Last time, the adventuring company got ambushed, which was profoundly disturbing to Durnik, got accosted on the Imperial Highway, which was profoundly aggravating to the Tolnedran legion captain trying to keep the Mimbrates off the highway, got to see the lives of the serfs up close, which appeared to be profoundly disturbing to Lelldorin, and Asharak has his mental claws in Garion again, which is profoundly aggravating to me.
Queen of Sorcery: Chapters Six and Seven: Content Notes: privilege guilt, protagonist-centered morality, sexism, mind control
Having now seen the plight of the serfs up close, Lelldorin is ready to right the wrong completely, in the kind of way that people who have just learned about a structural wrong are wont to do.
“How can they bear it?”
“Do they have any choice?”
“My father at least looks after the people on his land,” the young man asserted defensively. “No one goes hungry or without shelter—but those people are treated worse than animals. I’ve always been proud of my station, but now it makes me ashamed.” Tears actually stood in his eyes.
[…Garion’s glad Lelldorin gets it, but he’s not sure what Lelldorin’s going to say next…]
“I’ll renounce my rank,” Lelldorin declared suddenly as if he had been listening to Garion’s thoughts, “and when I return from this quest, I’ll go among the serfs and share their lives—their sorrows.”
“What good will that do? How would your suffering in any way make theirs less?” Lelldorin looked up sharply, a half-dozen emotions chasing each other across his open face. Finally he smiled, but there was a determination in his blue eyes. “You’re right, of course,” he said. You always are. It’s amazing how you can always see directly to the heart of a problem, Garion.”
“Just what have you got in mind?” Garion asked a little apprehensively.
“I’ll lead them in revolt. I’ll sweep across Arendia with an army of serfs at my back.” His voice rang as his imagination fired with the idea.
Garion groaned. “Why is that always your answer to everything, Lelldorin?” he demanded. “In the first place, the serfs don’t have any weapons and they don’t know how to fight. No matter how hard you talk, you’d never get them to follow you. In the second place, if they did, every nobleman in Arendia would join ranks against you. They’d butcher your army, and afterward, things would be ten times worse. In the third place, you’d just be starting another civil war, and that’s exactly what the Murgos want.”
Lelldorin blinked several times as Garion’s words sank in. His face gradually grew mournful again. “I hadn’t thought of that,” he confessed.
“I didn’t think you had. You’re going to keep making those mistakes as long as you keep carrying your brain in the same scabbard with your sword, Lelldorin.
Seems like Garion’s inner voice came out to say hello again. Or Garion’s been paying a lot more attention to everyhing than the narrative has been letting on.
That said, this is exactly correct with regard to how many people react when confronted with the reality of systemic oppression and their own complicity in it. Shame and embarrassment and a want to fix the thing immediately, or to somehow make a gesture to absolve oneself of the matter entirely, because nobody likes finding out that they’ve been oppressing other people. So long as the “other” is an abstract concept, something that isn’t your neighbor, your friend, your co-worker, your child, you don’t have to feel responsible, but as soon as it’s someone you know, then there’s a problem. And Lelldorin does what most people do in that situation and makes it about himself, instead of about the people who are being oppressed. He’ll give up his place, or he’ll make himself the leader of a serf revolt and fix things, but it’s about him, and not about them. A thing that would be more likely to help would be to free the serfs and provide them with enough to get themselves established and able to survive on their own, and then deal with them as people from that point forward. And then to talk to all of their neighbors and friends and convince them to do the same thing, possibly by showing how much more successful your people are by being free and able to bargain themselves, rather than as serfs. I doubt Lelldorin or his father will go that far, and I suspect that the longer Lelldorin stays away from contemplating the plight of the serfs, the more likely it is he’s not going to do anything at all.
Garion says that Arends aren’t stupid, just impulsive, and Lelldorin points out the places they are about to cross are full of bodies, many of them unburied but for the moss growing on them, because it’s the best place for people to ambush each other, and they have been for as long as the wars have been going on, and that’s not impulsive at all. And they have two days of travel in this space where they can all be reminded of past destruction.
“Two days, probably.”
“Two days? And it’s all like this?”
Lelldorin nodded.
“Why?” Garion’s tone was harsher, more accusing than he’d intended.
“At first for pride—and honor,” Lelldorin replied. “Later for grief and revenge. Finally it was simply because we didn’t know how to stop. As you said before, sometimes we Arends aren’t very bright.”
