“There is a rumor that he wishes to retire, or that he already has,” Suljack went on.

Kensidan put his elbows on the arms of his chair, finger-locked his hands together, and rested his chin upon them in a pensive pose.

“Will he announce you as his replacement?” Suljack pressed.

The younger man, barely past his mid-twenties, chuckled a bit at that, and Suljack cleared his throat.

“Would that eventuality displease you?” asked the Crow.

“You know me better than that,” Suljack protested.

“And what of the other three?”

Suljack paused to consider that for a moment then shrugged. “It’s not unexpected. Welcomed? Perhaps, but with a wary eye turned your way. The high captains live well, and don’t wish to upset the balance.”

“Their ambition falls victim to success, you mean.”

Again Suljack shrugged and said lightheartedly, “Isn’t enough ever enough?”

“No,” Kensidan answered simply, with blunt and brutal honesty, and once again Suljack found himself on shifting sands.

Suljack glanced around at the many attendants then dismissed his own. Kensidan did likewise—except for his dwarf bodyguard. Suljack looked past the seated man sourly.

“Speak freely,” Kensidan said.

Suljack nodded toward the dwarf.

“He’s deaf,” Kensidan explained.

“Can’t hear a thing,” the dwarf confirmed.

Suljack shook his head. What he meant to say needed saying, he told himself, and so he started, “You are serious about going after the brotherhood?”

Kensidan sat expressionless, emotionless.

“There are more than a hundred wizards who call the Hosttower home,” Suljack announced.

No response, not a whit.

“Many of them archmages.”

“You presume that they speak and act with a singular mind,” said Kensidan finally.

“Arklem Greeth holds them fast.”