A moth fluttered down from the canopy to land on the signature page of the treaty, its wings rising and falling; Barbara saw Cocomama stare hard at the insect. “If you want to win today, Lorra, you need to do so with ink, not blood,” Barbara continued, using the woman’s name to gain her attention, her voice urgent. “And if your victory isn’t everything you wanted, well, you’ll still be alive to strive for more tomorrow.”

She looked significantly from Curare and Cocomama to Lohengrin. She narrowed the focus of her power, so that only the two Peruvian aces and perhaps the moth could hear and understand her. “Don’t believe that you two alone can stand against Lohengrin’s sword or the other aces here,” she finished. “I know him well. He’s not a patient man, I’m afraid, and the pen is right there in front of you. Ink is far less painful to spill than blood. Ink will give your people the chance to gain everything you want in the future. Choose otherwise, and you might kill President Fujimori, but you will also both die here. I know you think you won’t. I know that you—like my husband—think your powers will always protect you and despite the odds, you’ll escape. I know you believe that because you’ve always been able to do so before. But I’m telling you: that won’t happen here. Look around; there are too many others with powers of their own—my people—and if you do this, they will all consider you enemies. I guarantee you won’t leave this terrace alive.”

A flock of moths entered the tent, settling around Cocomama’s shoulders like a shawl. The open fury in her face slowly dissolved, and the moths flew away a few moments later, flowing down the slope of the terrace. Cocomama said nothing directly, but nodded to Curare. “Thank you,” Barbara told the woman.

Babel dissolved the language barrier around them, bringing them back into the larger circle of understanding: as Curare clumsily picked up the pen in his large-padded fingers, as the moth on the treaty flicked its wings and rose from the signature page. Cocomama still frowned, but remained silent.

Curare scrawled his name on the paper as the cameras clamored and Lohengrin’s hands relaxed around the hilt of the ghost steel sword. Klaus’s helm vanished, his long blond hair falling around the shoulder of the white armor. Jayewardene applauded softly.

They both smiled into the flashes of the cameras.

The lenses paid little attention to the woman seated with them.

“That’s basically it for procedures,” Michelle said, sipping her coffee and then digging into her cheesecake. “Of course, there are the trickier bits. Like dealing with the press. They’re slippery bastards.”

Cesar wiped his mouth. “I had some experience with them when I was in Spain. It was … unpleasant.”

“It’s going to be worse here. At least in the beginning it will be. You’re a good-looking guy with a sexy accent. That’s like catnip. And you’ll be fresh copy.”