"What?"

'The prayer brothers just sold them some snake oil. The money is hidden outside. The stable, probably. Some kind of crap like that. They're going to let the priests take them outside." The deserters and their interlocutors rose.

"Can they be that stupid?"

"They signed on to set you up."

"There is that." That seemed more like overweening optimism, though. "Let's don't let them get too far ahead."

Ghort muttered, "Shit. Timing. Here's your Imperial pal."

Ferris Renfrow drifted into his habitual shadow. What had passed between him and Lyse Tanner? Why was he still hanging around? Did he have regular connections at the Knight of Wands?

"They are going out back. The stable or the outhouses."

"Or the woods behind, if they're up to any real wickedness." He thought Renfrow showed a flicker of interest in the four men. Then glanced from them to him.

Of course. Renfrow would want to penetrate his business if he could.

"No help for it," Ghort muttered. "Let's go. I wish it was busier tonight."

The deserters were not complete fools. Both made sure of hidden weapons when their paymasters were not looking. Hecht saw Renfrow become more alert.

"You're right. Nothing for it."

The path to the outhouses led through the kitchen area, dark, smoky, and filthy enough to silence hunger for days. A greasy, heavily furred fat man was loafing, dispiritedly chatting up a bored serving girl who had no interest in a game of slap and tickle. She was not more than three years older than Vali. The cook demanded, "What's this damned parade to the jakes? Ain't nobody drunk enough to need a piss between them. You." He pointed a sausage finger at Hecht. "You ain't had a drink since you been here. That's unnatural."

Ghort countered, "It ain't the beer, brother. It's the rotten food all in a gassy hurry to get out the shit chute."

The cook considered taking umbrage. It was not worth the energy. He would save himself for the serving girl.

Hecht said, "She's probably his daughter."

"Even so, can't say as I blame him for trying. She's got an interesting look."

Pella materialized outside the back door. He whispered, They headed for the stables, Your Honors. With two other men. Ones that was staying here already."

"Where's Vali?"

"Watching them."

"Show us where they are. Then you and Vali get back inside. Go to bed. You'll need the rest. We'll be on the road again tomorrow."

"This what you been waiting for?"

"Yes. Get moving."

Pella led off like he could see in the dark. Hecht and Ghort eased along behind, Hecht wondering what had become of the third priest.

The stables were quiet. The stable boys were asleep and he animals snoozing. Even the rats seemed to have taken the night off. An utter lack of response from his amulet told Hecht that no supernatural threat was afoot. Meaning none had an interest in what was happening here.

Their quarry proved not to have gone to the stable itself but into the attached feed shed. A lantern burned there. Light leaked through unsealed walls. Ghort used touch and gesture to tell Pella to collect Vali and head back inside. To Hecht, he breathed, "Keep alert. There's another one around somewhere."

Hecht nodded. He eased up to peek through an uncaulked crack between horizontal logs.

The missing man was inside. He helped his friends move sacks of oats. The would-be assassins were more wary than the men paying off.

Interesting, Hecht thought. The holy men seemed inclined to play it straight. The deserters must have convinced them that everything had gone well.

Ghort breathed, "I don't buy it. Those two aren't even the ones that were sent down there."

Hecht squeezed Ghort's arm. They could talk later.

The three counted out silver to the two. There was a brief argument about whether or not the wages of dead conspirators ought to be paid. The deserters argued that the dead men had left families behind.

The paymasters offered half the agreed sum. Or nothing.

The deserters took what they could get. Hecht got the sense that their concern about the families of relatives now fatherless and husbandless was genuine. The plot may have been an extended family enterprise.

There was little talk, though the deserters did offer an account of the attack that failed to match what Hecht recalled.

Why were the paymasters so amenable?

Well, the deserters were no real threat since they could not know anything about these three.

The deserters pocketed their money and took off for the stable. They roused the stable boys and ordered their mounts readied. One boy protested. "Them nags is plumb worn out. Yer killin' them. And yer don't want ter go ridin' round in the night, nohow. On account a they's banes on the road up north. An' thank 'e, Yer Honors!" The boy stopped having opinions. Hecht guessed that he had received a nice tip.

Hecht peeked through the feed-shed wall. All three priests were seated on sacks. After a joint prayer, one produced a kuf pipe. As he packed it, he asked, "Coyne is ready?"

"I sent word. He'll handle it."

Hecht became aware of Pella's continued presence. Irked, he said nothing. He did not want the boy to argue and give them away. He pulled Ghort closer, breathed, "What do you think?"

"We need to move now. Never gonna get a better chance. They're cornered."

But there were three of them, complete unknowns.

GHORT WENT  FIRST.  HE WANTED TO  SEE THEIR  SHOCK. When Hecht followed the three had just begun to rise in a loud of kuf smoke, confused. Ghort said, "Just a social visit, guys. We smelled the pipe. Hoped you'd share."

Pella slid in behind Hecht, armed with a piece of kindling he considered a worthy truncheon.

Ghort continued. "My name is Pinkus Ghort. My friend is Piper Hecht. The short guy is a famous literary character. You know who we are, now. We'll talk while we're passing the pipe."

The trio did recognize at least one of the names.

Pella looked at them, back and forth. He did not know those names but was pleased to hear what might be real ones.

Ghort warned, "Don't be that way. You aren't killers. We're professionals. You pull a knife, you get hurt."

One man did not listen.

Ghort moved so fast he startled Hecht as much as the man he disarmed. "So, what we're going to do here is, we're going to share a pipe and talk about assassinations."

Ghort collected the fallen knife. "Pipe? Want to throw anything in here?"

"You're doing fine. But let's not dawdle."

Ghort flipped the knife. It stuck in the throat of the man farthest from him. "You," he told the next farthest. "Take care of him. He'll live if you pay attention. Unless you all want to be stubborn. Then none of you will. And you'll ruin a lot of good oats before you stink enough for them to dig you out."

"Sit," Hecht told the man Ghort had disarmed. "Talk to us. Who are you?"

After a brief consultation with his courage, the man said, "We're priests. Lay brothers, actually."

"Priests don't murder people."

"They do it all the time, Pipe. They just dress it up in mumbo jumbo. Do go on. This could get fascinating. Our own Church is trying to stab us in the back."

 "Not the Church. Not your Church. Not the Usurper."

"She-it! Viscesment! Immaculate?"

Hecht found that hard to swallow. It was a given that the Anti-Patriarch was weak and ineffectual, little more than a joke. The consensus was that Immaculate II would drink himself to death and the dual Patriarchy would fade into history with him. Immaculate's line, though it had sound legal footing, would end.

"That will take some explaining," Hecht said.

"Are you really the Captain-General?"

"Yes. Why?"

"The Advisory concluded that you are the most dangerous weapon the Usurper has in his arsenal. If you're removed Sublime will never pull together forces able to impose his will outside his own territories. Especially once the Emperor dies."

The Empire was expected to weaken and become chaotic when Lothar died. His sister Katrin would succeed. And she would have to deal with scores of Electors and lesser nobility who would chafe under the rule of a woman.

"Explains the incompetence of the whole thing," Ghort muttered. "The Anti-Patriarch. Who'd of thought he even had a hair, let alone a complete set of balls?"

"Supposing anyone is telling the truth," Hecht observed. "I can think of several men who have the nerve, supposing there's any real point to killing me." There must be. Attempts had been made regularly.

He watched the other two pray over the wounded man. He pushed Pella back out into the darkness. "Take care of Vali. You don't want these men to know you're with us, anyway. They're not nice people."

The fight had gone out of the three, though. Ghort asked, "What now, Pipe? I didn't expect no priests from Viscesment."

"Nor did I." Where to? Race the news from the Connec to Brothe with no hope of beating it?

"We didn't give this enough thought before we hared off on an adventure."

