It seemed to declare, instead, that Oliver Patrick was useless in the enterprise. That he should try not, lest he only get in his own way. Something else would seize the victory for him. It was already an affair well and done. But how could he possibly know that? How could he see towards that which did not exist yet? Was it not simple madness? It brought him no fresh cunning, no ideas, no routes towards the future. It was only an arrogant certainty of what the result might be.
And what good was such a thing? Could it even be considered to be accurate? Why ought he trust in just a random piece of madness that laid within his body?
The trouble was – he did trust it. Implicitly. The sense he'd had before the battle with the Emersons, and then again, when he was dealt the problem of Germanicus. There had been a certainty in him that he dared not rely on, and twice, it had proved itself to be right.
