Mero had to concede that fact. “The Quarterlord made no secret of his long search for the Lustrata.”

The Excelsior did not respond.

His silence, to Mero, was a sign. “Do you have information about this?”

Nonplussed, the Excelsior said, “She claims to be the Lustrata, though the witches remain divided in this matter. She must not be slain. At least, not yet.”

Why didn’t he tell me this? Mero wondered.

Heldridge paced impatiently away from the camera. He spun back. “Do you still hear me? A witch has sway over your Northeastern Quarterlord.” His countenance was a confident mask, but his pacing and tone belied apprehension. His arms spread wide. “You do understand that my actions were merely to protect my Quarterlord and release him from her grasp?”

“He would have us see him as a defender, and be blind to his lawbreaking,” Mero mused.

“He would prefer,” Giovanni added, “advancement of his position. Exposing a weak Quarterlord who begs replacing creates a chain of repositioning.”

On-screen, Heldridge shifted his weight nervously. “My Lord Excelsior?”

Mero could see that Heldridge was about to do something desperate. Or stupid. He opened his mouth to make his own suggestion—

“I beseech you!” Heldridge blurted. “Release the shabbubitum. Send them to the Northeastern Quarterlord. You will find that my claim is true.”

Meroveus could not believe his ears. Heldridge had risked his own destruction to plead his case, but making this absurd proposal demonstrated only panic. Mero swiveled his chair toward the back of the theater and made a steeple with his fingertips. “Heldridge is of Menessos’s line,” he offered, “yet the young master has not spoken the name of his Maker. It suggests disassociation between them. Menessos allowed Heldridge to leave him and become his own master, but recently Menessos transferred his haven from Chicago to Cleveland—”