A young man's game," Ghort philosophized. "A game for men who don't got nothing to lose."

"Yes. Gentlemen. Priests. This is an important question. The fools you just paid. What did you send them into?"

"They're going to run into robbers. If they don't fight, all that will happen is, they'll lose the money."

"It isn't supposed to turn lethal?"

The priest acted offended. "We don't murder people… All right. Yes. There's no need to harm them. They'll disappear into Grolsach's population. They don't know anything, really. But we can't afford to let them keep the money. It'd ruin Immaculate's treasury."

Meaning the conspirators were never meant to be paid. "Why?"

"Because we have almost no income anymore. The Usurper's…"

"I mean, why kill me?"

"I told you. You're the only…"

"Not true." There was no sense whatsoever in that claim. He was not that important. He was not irreplaceable. Ghort could do what he did.

Ghort said, "He believes it, Pipe. Somebody sold him."

Hecht growled. "Stupid."

"Can't fix stupid. Hey, Pipe! You know you've made it big when people you don't even know think they got to kill you."

"Jealous?"

"Not quite. Brother, I don't need nobody wanting to cut my throat. Unless maybe a jealous husband. Sometime next century."

"You say that only because your faith is weak," one of the priests said.

"Weak ain't the word, godshouter. I been around damn near forty years. I ain't yet run into an Instrumentality what's out to improve my life."

Hecht interrupted. "No religious debates. It's the middle of the night. I'm tired. I'm crabby. This is what's going to happen. You're going back to Viscesment. With a message. Anyone tries this again, I take it personal. The men I'll send won't be incompetents like Sublime's. There won't be any warning ahead of time from the Empire's spies." Osa Stile's espionage had thwarted an attempt on Immaculate II by Sublime's agents.

Ghort eased past the wounded man. He moved a few sacks of oats, came up with a leather money bag that was almost empty. "This is sad. It looks like they did give it all to Aubero and Ogier."

Hecht said, "We'll take their horses, then. You don't mind walking in order to stay alive."

One priest responded with a sullen nod.

Ghort offered battlefield medical advice for the care of the injured man. "Keep the wound clean. He'll be fine if it don't get infected. Find a healing witch. Have her make a poultice."

"Let's call it a night, Pinkus."

"What? You don't want to find out who handed these guys the job in the first place? You guys didn't make this up yourselves, did you? Neither did your hero, Immaculate. You set up for something like this, you do a lot of spying and recruiting and training and rehearsing. You guys are just paymasters. Maybe with different sets of instructions, depending on what happened in Brothe. Right?"

Both uninjured men grew more frightened.

"You see?" Ghort said. "You need to ask the right questions. Who sent you guys?"

A short course of vigorous, nonphysical interrogation produced a name. Rudenes Schneidel.

Rudenes Schneidel had managed everything. Planning. Personnel. Scouting the target. Paying bribes. Recruiting the paymasters, who were otherwise unemployed lay brothers. Offered easy money, in hard times, they had no problem signing on.

Ghort asked, "Rudenes Schneidel? That somebody from back home with a big-ass grudge, Pipe? You ruin his sister?"

"Never heard of him before."

"Sounds like it comes from those parts, though."

It does. I admit it. Any of you deal with Schneidel directly?"

The spokesman shook his head. Feeling bad for talking too much. "He used an interlocutor."

"Can you describe him?"

Of course not. Not well. The spokesman volunteered, "I asked the go-between about Schneidel. He said he only saw him once. If it was really him. He had a foreign accent so thick you could hardly understand him." The physical description suited every typical short fat thin tall dark brown white man you could run into on any Firaldian street.

"I've been here before," Hecht said, recalling trying to get a useful description of the witch Starkden, who had been behind a scheme meant to facilitate the premature demise of Else Tage of the Sha-lug, then pretending to be the Episcopal Chaldarean crusader Sir Aelford daSkees. "He wouldn't be a sorcerer in addition to his other transgressions, would he?"

Ghort leaned in. "We got a name. I can give it to Bo. Right now we need to get back into executive mode."

Hecht nodded. "Enough, then. Good night, gentlemen. Brothers. We'll include you in our prayers."

PELLA WAKENED HECHT AN HOUR BEFORE FIRST LIGHT.

"Sir, them priests are stealing their horses and running away."

"How do you know?"

"Vali saw them. She woke me up."

"I see." Before he finished getting his trousers on he heard horses crossing the rude pavements out front. "They have the moon, don't they?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'm a sir, now?"

"Yes, sir."

Hecht was amused but had no time to explore the workings of Pella's mind.

He might as well have taken time. The men from Viscesment got away easily.

There seemed little reason to hurry. Without horses the journey to Brothe could not be hastened much.   

Ghort said, "Let's just be folks headed south looking for work. So stop looking prosperous."

Ferris Renfrow materialized. Hecht wondered how close the man had followed events last night. He seemed satisfied to watch them go. Pinkus Ghort's paranoid side wakened. "He might plan to have us snatched out in the country somewhere."

"Would there be a point?"

"Hell, yeah. He'd ruin Sublime's hopes for decades. Where would that fool find two more men like us?"

"A telling point. But I doubt he rates us as highly as we rate ourselves. But to reassure you, I'll just go ask."

"What? Are you out of your bean?"

Hecht approached the Imperial. "The name Rudenes Schneidel mean anything? Especially in connection with Viscesment?"

Renfrow raised an eyebrow. "It's turned up inside a few unpleasant rumors. Evidently a sorcerer. Of some attainment. But a complete blank otherwise. Why?"

"There was an assassination attempt in Brothe. You'll be hearing about it. Schneidel was behind the play. If that's something you can use."

"Probably not. The folks at Viscesment have grown increasingly independent. Tell your friend I'm going to let him get away. This time."

Hecht laughed. "Is his act that obvious?"

"It is."

"I'll pass the word. One more name I want to toss up. Dumaine."

"Dumaine?"

"That's all I've got. I heard it in Sonsa. Overheard it. Someone who's part of a plot involving the Durandanti family."

The only Dumaines I know are minor Arnhander nobility. The current Viscount Dumaine is an enemy of Anne of Menand. With the enmity mostly on her side. Dumaine is a minor marcher, unimportant in Arnhander affairs, except as a scapegoat when Anne's plans go bad. Although he spends all his time at home, fending off his cousins who are enfiefed to the King of Santerin. He evidently had the bad judgment to turn down an offer Anne made. Doing so publicly."

Anne of Menand was the mistress of King Charlve of Arnhand, who was mentally incompetent. She wanted her son Regard to succeed. Charlve had no legitimate children. Her physical appetites were legendary. As was her malevolence toward those who crossed her.

"That wouldn't fit. I don't think. I must've heard wrong."

"Ah. This doesn't look good."

A rider was coming down the West Way astride a mount so blown it could barely keep moving. The beast would be ruined forever. Yet the rider's was not the will driving it. He was unconscious. He had tied himself into the saddle.

Ghort jogged out and intercepted the animal. It did not resist his guidance. It had no spirit left.

Hecht and Renfrow followed Ghort. Something bad had happened. Horse and rider alike were covered with dried blood, not all of it their own.

Ghort said, "It's Ogier. Three-fourths dead."

"They lied to us," Hecht said.

"Priests? Tell lies? You must be joking. But, no. That's not it. Look at these wounds."

Hecht and the Imperial walked round man and beast. The horse's nose practically dragged on the pavements. Hecht untied Ogier. Ghort and Renfrow lowered him to the ground. Hecht said, "He might've run into a rabid bear. Or a hungry lion."

"Lion? Excuse me, Pipe. There ain't been no fuckin' lions in these parts since Old Brothen Imperial times."

Renfrow agreed. "The ancients used them up in their blood games. Once in a while one would cross the Escarp Gibr al-Tar back then, maybe, but they were even hunted out on the far coast of the Mother Sea by the time of the Praman Conquest."

