Another grey-clad figure had already left the Last Repository, a woman. Robe flapping, she approached in an undignified hurry, almost running. As she came closer, Queen Estie saw that she was about her own age. Auburn hair. Flushed cheeks. Dismay in her eyes. But this Magister had not been marked by Facile’s tragedies or scarred by the hunchback’s grievances. Under other circumstances, her expression might be naturally calm, even pleasant.

From a little distance, the woman panted, “Forgive us, Queen. You must forgive us. We did not know what to expect.”

A few paces from the Queen’s mount, she stopped with a slap of her sandals. After an instant’s hesitation, she attempted a formal Amikan bow.

She must have read about that show of respect somewhere. Clearly, she had not practiced it enough to get it right.

With a gesture, Queen Estie instructed Commander Crayn and his men to remain mounted. Then she swung down from her horse. Disguising the protests of her overworked muscles, she faced the Magister. She had forgotten her sense that she was too small.

“Forgive me in turn, Magister,” she said like a monarch. “You did not know what to expect? I did not expect the reception I have just received. I know those men by reputation. They were Magister Avail? And Magister Rummage?”

The woman nodded; but Estie did not wait for a reply. “What disturbs them, Magister? King Bifalt is not a vile man.”

The Magister’s eyes betrayed a flinch. She took a deep breath, held it to settle herself. Then she said carefully, “Again I ask your pardon, Queen. Magister Avail’s distress is personal. It does not reflect our gladness that you have come. We admire Bifalt of Belleger, both as a man and as a King.

“I am Magister Oblique. I hope to offer you a better welcome.”

Magister Avail’s distress is personal? Estie had her doubts. Both his tears and his indignation conveyed a different message. But she needed the Repository’s welcome. She had to accept it.

“Then I will thank you for it,” she answered as calmly as she could. To steady herself, she offered the woman an Amikan bow with all of its florid details.

The Magister smiled tentatively. “I am relieved, Queen. You have had a long journey, and have suffered a loss. If your men will dismount, I will guide you and them into the Last Repository. There, servants will care for your horses. Your coach and wagon will be stored for you. And I”—now her smile seemed shy—“will answer as many of your questions as I can. They must be urgent.”

The Queen refused to smile in return. “That is a gracious offer, Magister. I will take advantage of it.

“But I have one request. I assume that you will provide quarters for my guardsmen. I would like them near me.”