Suddenly Remora was on his knees beside her. “General — ah — General. Alone here, hey? No one but, er, ourselves. May I call you Maytera?”

She ignored it. “There’ll be the question of burial. A dozen questions, really. You must have realized I’d find out.”

“I — ah — did. Indeed. Not so swiftly, however. You are most — or — perspicacious.”

“Then why didn’t you say so? Why all that nonsense about blood?”

“Because I — Incus. Patera Incus. And old Quetzal, eh? My position is, er, delicate. Imperiled. Maytera, hear me, I — ah — beg you. Yes, beg. Implore.”

She nodded. “I’m listening. What is it?”

“Incus, my prothonotary. Was. You know him?”

She shook her head. “Just tell me.”

“He’s been appointed Prolocutor. By, um, Scylla. He says it, I mean. Credits it himself, eh? Convinced. Spoke to him yesterday, but he — you…”

“Me?” For a second, Maytera Mint felt she was missing some vital clue. It dawned upon her, and she rocked backward to sit cross-legged on the carpet, her head in her hands.

“Maytera? Er, General?”

She looked up at Remora. “I was appointed by Echidna, in front of thousands of people. Is that it, Your Eminence?”

Remora’s mouth opened and shut silently.

“So you know it happened. All those witnesses. And I’ve been successful, as you say. The victorious commander, chosen for us by the gods. Even Bison and the captain talk like that, and then there’s Patera Silk.”

Remora nodded miserably.

“Everyone says he’s been appointed by Great Pas to be our calde, even Maytera Marble. He’s been successful, too, so it looks like the gods have decided to choose leaders for us, and if this Patera Incus is going to be the new Prolocutor, he’ll want to pick his own coadjutor.”