"More than I needed to know." Hecht's amulet was responding to the residual shadow clinging to the deserter and his steed. They had fallen foul of something powerful.

Gawkers from the Knight of Wands began to gather. Hecht and Renfrow kept them back while Ghort tried to question the deserter.

Ogier was not hurt as badly as all the blood made it seem. But he would need luck to survive. Claw wounds always festered.

One client of the Knight of Wands confessed to having some small skills as a healer. Once he was satisfied that no one would denounce him to the Church he went to work on the deserter.  

The Episcopal Chaldarean Church suffered from a schizophrenic attitude toward powers derived from the Instrumentalities of the Night. It railed against congress with sorcerers and witches, yet some of its greatest dignitaries were among the most powerful mages known. Talented folks not on the inside frequently suffered persecution. Particularly where the Witchfinders of the Special Office roamed.

"Well?" Hecht asked when Ghort finally came away. "Did he have a story?"

"Fraught with irony."

"I'm surprised you even know two of those three words."

"All right. Hang on. I'm going to do this all in one long blast. Then we need to get on down the road."

"So, go."

"Ogier and Aubero ran into robbers. Who robbed them. While the robbers were arguing over whether they should kill them it suddenly got icy cold. A mist closed in. The moonlight faded away. Men started screaming. Something with claws and rotten breath mauled him but got distracted before it finished him off. He passed out. He woke up at daybreak. Some of the horses were missing. The rest, along with his brother and all the robbers, were dead, some torn to pieces. He headed here because it was the only place he could think of. He kept passing out. He hid out whenever he felt that coming on. He remembers our three priests charging past. He tried to warn them but they didn't hear him. A while later screaming broke out back the way he had come. He kept moving. He found a saddled horse grazing in a field. He caught it and calmed it, mounted up and tied himself on in case he passed out again. Something in the woods roared and started crashing toward them. The horse panicked. It ran till it couldn't run anymore. Then it kept walking. And here he is."

"What happened to the money?" Some things of the Night had an abiding loathing for silver. Iron bothered a lot more, though those daunted by the ignoble metal were mainly minor entities.

"Whoever had the coins would've stood the best chance of surviving." He went back to Ogier briefly, then returned to Hecht looking puzzled. "He had some silver on him that the robbers didn't find. Their captain took the money. But he and the rest all ended up dead. The money must still be there. Somewhere."

Though Ghort kept his voice down, he was overheard. Members of the crowd began to find interests elsewhere. Despite complete ignorance of how much might be involved.

"Ain't that amazing?" Ghort beckoned the one-eyed man, whispered briefly, then said, "We got to get on the road, Pipe. Trouble ain't gonna wait on us down there."

And so they did, turning their backs to a sudden flow northward. Hecht muttered, "They're idiots. Eight or ten men have just been killed by a monster and all they can think about is there might be money on the corpses. What were you whispering about, there at the end?"

"About him taking care of Ogier till he can get on his feet again. I explained about the money Ogier has. And how things will turn nasty for the Knight of Wands if he don't do right by Ogier."

"I see." And saw more than Ghort perhaps intended.

Ogier and Aubero might have been family after all.

3. Alten Weinberg, Heart of the New Brothen Empire

Princess Helspeth, Grafina fon Supfer, Marquesa of Runjan, and so forth, had come to Alten Weinberg thinking the Emperor meant to celebrate her twentieth birthday. She went to her knees three times before her little brother, Lothar, Emperor of the Grail Empire. In the presence, now, she suspected his summons had nothing to do with her birthday. The hall was filled with the ravens and vultures who orbited Lothar these days. And Katrin had come, too.

But not Ferris Renfrow. She would have been more comfortable if Renfrow were visible. You could call Ferris Renfrow the conscience of the Empire.

Helspeth did not like bending the knee but her brother was acting in his official capacity tonight. Probably reluctantly. In front of Omro va Still-Patter, Grand Duke of Hilandle, first among equals in the Council Advisory, styled the Protector. Accompanying Hilandle, interposing themselves between the Emperor and the lesser lights in the hall, were the Master of the Wardrobe, the Master of the Privy Purse, and the Lord Admiral Vondo fon Tyre, whose fleet was almost entirely imaginary. These men had gotten their claws into the Imperial power simply because Lothar was still five years short of his majority.

Helspeth's older sister Katrin, Grafina fon Kretien and Gordon, Princess Apparent, also knelt. She did not disguise her irritation, nor her loathing, for Hilandle and his cronies. Lothar was her baby brother, her beloved "Mushin." She had pampered him through countless illnesses, spoiling him terribly. Helspeth did not like or think well of her sister but she ould not deny that Katrin loved, nurtured, and indulged her brother selflessly. And, like Helspeth, she loathed the grasping old men who had seized control of the boy.

Tall, lean, blond, and beautiful, clad simply in dark clothing, Katrin Ege seemed cold and remote. She had her father's stubborn will but little of the magnetism that had served him so well. That lack, her sex, and the ambition of so many nobles put her in a weaker position than she liked. But the Protector and his cronies were blinding themselves willfully, seeing either of the Ege daughters as a weakling.

All the children of the Ferocious Little Hans were in weaker positions than they liked.

Johannes had compelled the Electors to fashion an Act of Will and Succession that enacted, published, and ratified by the Patriarch and Collegium would withstand every possible challenge. But Johannes Blackboots had not anticipated his own death in battle. He had expected to outlive his sickly son and see the Imperial throne passed on through Katrin and her sons. He had hoped to forge powerful alliances through both daughters.

Negotiations had come and gone before Johannes fell at al-Khazen. No arrangements had been finalized.

Helspeth had been included in the succession almost as an afterthought. Johannes was thorough in everything. After Helspeth, the sons of his sister Anies were named in the Act.

It would take a major Ege family disaster to put the succession back into the hands of the Electors.

Lothar stated, "The Council Advisory has cautioned us, and we are in agreement, that the world today presents our reign with unprecedented challenges."

This was the first time Helspeth heard Mushin use the royal "we." It took her aback. She was not accustomed to her little brother being anything else. And, studying him closely, she suspected that this Emperor Lothar was a creation of the Grand Duke and his cronies. An eventuality she had feared increasingly as Hilandle and his flock circled more closely round the Emperor and isolated him ever more from his family and the world.

Lothar understood what was happening. A minor, he had little hope of halting the process. He had to remain strong and play one Councilor off against another. He managed that with some success.

"It has been demonstrated that our present style of life is inappropriate for a family of Imperial dignity. The daughters of our father should not be inviting scandal and disaster by roving like common men-at-arms."

Helspeth glared at Lothar. Half the nobility had spent the past ten years appalled and scandalized because the old Emperor not only permitted but encouraged his maiden daughters to accompany him to the field, to risk the life of the camp, and to come into regular contact with coarse, crude common soldiers.

So the Council was about to end all that.

The boy Emperor wilted under Helspeth's glare. And was no happier when he turned to his older sister.

Katrin was less inclined to the scandalous life. Helspeth had taken up arms and armor during the Calziran Crusade, getting into desperate straits under al-Khazen's wall. Katrin was more willful, more determined to preserve her prerogatives and independence.

Lothar was strong of mind, if not of flesh. He did not remain cowed. "We have decided that our princess sisters shall withdraw into their households till suitable marriages can be negotiated. Silence! Both of you." Helspeth had been about to explode. She did not see Katrin's reaction because her own focus had become so narrow. She was sure her sister was equally outraged.

The Grand Duke all but sneered behind his short, gray-tinged beard. His eyes were icy. "It's the Emperor's will." Meaning Lothar had been bullied until he gave in.

Helspeth reminded herself that Hilandle, till Johannes forced his Act of Will and Succession upon the Electors, had counted himself the leading candidate to succeed.

