Proust had made all this clear when they had first met. Sheldon couldn’t understand how everyone else didn’t realize, rise up, and take back the empire from “the elven pestilence.” But of course, they would eventually see. Sheldon himself had been partially blinded. He’d always known things weren’t right, but Proust showed him what was wrong. The master explained “the injustices”—told him why people like him had to struggle just to put bread in their mouths while elvish clans like the Ronelles and Orphes ran “their own mini empires.” Proust was too smart to make himself a target by standing up on a fruit box in the middle of Imperial Square and declare what he knew to be true. Targets like that could easily disappear. Instead, Proust intended to beat the elves at their own game. He would secretly and silently rot the empire from the inside out, just as the elves had.

As smart as Proust was, the elves were no dummies. They had spies everywhere, and everybody knew they could hear better than bats. They also had control of the empire. Maybe not the throne. No one knew “the true state of the emperor.” Proust said the imperial line remained human, but just by looking at the emperor, any fool could see he was a man. Proust figured that the elves either “isolated” Estermon the Second within “a wall of lies” or kept him a prisoner through “intimidation, threats, bureaucracy,” and maybe even “blackmail.” The empire that Proust sought to save was—for now—against them. The trick was figuring out how to “kill the disease without hurting the patient.” If anyone could do that, it would be Proust. Not only was the man a genius and wiser than anyone Sheldon could imagine, but he could also perform miracles.

Wegan’s cellar was nicer than any basement had a right to be. The rug shop was built on the foundation of a much older building. The whole thing was constructed from huge stone blocks, the rooms separated by archways. The back of the structure aligned with the outer wall such that it allowed for a cozy hearth.