"An idiot?" Saracen sounded dumbfounded. "An idiot? I try to protect my family for over a century, and I'm going to get chewed out for it? Why would I - actually, how did any of you figure it out?"

"Do the words 'it's a very long story and not one for over the phone' mean anything to you, Saracen?"

"No. No, they don't. If you're worried about someone listening in, you don't have to be. And I'm still not sure that we're talking about the same thing."

Anyone else, and Erskine might have asked how on earth they could be so sure that no one else was listening in on their conversation - other than Corrival, of course. But this wasn't anyone else. This was Saracen. When Saracen said something was true, it was true. You didn't question him if you wanted to live through a war. "Trust me. We are. What would you say if I just didn't want to talk about it?"

"I'd say that makes perfect sense." Saracen sighed. "Tell your Teleporter I'll meet him by the JetStar kiosks. What does he look like?"

"Oh, you'll know him."

"I wi - ah. The hair."

And that was a prime example of the immediately helpful, but ultimately useless things Saracen could 'just know.' Despite himself, Erskine laughed. "That, and he's eighteen. Are you saying you won't know him as soon as you see him?"

"I prefer not to rely on that."

"Really."

"Really. Pull a blanket over the Prophet for me."

"I don't think we have a blanket."

"Fluff up a pillow then."

"Corrival fluffed them all up just now."

"Erskine, the point here is to suck up to him and tell him it was all my doing. I have to make friends with all of the Elders, don't I? I'm two for three so far."

"I'll tell him that the spell on him is a gift from you, then, how does that sound?"

Saracen's voice was amusingly suspicious. "Depends. What's the spell?"

"You know that Solomon's asleep near me, but you don't know what the spell we put on him is? I am never going to understand how your magic works."