The boy Emperor then demonstrated that his advisers did not have him as neatly under thumb as they might want to believe. "Katrin, we convey to you the Imperial holdings at Grumbrag, with all the rights of Eathered and Arnmagil."

Members of the Council were so aghast they failed to sputter. There were snickers amongst the lesser lights.

The boy continued. "To our sister Helspeth we convey the City of Plemenza and its dependencies and trust that she will lake the opportunity to further her education."

Plemenza was much the lesser prize. Eathered and Arnmagil, now unified into a single Imperial province, had been kingdoms in their own rights scarcely a century gone. But Plemenza had been Johannes's favorite city. He would have shifted his capital there from Alten Weinberg had the Firaldian city not been so far from the heart of the Grail Empire. He had spent a lot of time in Plemenza, often for his own pleasure, not just because Imperial policy focused on Firaldia and the difficult behaviors of Sublime V and the Church. Johannes's daughters had enjoyed much of their schooling there.

Helspeth flashed a grin. Lothar flashed right back.

Hilandle had been outmaneuvered. Two score witnesses, few congenial to the Grand Duke, had seen the Emperor convey Imperial holdings to members of his family. If Lothar was clever indeed, the patents were ready now, prepared by someone he knew was not Hilandle's tool.

The Grand Duke's face turned stony. He would never underestimate the boy Emperor again.

Helspeth glanced sideways. Katrin seemed pleased. Eathered and Arnmagil was a plum, a fine, fruitful country— and Grumbrag was known for its craftsmen and ingenious artificers. A suitable city and province for the Crown Princess of the New Brothen Empire.

The fleeting look Katrin sent Helspeth's way was only slightly less venomous than the one she had given Hilandle.

She was jealous! Of Plemenza! Because her time there was filled with happy memories, too. Perhaps the only such memories she had accumulated in her twenty-three years.

Johannes Ege—variously known as Johannes Blackboots, Hansel Blackboots ("Little Hans" because he was not a man of great physical stature), or Hansel the Ferocious—had been elected Emperor of the New Brothen Empire before the birth of any of his children. Katrin's mother, Hildegrun of Machen, had just turned nineteen when she married the new Emperor. She was tall, blond, and beautiful. Gossip at the time suggested she had caught Johannes's eyes when she was just fifteen. The Imperial nuptials antedated the birth of the Princess Katrin by a scant five months.

The alliance with Hildegrun's family solidified Johannes's hold on the Grail Empire. She was a devoted wife with numerous knightly brothers who served the Emperor faithfully all his years, remaining friends and allies through several bouts with misfortune. Hildegrun often accompanied Hansel on his progresses through the Empire. She made herself beloved immediately everywhere, even by the wives of the Emperor's enemies.

When Katrin was four months old, while her father was campaigning amongst the countless states of Firaldia, Hildegrun died in a riding accident.

An accomplished equestrian, Hildegrun loved to gallop with the bolder women of her household. On the evil day her mount stumbled as she raced along the bank of a canal. The Empress was unable to leap clear. The horse fell on her. The animal thrashed its way down the bank into the water, rider unconscious and still entangled in harness. Horse and rider drowned before they could be dragged out.

Patriarch Clemency III, the Collegium, and the Five Families of Brothe sent up praises to God. The Patriarch's forces had been defeated in detail everywhere that summer. The Emperor was marching on the Mother City itself when the news reached him.

Hildegrun was not in her tomb many months when Hansel wed Helspeth's mother, the Dowager Princess of Nietzchau. The Princess Terezia was his senior by ten years. The alliance further strengthened Johannes's position among the Electors. The Dowager Princess, at thirty-four, had been a woman possessed of considerable carnal appetites. Her new husband satisfied them sufficiently to subject her to two miscarriages, a son, Willem, born live but who died within two weeks, and, finally, Helspeth. Who never knew her mother.

The Dowager Princess died of childbed fever three days after Helspeth's birth. She was interred beside Willem in the family tomb of her first husband in Wortburg, in Nietzchau.

Before her death the Dowager Princess transferred all her family honors and obligations to the Emperor. Leaving him, in his twenty-seventh year, the third most powerful man in the Chaldarean world, exceeded only by the Brothen Patriarch and the overlord of the Eastern Empire. Among the tasks she left him was the humbling of the worldly power of Brothe. That he prosecuted with skill and success.

But never again did he come as close to breaking the temporal power of the Church as he had before Hildegrun's death. In part, that was due to despondency over his own losses, in part because he had to cope with pro-Brothen sentiment among his own nobility. He did not show much vigor in the field for nine years after Terezia's passing. By then bribery and treachery had undone half his earlier successes.

Then a stubborn new Patriarch, Sublime V, assumed the mantle of the Brothen Episcopal Church.

Eighteen months after the death of the Dowager Princess, Johannes wed Margaret of Eathered in an alliance arranged by Hildegrun's father. Margaret, the spinster daughter of Johannes's predecessor, was a devout woman he respected but never loved. She worshiped him. The marriage brought Johannes the territories endowed upon Katrin by her brother. It joined the Ege line with that of the family that had provided the majority of past Grail emperors.

Margaret of Eathered was never a well woman. Nor was the one son she bore her beloved Hansel. Nevertheless, Margaret survived longer than either of Johannes's previous wives. But when Lothar was seven a plague swept through the Empire. It carried off most of the elderly and sickly. The Crown Prince himself was preserved by being sent into ferociously enforced isolation at the first hint of the outbreak.

When Margaret died Johannes swore he would not marry again. He contented himself with courtly romances ever after.

Each of the Emperor's children favored their mothers in appearance and their father in intellect. Katrin might have been Hildegrun at twenty-three had she lived. Helspeth, everyone said, was the image of Terezia in her youth. Katrin had a bevy of uncles who doted on her and still bore their love and admiration for her father. Because of those hardened warlords, and the families of Johannes's subsequent wives, the Council Advisory of the New Brothen Empire would not dare dispute Lothar's gifts to his sisters.

Lothar failed to win one point. Johannes's daughters would not be permitted to behave as though they were sons. They had come into vast new estates. Now they would have to go to them and behave like other women of the stature and time.

Helspeth was not pleased. But she was dutiful.

Katrin, she could tell, was going to cause trouble.

The Grand Duke's faction had a powerful bolt in its quiver. Marriage.

Lothar could not ignore marriage indefinitely. Neither his own, nor those of his sisters. It was his bounden duty to provide an heir, despite the past Imperial tradition of election. And his sisters…

Marriage would clip their claws. Though they would not lose their places in the succession till Lothar produced a son who survived, any husbands they took would have strong legal rights to control them.

Helspeth sneered. Law and character could come into conflict.

She knew of no man with a will more powerful than her own.

She had no desire to wed but if circumstances so compelled, she would make sure the gentleman involved regretted his ambitions.

Anyone who wed Katrin would be even unhappier.

Still, the daughters of Johannes Blackboots were among the greatest prizes in the marriage market of the Chaldarean world. Because every month that Lothar Ege survived was another amazement to that world.

Lothar could not possibly live long enough to provide an heir.

Alter what he had done tonight, Helspeth wondered if Mushin was not at risk. The Grand Duke sometimes acted before he thought things through. Action against Lothar would not be bright. Katrin had less love for Hilandle than did Lothar. And she had attained her majority.

She should be a terror to the Grand Duke's faction.

Unless she failed to win the allegiance of Ferris Renfrow.

Katrin did not like Renfrow. Helspeth did not know what Renfrow's feelings might be. Ferris Renfrow never revealed himself.

Sometimes Helspeth thought Renfrow was like the Night: a fact of existence. A force of nature. Part of the weather. Always to be reckoned in any strategy.

Ferris Renfrow might be the most important man in the Grail Empire.

And no one knew where he was.