“But always brave,” Garion answered quickly.
“Oh yes,” Lelldorin admitted. “Always brave. It’s our national curse.”
It almost sounds like Brand’s plan to get the factions to stop fighting by having them marry was doomed from the start, because the hat of the Arends is that they’re gangs, and gangs have an infinite amount of wrongs to revenge themselves with, and they recruit people by telling them they’ve been wronged by someone else, and then once the cycle starts, it won’t stop until everyone’s dead or they somehow manage to actually let go of the wrongs and make a peace, and then stick to it. It’s going to end either in geocide or reconciliation. No wonder Belgarath doesn’t want anything to do with the place.
The plot continues with the party getting attacked by Algroths, which are troll-cousins, but the kind of entities that don’t leave survivors when they attack. Lelldorin suggests a tor where someone held off a Mimbrate army for a month as a good defensive point, and the party books it for that space, slashing and stabbing along the way. The Algroths have venomous claws, and for once, it’s not Garion who gets clawed along the way, it’s Lelldorin. Once the party is secure in a defensible place, they work to get the venom out of Lelldorin, which requires a certain amount of magic from Polgara to light a fire in the rain, but after that, it’s mostly boiling water and lancing wounds that are trying to close over venomous blood. While that’s going on, a horn blows, which Belgarath says is the sign of someone he’s expecting, and whistles to let that person know where they are. The unknown person makes a grand entrance a few paragraphs later, after another horn blow.
And then a huge horse bearing a man in full armor bust out of the trees and thundered down upon the attacking creatures. The armored man crouched over his lance and plunged directly into the midst of the startled Algroths. The great horse screamed as he charged, and his iron-shod hoofs churned up big clots of mud. The lance crashed through the chest of one of the largest Algroths and splintered from the force of the blow. The splintered end took another full in the face. The knight discarded the shattered lance and drew his broadsword with a single sweep of his arm. With wide swings to the right and the left he chopped his way through the pack, his warhorse trampling the living and the dead alike into the mud of the road. At the end of his charge he whirled and plunged back again, onve more opening a path with his sword. The Algroths turned and fled howling into the woods.
“Mandorallen!” Wolf shouted. “Up here!”
The armored knight raised his blood-spattered visor and looked up the hill. “Permit me to disperse this rabble first, mine ancient friend,” he answered gaily, clanged down his visor, and plunged into the rainy woods after the Algroths.
“Hettar!” Barak shouted, already moving.
Hettar nodded tersely, and the two of them ran to their horses. They swung into their saddles and plunged down the wet slope to the aid of the stranger.
“Your friend shows a remarkable lack of good sense,” Silk observed to Mister Wolf, wiping the rain from his face. “Those things will turn on him any second now.”
“It probably hasn’t occurred to him that he’s in any danger,” Wolf replied. “He’s a Mimbrate, and they tend to think they’re invincible.”
*siiiigh* So we have two different hot-blooded people trying to share the same territory, then. No wonder they’re always fighting, revenging, and avenging each other. None of them have a lick of sense in their heads.
Mandorallen, Barak, and Hettar beat back the Algroths, and then Mandorallen is more formally introduced.
“And pray tell, who is this lady, whose beauty doth bedazze mine eye?”
“A pretty speech, Sir Knight,” Aunt Pol replied with a rich laugh, her hand going almost unconsciously to her damp hair. “I’m going to like this one, father.”
“The legendary Lady Polgara?” Mandorallen asked. “My life hath now seen its crown.” His courty bow was somewhat marred by the creaking of his armor.
And apparently his flattery works on Polgara, which very well sounds very shallow and very “wimmins, amirite?” to me. She’s a freaking unaging sorceress, and you’re telling me she reacts like this to courtly speech? It really seems like the narrative wants to undercut Polgara at every turn with “But don’t forget, she’s a WOMAN and WOMEN are susceptible to flattery and other things that mean Polgara’s not actually reliable enough to achieve anything important.”
