“Might not be a bad idea, though. It might not be suspicion. Maybe he feels Martin needs to be protected from something. Or both. Or neither. You know how he sometimes is.”

Random stood.

“I had not thought through to the alternative. Come with me now, huh?” he said. “You have been up here all morning.”

“All right.”

I got to my feet, buckled on Grayswandir.

“Where is Martin, anyway?”

“I left him down on the first floor. He was talking with Gerard.”

“He is in good hands, then. Is Gerard going to be staying here, or will he be returning to the fleet?”

“I do not know. He would not discuss his orders.”

We left the room. We headed for the stairway.

On the way down, I heard some small commotion from below and I quickened my pace.

I looked over the railing and saw a throng of guards at the entrance to the throne room, along with the massive figure of Gerard. All of them had their backs to us. I leaped down the final stairs. Random was not far behind me.

I pushed my way through.

“Gerard, what is happening?” I asked.

“Damned if I know,” he said. “Look for yourself. But there is no getting in.”

He moved aside and I took a step forward. Then another. And that was it. It was as if I were pushing against a slightly resilient, totally invisible wall. Beyond was a sight that tied my memory and feelings into a knot. I stiffened, as fear took hold of me by the neck, clasped my hands. No mean trick, that.

Martin, smiling, still held a Trump in his left hand, and Benedict — apparently recently summoned — stood before him. A girl was nearby, on the dais, beside the throne, facing away. Both men appeared to be speaking, but I could not hear the words.

Finally, Benedict turned and seemed to address the girl. After a time, she appeared to be answering him. Martin moved off to her left. Benedict mounted the dais as she spoke. I could see her face then. The exchange continued.