Helspeth Ege stared at the back of the Grand Duke's head, willing him to fall down dead.

As so often happened, the object of her anger failed to respond to her will.

The universe was stubborn that way.

The Emperor dismissed his sisters with the direction that they claim their new possessions immediately. He assigned a small company of Braunsknechts, the Imperial lifeguards, to each. Helspeth thanked God for small favors.

Her captain would be Algres Drear, long close to her father and well known to her. Johannes had entrusted Drear not only with his life but with special missions outside the competence of Ferris Renfrow. Drear was intimately familiar with Plemenza.

Even so, Helspeth wished she could sit down with Renfrow. Renfrow would restore her courage and confidence.

Helsepth tried to talk to Katrin as they returned to their quarters. Katrin refused to speak. Katrin had changed. Katrin was no longer her friend.

Katrin was afraid.

Katrin was a heartbeat away from the throne of the Grail Empire. Katrin was caught in the eye of a growing cyclone of intrigue. Everyone wanted to manipulate or control her. She trusted no one. Not even the little sister who might someday want to replace her.

Where, oh where, was Ferris Renfrow when Johannes Blackboots's girls were in desperate need?

4. Winds of Despair

Brother Candle followed Count Raymone Garete from Caron ande Lette down to Antieux. The Count gave him no choice. He was suspicious of the Perfect Master. He was suspicious of Maysaleans in general, though he had Seekers After Light in his own family. The Count was not a warrior of faith, he was a devout Connecten nationalist who refused to permit outsider mischief in his motherland.

Count Raymone's determination animated Antieux as well. Despite disasters wrought by a succession of corrupt Brothen Episcopal bishops and two invading armies, the city was busy, defiant, and increasingly prosperous. Much of the destruction wrought by the more successful siege had been undone. The cathedral remained as the invaders had left it, ruined by fire, with a thousand dead women, children, old people, and innocents entombed inside. Count Raymone had decreed that the cathedral would become a monument, "Sanctified to the Usurper Patriarch by the blood of those he claimed are his flock."

That massacre would undermine the Church in the Connec for centuries to come.

No one who had not been there ever fully understood how deeply the massacre scarred the survivors.

It was burned black on their emotional bones. And on Count Raymone more than most because he had been unable to prevent it.

He had powerful support throughout the End of Connec.

Duke Tormond failed to understand how much the hearts ol the people of Antieux had been darkened.

Brother Candle said, "I've known Tormond since we were boys. He's not a bad man. He means well. He's just disconnected from everyday reality. Despite his daily opportunities and a suite of advisers." Brother Candle became one of those whenever he visited Khaurene.

Count Raymone snapped, "He's a fool. As well meaning is Aaron of Chaldar himself, possibly, but a blind fool."

The discussion of the Duke's capacities had been occasioned by a letter ordering Count Raymone to appear beforet the Duke to explain his bad behavior. There had been complaints from Sublime V and Bishop Morcant Farfog of Strang.

Brother Candle did not argue. "Sometimes Tormond does act like a man with a sorcerous caul across his eyes."

"I believe it. I'm not going. He wants me, he can send Dunn to arrest me." Sir Eardale Dunn was Duke Tormond's military chieftain, a refugee from Santerin who had not returned when the latest shift in succession fortunes there had made that possible. "I'm sitting right here."

"You sure you want to do that?" Brother Candle meant defying the Duke.

Count Raymone answered a different question. "You're right. I need to get back into the field. My spy in Salpeno says Anne of Menand has started trying to raise another invasion force. She hasn't gotten much support. Yet. Because of the confusion in Salpeno, Santerin is pressing its claims all along the marches. Too many nobles are protecting their own towns and castles to come steal ours."

Brother Candle nodded. He had visited Arnhand last spring. And remained healthy only because local Seekers warned him whenever the Church sent men to arrest him. "True. And they still send their third and fourth sons, and too much treasure, to the Crusader states in the Holy Lands."

Past crusaders had carved a half-dozen small kingdoms and principalities out of the Holy Lands. Those always needed more men and money to keep going. They were not natural entities and were under continuous pressure from the neighboring Praman kaifates.

In Arnhand the crusades were considered a religious obligation. Knights and nobles from elsewhere did try to make an armed pilgrimage once during life, but Arnhanders often went with no intention of returning.

"You need to think in longer terms, young man." Brother Candle was old and respected. He would be given the opportunity to speak. Getting Raymone to listen would be the real challenge. "You have to consider what consequences your choices might visit on you and Antieux both tomorrow and far into the future. Right now, just as a mental exercise, forecast for me some possible consequences of you refusing to see the Duke."

The question did slither into Count Raymone's mind. It began to turn over clods of wishful thinking.

Brother Candle said, "Suppose Anne of Menand assembles another gang of adventurers and, by some misfortune, she recruits a competent captain. Perhaps someone honed on the harsh battlefields of the Holy Lands. Say Antieux is besieged and that Captain is smart enough to expect competent resistance."

"Enough! I get your point, old man. If I refuse the Duke, he could refuse me later." That would not set a precedent. All feudal rights and obligations ran both directions. "Considering that's a situation where he might actually do something. I must be getting old." Count Raymone was on the cusp of thirty. "I have to admit you're probably right."

When Brother Candle departed, dismissed, Count Raymone sent for the Rault family. He had dragged them back to Antieux, too. Brother Candle suspected he had taken a fancy to Socia.

Brock Rault had been included in the Duke's summons.

"THIS IS WHERE I LEAVE YOU," BROTHER CANDLE TOLD his traveling companions. Count Raymone scowled, ever suspicious. The Perfect feared the Count's dark outlook was opening.

Brock Rault grinned. He was excited. This was his first visit to Khaurene. "See you at the castle, Brother." Then his face darkened, too. He liked to point out that Raymone Garete had reason to be suspicious. His city had been attacked. More than once. He had been attacked himself. The Brothen Church kept sending priests to foment trouble in his territories. Hanging them did not dissuade others from coming. And, more than once, he had caught someone close to him conspiring with Sublime's agents.

Brother Candle watched the column wend deeper into the city, destination Metrelieux, castle of the Dukes of Khaurene.

Brother Candle went to the home of Raulet Archimbault, a leader in Khaurene's Seeker community. His eyes watered. He was surrounded by tanneries. Archimbault was a leader in that community, too.

The tanner's daughter, Kedle, admitted him.

"You've certainly grown, child."

She reddened, lowered her gaze. He remembered her bolder, holding her own when Seekers After Light gathered.

"I didn't mean to upset you."

He did not understand that he was a demigod to Kedle. The Perfect were rare, even here in the heartland of the Maysalean Heresy. Brother Candle thought of himself only as a wandering teacher.

"We didn't know you were coming."

"I had no way to send word."

"You're always welcome, Master."

"Brother Candle. Just Brother Candle. Or Teacher, if you must. Ah. I sense a but. You're here instead of at the tanning shed. I expected your little brother. He can't possibly be working yet. Can he?"

"Yes, he can. I'm not working because we're getting ready for the wedding."

"Whose wedding?"

"Mine."

"But you're just… Well."

"Time does pass, Teacher."

The child always did have a philosophical bent.

"Evidently faster when you're not around to keep an eye on it."

"Well, come in, Master. We'll manage something."

The Maysalean Heresy retained a concept of communal responsibility that had been forgotten by the Brothen Episcopal Church. The same philosophy had animated the Founders but faded as the Brothen rite of the Chaldarean creed aged and became increasingly hierarchical, reflecting the culture around it. When the Old Empire collapsed the Church assumed most of the old Imperial palaces, dignities, and trappings. The Old Empire's ghost lived on—inside the Church bureaucracy.