Lelldorin’s introduction has Mandorallen remark that the rumor mill says Lelldorin is rebelling against the crown, but Belgarath basically says “what we’re doing is more important” and before Mandorallen can argue anything, the shadowless rider appears. Garion, of course, can’t actually remember what the important thing he needs to know about this encounter, but unlike all the other times, this time, the rider pulls down his hood, revealing “a steel mask cat in the form of a face that was at once beauriful and strangely repelling”, and then he speaks. As it turns out, this is not Asharak again, but another Grolim by the name of Chamdar, who is dropping in to see how the Prophecy is going with Belgarath and how he managed to translate/interpret it into actionable language. And to taunt a little bit about how it’s inevitable that Zedar wil get the Orb to Torak and so all their effort is for nothing. Except he doesn’t seem to believe it quite as much as he should.
“It isn’t complete yet, old man.”
“It will be, Chamdar,” Wolf replied confidently. “I’ve already seen to that.”
“Which is the one who will live twice?” the figure asked suddenly.
Wolf smiled codly, but did not answer.
“Hail, my Queen,” the figue said mockingly then to Aunt Pol.
“Grolim courtesy always leaves me quite cold,” she returned with a frosty look. “I’m not your queen, Chamdar.”
“You will be, Polgara. My Master said that you are to become his wife when he comes into his kingdom. You’ll be queen of all the world.”
“That puts you at a bit of a disadvantage, doesn’t it, Chamdar? If I’m o become your queen, you can’t really cross me, can you?”
“I can work around you, Polgara, and once you’ve become the bride of Torak, his will becomes your will. I’m sure you won’t hold any old grudges at that point.”
“I think we’ve had about enough of this, Chamdar,” Mister Wolf said. Your conversation’s beginning to bore me. You can have your shadow back now.” He waved his hand negligently as if brushing away a troublesome fly. “Go,” he commanded.
Once again, Garion felt that strange surge and that hollow roaring in his mind. The horseman vanished.
“You didn’t destroy him, did you?” Silk gasped in a shocked voice.
“No,” Mister Wolf told him. “It was all just an illusion. It’s a childish trick the Grolims find impressive. A shadow can be projected over quite some distance if you want to take the trouble. All I did was send his shadow back to him.” He grinned suddenly with a sly twist to his lips. “Of course, I selected a somewhat indirect route. It may take a few days to make the trip. It won’t actualy hurt him, but it’s going to make him a bit uncomfortable—and extremely conspicuous.”
Chamdar is then mentioned to be one of the chief Grolim priests, and when Polgara says Lelldorin is going to be down for at least a week, Durnik suggests rigging up a litter to transport him between some horses, which is accepted as a suggestion, since they still need to make ground and not be exposed. Which gets us through the end of Chapter 6.
I’m still a bit miffed that Grolim mind tricks still work on Garion, given that Polgara and Belgarath just broke one and would presumably have thought to shield him against the others, preferably in some other way than an amulet that can be taken off. On the same logic of it still working and the last one working, one would think that Belgarath wouldn’t use that same “the Grolims think it’s impressive” tone as if it were something so far beneath him that he would never use it. Because it’s still pretty clearly working on Garion. And, yet again, they haven’t noticed that it’s happening. So it’s got to be more than just “well, the primitive foreigners think it’s impressive, but the Civilized people don’t.” going on here.
Also, there’s a particularly creepy vibe to “our God has chosen you as his bride, and when everything is complete, you won’t have any free will to resist him, so enjoy your incoming reality as his slave!” I realize that the sexual assault threat has to go to Polgara, because, at least up to this point, we don’t have any other women in the party, but still, Sorcerors of Gor doesn’t really seem like the thing you want to be emulating, y’know?
So, Chapter 7, for the most part, is going to be “Yet another of Chamdar’s subordinates creates a delay,” but there will be some choice parts worth quoting in it, so here we go all the same. The first part of the chapter is about Lelldorin’s steadily worsening condition as the party continues to try and make time. Garion has decided that his opinion of Mandorallen is that he has “an egotism so pure that there was a kind of innocence about it[…]and Mandorallen’s extravagant courtesy to Aunt Pol struck Garion as beyond the bounds of proper civility. To make maters even worse, Aunt Pol seemed quite willing to accept the knight’s flatteries at face value.” Garion seems satisfied that the other men seem to have the same kind of opinion of Mandorallen, and his attempts at telling Lelldorin to bear his injury with good cheer gets him pointedly told to go somewhere else. (Which he does, but not before complaining about Lelldorin’s incivility.) I don’t know if Pol is genuinely interested in the flattery, or whether she considers this to be part of her proper due from everyone, and only Mandorallen has figured out how to properly worship her. It still feels like “wimmins, amirite?” in this context, despite it being Garion who is complaining.
