"I guess I am trying to tell you what you already seem to know--that the Merindars are going on the attack, with hired mercenaries from Denlieff. But--why do you want me to tell you when you already know all this?" I looked up from wringing out my gloves. "I am trying," he said with great care, "to ascertain what your place is in the events about to transpire, and to act accordingly. From whom did you get your information?" The world seemed to lurch again, but this time it was not my vision. A terrible sense of certainty pulled at my heart and mind as I realized what he was striving so heroically not to say--nevertheless, what he meant. He thought I was on the other side. Seen from an objective perspective, it was entirely possible that was the phantom messenger from the Merindars. After all, last year I'd made a try for the crown. Since then, on the surface I'd been an implacable enemy to Shevraeth--and even though that had changed, I had not given any sign of those changes. Meanwhile I seemed to have suddenly acquired information that no one else in Athanarel had. Except for him. And, probably, Flauvic. I saw it now, the real reason why Flauvic had made the public gestures of friendship with me. What an easy way to foster Shevraeth's distrust, to force him to divide his attentions! The most recent gesture having been just measures ago at my ball. The maid came in with another bowl and bread, then, and set them at my elbow, but I scarcely heeded the food. Now I couldn't eat. I couldn't even explain, because anything I gabbled out would seem mere contrivance. The fact was, I had refused all along any kind of straightforward communication with the man now sitting across from me, and too many lives were at stake for him to risk being wrong. The real tragedy was that there were too many lives at stake in both races. And so even though I could comprehend why I might end up as a prisoner, just like last year, I also knew that I would fight, as hard as I was capable, to remain free. I looked at him, sick and miserable. "Tell me where you got your information," he said. "Azmus. Our old spy." My lips were numb, and I started to shiver. Hugging my arms against my stomach, I said, "My reasons were partly stupid and partly well-meaning, but I sent him to find out what the Marquise was after. She wrote me during winter--but you knew about that." He nodded. "And you even tried to warn me, though at the time I saw it as a threat, because--well, because." I felt too sick inside to go on about that. Drawing a shaky breath, I said, "And again. At her party, when she took me into the conservatory. She tried again to get me to join her. Said I hadn't kept my vows to Papa. So I summoned Azmus to help me find out what to do. The right thing. I know I can't prove it," I finished lamely. He pulled absently at the fingers of one glove, then looked down at it, and straightened it again. Unnecessary movements from him were so rare, I wondered if he too was fighting for clear thought."