Kedle's wedding took place on time. Asked to speak, Brother Candle did so briefly, his themes optimism, spiritual vigilance, and tolerance. Afterward, he arranged to spend his nights in rotation between several Seeker families. He did not want to add to the strain on the Archimbaults. The Maysaleans of Khaurene were eager for the status conferred by having him as a houseguest.

Days passed. He heard nothing from Metrelieux.

Evening meetings continued to be held at the Archimbault establishment. Only they had room to accommodate those who turned out to see the Perfect Master.

Ten minutes into the first gathering, Brother Candle knew that Khaurene's Maysalean community had changed.

People were afraid. They had no confidence in the future.

Maysaleans should not fear tomorrow. Tomorrow would come. There was no need to dread it, however harsh.

"What's happened?" Brother Candle asked. "Have you all lost faith?"

Kedle Archimbault stepped in when her elders failed to explain. "The trouble is the Duke, Master."

"Brother," he corrected automatically.

"The Duke is old. And tired. And weak. He's done nothing to keep the Connec from falling apart. His orders seldom make sense and usually make things worse. No one outside Khaurene pays much attention anymore. He won't enforce his will."

Similar complaints could be heard everywhere. The lesser nobility no longer feared their Duke, nor had much confidence in his protection.

Raulet Archimbault found his tongue. "That's the surface of it, Master. There's also the uncertainty caused by the Duke's bad health and lack of a designated successor."

That was a huge point. Brother Candle hoped Tormond's sister would succeed.

It did not matter what religion you were, nor what class. The passing of Tormond IV would have a profound impact. Because someone would replace him. And that someone's religious views would be crucial. The struggle for the souls of the Connec grew more heated daily.

"Gangs roam the streets," Amis Hainteau said. "Brothen Episcopals, whipped up by monks from the Society for the Suppression of Sacrilege and Heresy. The Duke does nothing. Chaldareans sworn to Viscesment outnumber the Brothen thugs but hardly ever fight back. The gangs mostly attack Seekers. And Deves and Dainshaus when they find them."

"They looted the Praman church last month," Kedle kicked in. "The only one in Khaurene. They tried to burn it, too. Twenty-two people were killed."

Her mother, with fat arms folded across her chest, said, "And the Duke did nothing. Again. He ignored it entirely."

Brother Candle was baffled. How could the situation have deteriorated so?

Archimbault said, "We're about two outrages short of civil war."

Someone mentioned priests being murdered. Somebody had begun picking off priests who favored Sublime or any of his works.

Someone observed, "War is unavoidable. The Brothens intend to force it."

That fit the common prejudice, Brother Candle was sure. "I should see Duke Tormond soon. I'll prick his conscience." He had little real hope of that, though. The man seemed blind to everything, trapped in a world spun from his own wishful thinking.

Agents of the Brothen Church causing chaos? Why? They were a minority in Khaurene. And across the End of Connec. The border counts whose faith more closely aligned them with Sublime than Immaculate had defected to Navaya, the Santerin dukedom of Tramaine, or Arnhand, already. Navaya's influence continued to wax along the Terliagan Littoral. King Peter did not permit disorder in his realm. Order was what people wanted most.

"We wish you all grace and good fortune, Master," Archimbault said. "But we'll continue to prepare for the worst."

Madam Archimbault said, "My cousin Lettie's son Milias is a varlet at Metrelieux. He sees the Duke all the time. He thinks Tormond is demented. The way really old people get."

Amis Hainteau said, "It isn't badly behaved Brothen Episcopals or the Duke's apathy that worries me. It's the Night I'm scared of."

Brother Candle asked, "There's more bad news?"

Raulet Archimbault nodded. "The Night has begun to stir. It started with mischief. That turned to malice. And now it's getting dangerous to go out after sunset."

"There have been murders." Kedle's manner made it sound like wholesale butchery started up with every sundown.

'Two," her father said. "Blamed on the Night because there wasn't any more obvious explanation."

"Only two," Kedle admitted. "But they were awful. The people were torn to pieces. And parts were missing."

Grim. But ordinary little men, tradesmen, artisans, shopkeepers, were capable of such evil. There were monsters behind a lot of smiling eyes. Quite possibly some of the agents of the Society for the Suppression of Sacrilege and Heresy.

Brother Candle promised, "I'll find out what's being done."

"Ain't nothing being done!" someone grumbled. An angry murmur followed.

"That may be," Brother Candle said. "But Tormond and I have known each other since childhood. Sometimes he listens lo me when nobody else can get his attention."

Prayers for his success broke out immediately.

Metrelieux, home of the Dukes of Khaurene, stood on a bluff overlooking a bend in the Vierses River. Brother Candle had been in and out many times in his three score plus years. Each time he approached it he thought the place seemed that much nearer surrendering to the seduction of gravity. The old gates would not close anymore. And the same few guards were on duty, now, daily less capable of offering any real resistance to an incursion. No one was there to meet him. He made his way to the privy audience, where he found a dozen others also waiting.

Count Raymone asked, "You take a look at the outside of this place, Brother? The disease has gotten to the stone itself."

Time's bite was even more obvious here inside.

The Raults had not visited before. All they saw was old. Socia Rault was angry and exasperated. She had received strict instructions to hold her tongue, both from her brothers and Count Raymone. The Count had enjoyed Socia's company for several days now and had learned to dread the bite of her sarcasm.

She was too young to be concerned by considerations of consequence.

Count Raymone had developed an interest, in part, Brother Candle suspected, because Socia made it ever more clear that she could not be won through flattery and romantic ballads.

The Count was a fair lutist and managed a workmanlike baritone. For a poet and composer, though, he made an outstanding soldier and indifferent administrator.

Still, he tried, demonstrating the same ferocious determination he had shown in dealing both with Haiden Backe and those Arnhanders he had butchered during the Black Mountain Massacre.

Socia did appreciate his effort. She understood determination. She was determined herself.

Or just bone stubborn if you consulted her brothers.

Brother Candle socialized and observed for half an hour before Tormond's chief herald, Bicot Hodier, materialized, embarrassed. "My apologies, Master. I didn't think you'd arrive on time. Come with me, please."

Hodier led Brother Candle to a small, chilly sitting room with no proper furnishings and no refreshments. It was unpleasant and lonely, not unlike the anchorite's cell it resembled. Moisture collected on the cold walls, then dribbled down to puddle on the floor. The chill was too deep for mold or mildew.

He waited an hour, pacing more than sitting on the room's one damp stone bench. Shivering. His patience waned, a weakness he had not suffered since his ascension to Perfect status.

"Is it getting to you, too, Brother?"

He turned, confessing with a nod, though unsure what "it" might be. "Sir Eardale?" He pronounced it "Ey-air-da-lay," which was nearer the Santerin than most managed.

"Yes. And you want to know why me and why this."

Brother Candle exercised his nod again. Sir Eardale Dunn was not the man he expected to see. Dunn was Duke Tormond's top soldier and adviser. The Perfect Master wondered why he did not return to Santerin. He must like his life here, despite Duke Tormond's tendency to ignore his advice.

Sir Eardale said, "This room is proof against sorcery. The stone came from the Holy Lands, quarried near one of the veils of power. You waited so long because I wanted to make sure nobody noticed me."

"I see." Though he did not.

"No, you don't. Not yet. But I'll explain."

"Please do."

"Something bad is happening here. The Duke hasn't been himself. Not for a long time. Lately, though, he's been getting worse. It's like a wasting disease of the spirit."

"He isn't young anymore." Tormond was just weeks older ihan Brother Candle.

"He has those problems, of course. Complicated by his diet. All meat and wine. But this is something else. It exaggerates those tendencies that make him ineffective."

"Has anyone new moved into Metrelieux?" Having summed the evidence, Brother Candle suspected malign sorcery. But by whom?

"No one significant. There's always turnover in staff and pages. None of them suspicious. It's someone we know. Someone who's been here all along. Who found a new talent recently. Or a new calling."