And, as expected, Eddings makes the mistake of confusing thee/thou for formality.
“Do they all talk like that?” Garion asked with a certain rancor. “Thee’s and thou’s and doth’s?”
“Mimbrates tend to be very formal,” Aunt Pol explained. “You’ll get used to it.”
“I think it sounds stupid,” Garion muttered darkly, glaring after the knnight.
“An example of good manners won’t hurt you all that much, Garion.”
Which I wouldn’t have batted at eye at as the reader during the time when this book is something to be read, but if Mimbrates were formal, it they would constantly be using “you” and “one” and so forth.
Anyway, Garion asks about the whole “Bride of Torak” and “Prophecy” thing, and while he doesn’t get brushed off this time, Polgara indicates she’s not all that interested in the being betrothed to the evil god or the Mrin Codex, and how it talks about “the bear, the rat, the man who will live twice” and now I know why Silk in the first book keeps getting referred to as “rat-faced” and Barak is the territory of the Bear God and has the Doom.
There’s a commotion in front of them, which Mandorallen goes to investigate, and sadly reports back that there’s a war going on in front of them, which they can’t go around, and so Mandorallen suggests the most direct route he knows.
“Do you think they’ll take money to let us pass?” Durnik asked dubiously.
“In Arendia there is another way to make such purchase, Goodman,” Mandorallen responded. “May I prevail upon thee to obtain six or eight stout poles perhaps twenty feet in length and about as thick as my wrist at the butt?”
“Of course.” Durnik took up his axe.
“What have you got in mind?” Barak rumbled.
“I will challenge them,” Mandorallen announced calmly, “one or all. No true knight could refust me without being called craven. Will thou be my second and deliver my challenge, my Lord?”
“What if you lose?” Silk suggested.
“Lose?” Mandoralled seemed shocked. “I? Lose?“
…yep. Because they’re Arends, this is supposed to make completely logial sense. Rather than both armies going “Fuck off, we’re fighting!” or “I don’t see an army. Crush ’em.” And so…
“Sir Mandorallen, Baron of Vo Mimbre, desires entertainment,” he [Barak] declaimed. “It wouls amuse him if each of your parties would select a champion to joust wih him. If, however, you are all such cowardly dogs that you have no somach for such a contest, cease this brawling and stand aside so that your betters may pass.”
“Splendidly spoken, my Lord Barak,” Mandorallen said with admiration.
“I’ve always had a way with words,” Barak replied modestly.
What’s the cause of this war? An insult. When Mandorallen asks what the insult was, neither of them can answer, which makes Mandorallen boggle even more, before there’s even more words thrown.
“Of Sir Mandorallen the bastard we have all heard,” a swarthy knight in black enamelled armor sneered, “but who is this red-bearded ape who so maligns his betters?”
“You’re going to take that?” Barak asked Mandorallen.
“It’s more or less true,” Mandorallen admitted with a pained look, “since there was some temporary irregularity about my birth which still raises questions about my legitimacy. This knight is Sir Haldorin, my third cousin—twice removed.Since it’s considered unseemly in Arendia to spill the blood of kinsmen, he thus cheaply gains reputation for boldness by casting the matter in my teeth.”
“Stupid custom,” Barak grunted. “In Cherek kinsmen kill each other with more enthusiasm than they kill strangers.”
“Alas,” Mandorallen sighed. “This is not Cherek.”
“Would you be offended if I dealt with this?” Barak asked politely.
“Not at all.”
Barak moved closer to the swarthy knight. “I am Barak, Earl of Trellheim,” he announced in a loud voice, “kinsman to King Anheg of Cherek, and I see that certain nobles in Arendia have even fewer manners than they have brains.”
“The Lords of Arendia are not impressed by the self-bestowed titles of the pig-sty kingdoms of the north,” Sir Haldorin retorted coldly.
“I find your words offensive, friend,” Barak said ominously.
“And I find thy ape face and scraggly beard amusing,” Sir Haldorin replied.
Barak did not even bother to draw his sword. He swung his buge arm in a wide circle and crashed his fist with stunning force against the side of the swarthy knight’s helmet. Sir Haldorin’s eyes glazed as he was swept from his saddle, and he made a vast clatter when he struck the ground.
