Sire Dagon motioned for the man to step away. Regaining his dignity, he said, “I am listening.”

And so he sat hearing about the horror that had emerged from Sire Neen’s mistakes. In the space of few moments everything changed. All their hopes, their plans, all of it would have to wait. Instead, he would have to compose lies faster than ever before. He would have to win the queen’s trust, for they would need her armies in the war that was coming.

A few hours later Sire Dagon traversed the terraces and stairways that would lead him to the queen, a messenger himself now. She would not be easy to gain an audience with. Sire Dagon knew the things she had recently occupied herself with. Apparently, she had managed to capture Barad the Lesser. What a stir this had caused among the nobles! All the work of some agent of hers, one Delivegu, a lucky man, and now one officially acknowledged at court. Word of the capture had spread among the common folk, so that whatever benefit there was in it was not immediately obvious. Indeed, a rumor spread that she had mutilated Barad. Cut out his eyes and shoved stones in their places. Still others said she cursed him through sorcery. It was the sort of mad talk that might have sparked the man’s rebellion into life, but Corinn had finally ordered the distribution of a new wine. In so doing, she belatedly fulfilled the league’s wishes, but that was so often the case. She had also politely but firmly sent King Grae back to his homeland. The leaguemen were not entirely sure what to make of that, but there was something of interest beneath the surface of it surely. With all this happening, Corinn had every right to consider herself tied up in a web of complications. How very simple such things would seem to her by the end of this day!

Just outside the queen’s quarters, Sire Dagon stood with his arms outstretched as a Marah searched him for hidden daggers. He tried to keep his gaze forward, his face wrinkled with annoyed tolerance. The last thing he wanted to do was look at any of the Numrek, two of whom stood watching. But his eyes had wills of their own. They flicked over long enough to confirm—damn it—that the guards on either side of the door were looking at him. Was there anything to be read in their craggy features? He was not sure. Stupid! Control yourself, he thought. Without showing it, he breathed deep and slow, steadying himself. Leaguemen controlled their emotions, not the other way around. Before he was waved through, he even resorted to the silent counting regime he had been taught as a boy, arithmetic exercises that he conducted in the back of his mind and that helped render his face expressionless.

“All right,” the Marah said, “you may enter. Forgive the formality, sire.” He stood to the side and motioned toward the corridor.