"Uhm. And this secretive interview is because?"

"Because you have stature and respect and haven't been here to become part of any faction. You're neutral. You care about the Duke and you care about the End of Connec. You might see something the rest of us can't."

"I see." More, probably, than Sir Eardale thought.

The knight from Santerin would not be alone in reaching the conclusions he had presented. Everyone not guilty would be watching everyone else, hoping to finger a villain. The paranoia would be thick.

"I misspoke," Dunn said. 'There is one new face. Father Rinpochè, representing our friends in Salpeno."

"That idiot? I thought he was dead."

"Unfortunately, no. Or, maybe, fortunately. He's too stupid and blindered to be a real danger."

"Why would they send him? Of all people?"

"He's a favorite of Anne of Menand. And Anne is in the ascendant, these days. She's real chummy with the Brothen Church lately, too."

"She always was." The mistress of Arnhand's King Charlve once raised her own band of crusaders to punish the Connec on the Church's behalf. The force fell apart before it did anything but that hadn't been Anne's fault.

"More so, now. I hear she bought the letters of marque that belonged to Haiden Backe. From Bishop Farfog, who managed to salvage them when he got away from Count Raymone. The Bishop, by the way, is now the Brothen Patriarch's chief agent in the Church's effort to tame the Connec."

Sublime seemed to dump all his dimmest and most corrupt agents on the Connec.

Dunn added, "I don't think Rinpochè is here as a true ambassador. He's really a spy, looking for weaknesses. Finding collaborators. And probably not doing well at that. He's too stupid."

Brother Candle was not so sure. Rinpochè might be a clever man posing as a fool.

The Perfect nodded as though everything in this world was perfectly clear. "Do you people have any idea what's really going on outside Metrelieux?"

Sir Eardale sighed. "No, Brother. Most of us don't. Most of us apparently don't want to know. Or don't care." He paused a moment. When Brother Candle said nothing he continued. "I myself am aware of the creeping chaos. Incompletely, no doubt."

"Creeping chaos is putting it too optimistically, sir. The Connec is dying. It's falling apart. So fast it makes the head spin. If you travel more than twenty miles from Khaurene, you stand an excellent chance of wandering into a local war or falling foul of brigands. Half the counts and knights out there, especially in the north and west, are feuding. Half of those can't explain why. It's just something they have to do. A matter of honor. If it weren't for Count Raymone and a few men like him, I'm afraid the collapse would be complete in another year."

"I hadn't thought it that bad. Not yet. I thought we still had some time."

"The time is all used up. The Duke has wasted it for far too long already."

"Tormond is obsessed with the state of his soul. When he's rational at all."

"While all the southwest and the Terliagan Littoral defects to Peter of Navaya."

"Not a stupid move for those people, eh?"

Brother Candle frowned.

"I'm being rational, not disloyal. I understand what's happening. I'm powerless to do much. I'm allowed to send letters to this noble or that ordering him to stop burning his neighbor's corn but they don't listen. I have no teeth. They know they can go right on murdering sheep. The only power capable of staying them will be the owner of the sheep. Or maybe the sheep themselves once they've had enough. I can't raise the levies. I can't send ducal troops out. And superior force is the only answer. Everyone else has to pile on whenever anybody acts up. So I can't blame people for switching fealty to Peter, or even Charlve, if that's what they have to do to secure themselves against anarchy."

Brother Candle said, "Of course. On that one level. Strictly speaking."

"I am worried, though, by all the mercenaries coming into…" Dunn shut up, cocked his head, laid a forefinger across his lips. He eased toward the doorway, making a series of signs Brother Candle took to mean that Dunn thought someone was eavesdropping.

Dunn made a production of drawing the short sword that symbolized both his station and the level of trust the Duke invested in him. The sound echoed in the barren room.

Footsteps hastened away.

Dunn said, "I've stayed too long. Can you find your way back to the privy audience? Bicot Hodier will find you there. He'll show you your quarters."

"Quarters? I'm staying down in the town."

"No. The Duke wants you here. But he can't see you today. Probably tomorrow." Dunn leaned out the doorway. Seeing no one, he departed. Swiftly.

Brother Candle's party cooled their heels several more days. The Perfect had not spent that much time there ever before.

Metrelieux was typical of its time and kind. Large, badly furnished, and cold. Cold even for the time of year. For the climate.

Last winter there had been snow for the first time in modern memory. Snow that accumulated and stayed, not just the occasional scatter of random flakes that vanished in the morning sun.

Spring had been late arriving.

The summons to the presence came at last.

Tormond IV, Grand Duke of Khaurene, Duke of Sheavenalle, Count of Flor and Welb, and so forth, looked like he had enjoyed a sleepless night and had not yet pulled himself together. He had aged severely. He had lost a lot of hair, in no regular fashion. His beard had gone white and was patchy, too. His gray eyes, once steel and as penetrating as death, were dull and hollow. He seemed confused about where or when he was and what he was doing.

Nevertheless, he recognized Brother Candle. "Charde! Charde ande Clairs. Welcome. At last, a friendly face among all these shrieking blue jays."

"It's Brother Candle now, Your Lordship. But a pleasure to see you again, too."

The Duke slid his right arm across Brother Candle's shoulder, letting the Perfect take some of his weight without being obvious. Tormond was tall and lean. What little hair he retained was white and wild. His clothing showed no care, either. He had not changed in days. Residue from several meals decorated his shirtfront.

Tormond murmured, "Help me, Charde. I can't tolerate this much longer."

"Your Lordship?"

"I think I'm going mad. It's like there's more than one man inside me. And none of them are any good at being the Duke."

"You're too critical. You've done some wonderful things."

'Wonderful things," Duke Tormond said, and sighed. "Wonderful things, Charde. Did you know they call me the Great Vacillator?"

The entire Connec knew. Little children knew, though no one would call him that to his face. At his best Tormond IV was so deliberate that crises usually resolved themselves before he responded. "I've heard that. Don't let it bother you." Brother Candle looked around to see if anyone was particularly interested in their conversation.

Everyone fell into that category.

The Duke made a feeble gesture. Pages began seating people. Tormond asked Brother Candle to sit beside him, in the seat his sister Isabeth occupied when she visited Khaurene. She, much younger than Tormond, was in confinement in far Oranja, about to present King Peter with an heir. If she had not done so already.

News moved slowly. Unless it was bad. Ill tidings had wings.

Servants brought coffee, a rare treat. No one refused. Brother Candle smiled into his cup as Socia and Thurm Rault enjoyed their first encounter with the dark beverage.

After coffee the Duke seemed collected and animated. Thank you all for coming. Count Raymone. Seuir Brock. Brother Candle. My apologies for keeping you waiting so long. I didn't know you'd arrived."

Really? Odd indeed.

The group was the same council Tormond always assembled. Sir Eardale seemed as tired as his Duke. Michael Carhart was a renowned Devedian religious scholar. Bishop Clayto was the senior Brothen Episcopal in Khaurene.

Brother Candle's friend Bishop LeCroes's allegiance went to Viscesment. LeCroes liked Sublime better than Clayto did. Bishop Clayto viewed the Brothen Patriarch with open contempt.

Tember Sirht had replaced his father, Tember Remak, as spokesman for the Dainshaukin. Hanak el-Mira represented the Connec's small surviving Praman population, on the Terliagan Littoral. Brother Candle recalled el-Mira from the Calziran Crusade. Terliagan slingers had been an important part of the Connecten contingent. El-Mira was younger than Brock Rault but belonged to a proud old family. Only in recent years had his people become active participants in the broader Connecten civilization.