After this display, one of the knights in the party suggests just killing them all with their numbers, like a sensible army should, but Mandorallen threatens to kill him if he pulls his sword, and then chides everyone on not having their manners. Because, apparently, a challenge like this guarantees safe passage for the challenger until the challenge is done. So Mandorallen gets his jousts. Silk makes a comment about whether they should be concerned about whether Mandorallen will lose, and Belgarath tells him there’s no chance. He’s apparently just that good.
The first jouster takes three lances before being unhorsed, and then when he tries to keep fighting, gets bashed in the head by Mandorallen’s sword and declared vanquished when he doesn’t respond. He also has a bloody nose, his eyes have rolled back, his face is blue, and his right side is twitching. The second jouster only takes one lance, and being unhorsed breaks his leg.
Challenges complete, the party makes a move to proceed, but they’re stopped by the kill them all knight from before, who turns out to be not just a Murgo, but a Grolim. (Yawn.)
“Well, Grolim?” Aunt Pol challenged, pushing back her hood.
The mounted man’s eyes widened as he saw the white lock in her hair, and then he raised his hand almost despairingly, muttering rapidly under his breath.
Once again Garion felt that strange surge, and the hollow roaring filled his mind.
For an instant Aunt Pol’s figure seemed surrounded by a kind of greenish light. She waved her hand indifferently, and the light disappeared. “You must be out of practice,” she told him. “Would you like to try again?”
The Grolim raised both hands this time, but got no further. Maneuvering his horse carefully behind the armored man, Durnik had closed on him. With both hands he raised his axe and smashed it down directly on top of the Grolim’s helmet.
“Durnik!” Aunt Pol shouted. “Get away!”
But the smith, his face set grimly, swung again, and the Grolim slid senseless from his saddle with a crash.
“You fool!” Aunt Pol raged. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“He was attacking you, Mistress Pol,” Durnik explained, his eyes still hot.
“Get down off that horse.”
He slid down.
“Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?” she demanded. “He could have killed you.”
“I will protect you, Mistress Pol,” Durnik replied stubbornly. “I’m not a warrior or a magician, but I won’t let anybody ry to hurt you.”
Her eyes widened in surprise for an instant, then narrowed, then softened. Garion, who had known her from childhood, recognized her rapid change of emotion. Without warning, she suddenly embraced the startled Durnik. “You great, clumby, dear fool,” she said. “Never do that again—never! You almost made my heart stop.”
Garion looked away with a strange lump in his throat and saw the brief, sly smile that flickered across Mister Wolf’s face.
This seems like another one of those things that you should tell people about. Because the most tactically sound thing to do when the enemy spellcaster is in combat or distracted by your spellcasters is to bash them on the head so they stop trying to use their magic against your people. If that causes uncontrolled magic explosions that can lash out and hurt people, that’s worth knowing before someone gets the bright idea to do it.
Once the Grolim goes insensate, it turns out that he had been using his magic to create the war as a way of slowing the party down. Once free of the mind control, the knights are more than happy to let the party pass, and they have a particularly grisly fate in mind for the foreigner that mind-whammied them into fighting each other. Which is a lost opportunity, honestly. This could have just been Arends being stupid Arends until someone beat sense into them, and maybe even you could have the war resume as soon as they left because, well, a forgotten insult is just the kind of thing that keeps going on and on and on. Not everything has to be a Grolim plot or something similar.
The newly-freed knights are asked to take care of Lelldorin, because he’s going to be a hindrance. Lelldorin, naturally, will have none of this, and it takes some harsh words from Mandorallen to finally get him to stay put.
“Young Lelldorin,” Mandorallen replied bluntly, even harshly, “I know thy distaste for the men of Mimbre. Thy wound, however, will soon begin to abscess and then suppurate, and raging fever and delirium will afflict thee, making thy presence a burden upon us. We have not the time to care for thee, and thy sore need would delay us in our quest.”
Garion fasped at the brutal directness of the knight’s words. He glared at Mandorallen with something very close to hatred.
[…Lelldorin thinks he’s still going to go, even after Pol forbids him to it, and one of the women who comes to tend to Lelldorin finally sits him down…]
She shrugged. “As it please thee. I expect that my brother will be able to spare some few servants to follow after thee to provide thee that decent burial which, if I misjudge not, thou wil require before thou hast gone ten leagues.”
