My great-grand uncle was vain but not foolish,” High Lord Sargon said. “He knew he’d have to wear the artefact after ordering it crafted.”

“He also ate tiger hearts for supper every other day,” Akua noted. “Let us not hasten to the conclusion of wisdom.”

While I was morbidly curious as to why anyone would eat a tiger heart, much less a regular supply of them – I bet it was a virility thing, always was with wealthy older men – Sahelian family anecdotes weren’t why I’d come out here. I lightly slapped my staff against the side of the tree I stood under, claiming their attention.

“You wanted talks, High Lord,” I said. “You have them. I recommend against wasting that chance.”

The dark-skinned aristocrat nodded, seemingly unconcerned.

“I could dance with words over Wolof not having warred on Callow under my rule, but I imagine that would go against the spirit of your recommendation,” Sargon said.

“Malicia’s my enemy,” I said. “You’re one of hers.”

If Wolof followed the Dread Empress of Praes, I would treat it accordingly.

“That is unfortunate,” Sargon said. “Though I would convey that she does not wish to be at war with you anymore than I do. She seeks to offer peace terms, Queen Catherine.”

“It’s more than a few corpses too late for that,” I sharply replied.

“Are you truly so petty you would not even listen to the terms, Catherine?”

My fingers clenched. Among the riders, one of them had taken off her helmet. It wasn’t Malicia’s real body but the cadence of the words, the presence? The body she was possessing with that ritual of hers smiled at my anger, but I didn’t let it burn hot. It went cold instead, frozen, and I raised my hand to snap my fingers. Malicia’s mouth opened, but before she could speak so much as a word there were a few flickers of light. An arrow streaked through layers of enchantments and tore right through her throat. She fell over, gurgling, and already halfway into the grave. Archer did not miss, not at this range. Even as the retinue began to raise their spears and my knights lowered their lances, I met Sargon Sahelian’s eyes.

His calm had not broken and neither had mine.

“I trust you have a good reason I shouldn’t just burn you all alive for bringing her to these talks,” I conversationally said.

He didn’t even flinch, which reluctantly raised my esteem of him a notch.

“I have on my person three artefacts known as the Weeping Snares,” Sargon replied. “They contain demons, and I have had an artificer bind all three seals to a command artefact in my possession.”

“I have the Hierophant,” I said. “Any leash you have on them will be mine before the first incantation’s finished.”

“There are no leashes on them, Catherine,” Akua quietly said. “It is why my ancestors left them in the vault instead of using them for war. They are simple containers, forged in cruder times.”

I hummed and thought for a moment, Sargon never blinking as he watched me. I could see sweat beading on the back of his neck. Not worth the risks, I eventually decided. Even should I weight that it was worth the damage to my reputation to break truce and kill the High Lord of Wolof, there was no guarantee that his successor would be more pliable – or that they’d negotiate with me at all.

“Clever,” I finally said. “Talk, then. We both know you came to make an offer.”

“You have seized Sinka and Jinon,” the High Lord said, “and this tightens the noose around my city. Yet we are each aware that Wolof could withstand a siege for longer than you can afford. I do not believe that you want to storm my walls anymore than I want them stormed, Black Queen.”

He shrugged, offering a disarming crooked smile.

“Would you be terribly offended if I offered you a bribe to go away?” he baldly asked.

It’s the teeth that give you away, Sargon, I thought. They were just one step too far. Even in Callow there were hedge mages in some cities that could straighten your teeth. There was no way that the High Lord of Wolof couldn’t get his own fixed, which meant keeping them was a choice. How many of your countrymen fell for that little smile, Sargon? Its just honest enough to trust, to believe coming out of a lesser branch’s son. How many saw it coming before you slid the knife? Aisha had warned me once, about charming Sahelians and the dooms they wrought.

“We can call them war reparations, somewhat overdue,” I mused. “I’m interested.”

“That is… pleasing to hear,” Sargon admitted.

He looked faintly relieved, though I wondered how much of it was feigned.

“I’ll want your granaries,” I idly told him, “your treasury and a pledge that Wolof will withdraw from the civil war.”

With each addition his smile grew more strained.

“Some of this can be haggled,” Sargon tried. “The last cannot. If the Webweaver is truly one of your followers now, I imagine you know why.”

Malicia had soulboxed him and was unlikely to be pleased if he abandoned her cause. Terrible torture would ensue, presumably. It was an opening I’d been waiting for, though, and half the reason I’d made the demand in the first place.

“Hierophant can cut the city off from scrying,” I said. “She wouldn’t know until much too late.”

I saw him hesitate a fraction, then push through.

“Wolof has secrets beyond the ken of Wekesa the Warlock’s knowledge, or that of his son,” Sargon said. “Your premise is untrue.”

I hid a smile. I’d given something by revealing Masego could put them in a box if I wished him to, but without knowing it he’d given me something too: he was afraid of Malicia personally, not as an abstract. Not through scrying, assuming I even believed his vague talk of secret Wolofite magics that Hierophant couldn’t dismantle. She still has another body in Wolof, I thought. My fingers clenched with something that was neither quite fear or triumph. It was too strong an investment for me to be the sole reason for it. I had put out my bait in the right place.

“It seems we’re at an impasse, then,” I shrugged.

“I can still offer great… reparations of gold and foodstuffs, Queen Catherine,” High Lord Sargon said. “Can a bargain not be had?”

“Of course – I’m a reasonable woman, High Lord Sargon,” I lied. “I just want your entire treasury and all your food.”

I paused.

“And also the armour you’re wearing,” I whimsically added. “As a polite reminder that if you ever try to bring a Named capable of mind control to truce talks again, I will brutally murder you as an object lesson.”

I was going to have to get everyone checked for hooks in their minds, which would be a pain. That’d cost him.

“Well,” High Lord Sargon muttered, “at least it is a succinct sort of extortion.”

“And to think they tell me I can’t do diplomacy,” I brightly smiled.

“I can’t imagine why,” Sargon amiably replied, not batting an eye. “I will have to discuss your terms with my advisors, Queen Catherine. Perhaps negotiations can resume at a later date.”

I shrugged.

“If you want,” I said. “Until then, I’m under oath to offer you an exchange for the prisoners taken in Jinon. As you have none of mine imprisoned to trade, I’ve set ransoms instead. Akua?”

She offered the scroll, which without hesitation the High Lord of Wolof took. He unfolded it, eyes scanning the lines. I’d set truly extortionate rates, ten year’s pay for every soldier and officer as well as massive lump sums for every highborn. Even for someone as wealthy as the High Lord of Wolof, it’d be a costly racket. My bet was on him bringing home only the highborn, part of the reason I’d jacked up their ransoms on principle. The rest was that I had a godsdamned war to pay for, and it wasn’t going to pay for itself.

“Yes,” Sargon Sahelian briskly said. “I’ll send the sum to your camp by cart before nightfall. I trust you will return them to the city at the earliest convenience.”

I hid my surprise, but not quite quickly enough he didn’t notice it.

“We’re a greedy breed, Sahelians,” the High Lord crookedly smiled. “The coin I’ll make again in time, Black Queen. People are not so easily replaced.”

Huh. That was the closest to respect I’d felt for him all day, even knowing he might be playing me. The talks ended without further ceremony, and it was in a pensive mood that I rode back to camp. I felt like I’d missed something, though I couldn’t put my finger on what.

So far, we hadn’t missed a beat.

I woke up in the middle of the night to the screams and smoke.