Lelldorin blinked.
Having finally been convinced that he’s not going anywhere, Lelldorin pulls Garion in close, tells him to go warn the king about the plot that he’s part of, and reveals to Garion that Nachak is the ambassador at the court, the “personal representative of Taur Urgas, King of the Murgos.” Which means that he has both endless resources and the king’s ear at his disposal, and the plot Garion knows of might be just one of many, so Garion’s job just got a whole lot harder. Plus, all of the burden of who to tell and when falls on Garion. (That said, despite now having a clear pathway to explain everything to the other people in the party, even though he’s said he won’t name names, Garion is going to wait to actually say something, instead of immediately going to Belgarath and spilling the entire affair. For reasons that I can best describe as “the author wants maximum drama, so the sensible decision never happens.”)
Once the party gets back on the road, Garion decides to have it out with Mandorallen.
With deliberate purpose, Garion pulled his horse forward until he drew in beside Mandorallen. “I have something to say to you,” he said hotly. “You aren’t going to like it, but I don’t really care.”
“Oh?” the knight replied mildly.
“I think the way you talked to Lelldorin back there was cruel and disgusting,” Garion told him. “You might think you’re the greatest knight in the world, but I think you’re a loudmouthed braggart with no more compassion than a block of stone, and if you don’t like it, what do you plan to do about it?”
“Ah,” Mandorallen said. “That! I think that thou has misunderstood, my young friend. It was necessary in order to save his life. The Asturian youth is very brave and so gives no thought to himself. Had I not spoken so to him, he would surely have insisted upon continuing with us and would soon have died.”
“Died?” Garion scoffed. “Aunt Pol could have cured him.”
“It was the Lady Polgara herself who informed me that his life was in danger,” Mandorallen replied. “His honor would not permit him to remain behind lest he delay us.” The knight smiled wryly. “He will, I think, be no fonder of me for my words than thou art, but he will be alive, and that’s what matters, is it not?”
Garion stared at the arrogant-seeming Mimbrate, his anger suddenly robbed of its target. With painful clarity he realized that he had just made a fool of himself. “I’m sorry,” he apologized grudgingly. “I didn’t realize what you were doing.”
Mandorallen shrugged. “It’s not important. I’m frequently misunderstood. As long as I know my motives are good, however, I’m seldom very concerned with the opinions of others. I’m glad, though, that I had the opportunity to explain this to thee. Thou art to be my companion, and i ill-behooves companions to have misapprehensions about each other.”
They rold on in silence as Garion struggled to readjust his thinking. There was, it seemed, much more to Mandorallen than he had suspected.
One more sentence about turning south and Chapter 7 is finished. So.
Cocowhat by depizan
Garion doesn’t have to back down or apologize for anything. Just because Mandorallen believes being that harsh was necessary to get Lelldorin to finally stay down and heal doesn’t mean he isn’t the worst kind of egotistical asshole. (The worst kind being someone who can, in fact, back up their bluster.) After all, Mandorallen just freely admitted to Garion that he doesn’t give a rip what other people think about him, so long as he believes he’s right. We’ve noted that these stories are very much working on Protagonist-Centered Morality, and here Mandorallen is to explicitly say that he believes he’s the Protagonist. In his favor, he’s the closest we get to the knight in shining armor, the kind of character who would be the Protagonist if we didn’t have the plucky farm boy instead. Against him, the same thing, although at the time these are written, we don’t have quite the same ease of access to the vocabulary that allows us to articulate that he has privilege and has probably never had to spend a day of his life where he wasn’t nobility or the most important character in the story. In a more comedic work, the narrative would start following him around before being taken back to the actual story, or some very important thing to the plot would have happened while the narrative was following Mandorallen doing such things as brushing his horse or cutting himself some additional lances. Here, I would find it most satisfying to see Mandorallen repeatedly go do something because he’s sure of his rightness and turn out to be completely wrong about it in ways that actively hurt the quest or the party, in the same way that Lelldorin was eventually convinced of the wrongness of serfdom by seeing what the actual effects are (and by having Garion shoot down all of his surface level beliefs on how he could fix it.)
Next week, well, hopefully we’ve gathered all the people we need at this point and we can stay moving in the direction of actually trying to foil the plot?
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