Since Isabeth's marriage to Peter of Navaya, in fact. Though committed to a relentless reconquest of Praman Direcia, Peter won numerous friends and allies among the Pramans. He did not destroy their religious places nor force his own beliefs on them, being content to let time and the superiority of the Chaldarean vision hasten the false religion into yesterday's dust. Peter's most devoted allies were the Pramans of Platadura, a city-state of traders. Platadura's fleets engaged in continuous, bitter, and often deadly competition with those of the Firaldian mercantile republics, Aparion, Dateon, and Sonsa.

An   unknown   Praman   accompanied   Hanak   el-Mira. Brother Candle thought his dress looked Plataduran. No one introduced him. Duke Tormond was in what was, for him, a hasty mood.

The Arnhander, Father Rinpochè, was there, too, in the background, alone, shunned. He seemed frightened, unhappy, lonely, and out of his depth. Brother Candle judged him a lute with just one string. More would be too much for his circumscribed intellect.

Brother Candle concentrated on Tormond. The Duke was involved in a visible struggle to retain control of himself.

More than one man inside, he had said.

Was it possible that Tormond's problems might not be of his own making? The hair loss, the distraction, the odd cast of his skin, suggested poison. Or truly wicked sorcery.

But, who? Someone right here, right now, if Sir Eardale was right. Someone who saw the Duke as an obstacle, not an enemy. Duke Tormond had no enemies. By doing nothing he
offended no one. Not to the point where they sneaked around dripping dark ichors into his wine or gruel.

Anne of Menand could contort her conscience enough to order a murder. But someone would have to do the dirty work.

Brother Candle studied Bishop Clayto. Not long ago he had been Father Clayto, assigned to the worst parish in Khaurene because he would not keep quiet about Sublime's bad behavior. Now, he was a bishop, in good odor with Brothe. At a time when the Brothen Episcopal sees of the Connec received nothing but scoundrels.

Clayto met his speculating eye, raised an eyebrow.

Maybe not. They had been chaplains together during the Calziran Crusade. Father Clayto had trouble clinging to his faith but Brother Candle never saw any indication that he had the moral agility to justify great wickedness.

And yet, he had been made bishop.

The Duke said, "Let's get started." He gestured at Brother Candle, then Count Raymone, and such Connecten nobility as lurked round the fringes, hoping to vent complaints.
Counting pages and serving folk, more than fifty people stopped doing anything but breathe.

Brother Candle continued to survey the gathering. The fate of the Connec would be decided by people in this crowd. They would keep it alive. Or let it die. It was time for the Great Vacillator, despite all, to do what he had been born to do.

Brother Candle chuckled suddenly.

Tormond had managed to create this situation in spite of conspiracies simmering around him. Possibly even despite malevolent espionage by the Instrumentalities of the Night.

The Duke said, "Seuir Brock Rault. Tell us what happened at Caron ande Lette."

The youngster looked to Count Raymone, to his siblings, to Brother Candle, for reassurance, then grasped his nerve by the throat and told it.

"Well done," Brother Candle whispered when Rault finished. "Exactly as it happened."

Duke Tormond nodded, still focused, the businesslike personality firmly in charge. "Count Raymone?"

The Count told his tale, somewhat less humble in admiring his own role, but without fabricating.

"Sir Eardale?" the Duke said. "A comment?" Tormond having some trouble, now.

"What I find interesting is that before the villain's feet were dry we received news from Brothe that Morcant Farfog has been appointed Chief Inquestor of the Patriarchal Office for the Suppression of False Dogma and Heretical Doctrine. With a new order of monks being created to support the office."

Brother Candle was not surprised to hear it. "Farfog's first job will be to root out heresy and dogmatic diversion in the Connec."

Count Raymone could not restrain himself. "I recall this being tried before. Eight thousand people died. Because of the meddling of one man who didn't have the right."

Bishop Clayto said, "Complain to Immaculate. He'll cover you."

Count Raymone glared. "The men responsible…" He controlled his emotions. Brother Candle nodded approval. Raymone Garete was maturing.

Sir Eardale continued. "Our options aren't broad. Our mission to the Mother City, a while back, in effect recognized the Brothen Patriarch as legitimate."

Bishop LeCroes opined, "Treat that with a respect equaling what Sublime has shown our contribution to his war on Calzir."

"Grumbling won't change the man. And he now has a Captain-General who's building a real Patriarchal army. The man seems to be competent."

"And he pays for men and arms with what?"

Sir Eardale said, "Just a minute. Perit. Bring our other guests."

One of the pages departed. Murmurs started but did not last. The page returned quickly.

Dunn said, "I'll let these gentlemen answer that." He indicated two men who entered behind the page, Perit. "Tell these people what you told me earlier."

"Yes, sir," the elder newcomer said, amused. Brother Candle thought the pair looked a little frail for the hardships of travel. Though they could have come to Khaurene by boat,
up the Vierses from Tramaine.

Sir Eardale said, "Gade and Aude Learner. On behalf of King Brill of Santerin." Dunn's tone was neutral. Brill's father had been the winner in the succession war that caused his exile. "They aren't official ambassadors, just men with a message."

One Learner took a seat. The other leaned on the back of a tall chair that had seen generations of service. "Our holdings are in Argony, near the Pail of Arnhand. We have cousins over there. They keep us posted. What's been happening since the Black Mountain Massacre is scary."

Learner had his audience's full attention. "Anne has widened her web, nursing the anger of those who lost men. The fact that they asked for it doesn't matter."

Brother Candle stepped in. "Why has King Brill sent you?" And felt dim immediately. Any problem Arnhand suffered benefited Santerin.

"We have our own troubles with Arnhand. The more troubles they have, the better. Especially now, when the Crown is ineffectual and the strongest voice in the kingdom belongs to a whore."

That was extreme. Anne was of high birth. She just had a huge appetite for pleasures of the flesh. And for power. She wanted her son Regard, by King Charlve, to succeed him despite the boy's illegitimacy.

"And Anne's problem lies at the heart of what you're here to tell us?"

Both outlanders started.

"When you're my age you'll read minds, too."

The talking Learner grinned. He had a decade on Brother Candle. "Yes. Anne has pulled most of the key folk of Salpeno into her camp by telling them she's building a war chest to raise armies to punish the Connec. She's making all manner of secret deals. Now she thinks she's invulnerable. She's raised enough."

He had his audience enrapt. Even the serving staff.

Nothing said here would stay secret longer than it took these people to get home to their families. Even the churchmen would gossip.

"Enough?" Sir Eardale demanded. "Get to it, man. Never mind the drama."

"Enough money to buy the Patriarch, sir. Not to raise the army that she's been promising."

That caused a stir, of course, but more of confusion than consternation.

"Please expand," Sir Eardale ordered. "Again, dispensing with the drama." A whip crack edged his voice, the soldier in the old knight blazing through.

"Yes, sir. Sublime has huge money troubles. Anne has problems getting her claws on Arnhand's throne. Should Charlve die." Anne had two sons by Charlve the Dim, Regard and Anselin. Only Regard interested her. "She's also raising money by selling royal treasures. Altogether it's enough to see that Sublime will discover Charlve's marriage to Queen Alisor not to be valid because he's actually been married to Anne for two decades. Making Regard and Anselin legitimate and placing them at the head of the succession. With enough money extra to put together a small army."

Terrible news, Brother Candle thought. Unless Anne's obsessions had led her to pick Arnhand's fiscal bones so clean that there was no way Arnhand could sustain more than a brief incursion into the Connec.

But now, perhaps, the Brothen Patriarchy could afford an invasion of its own.

Clever, clever Sublime, Brother Candle thought. Exploiting the Arnhander woman's avarice. Probably leaving her onvinced that she had gotten the better of the deal.

Only the Brothen Patriarchy stood to profit from a crusade against the Maysalean Heresy.

Brother Candle shook his head sadly. He had prophesied disaster for years. Circumstance had beaten him down every time. But now everything was falling into place for the Adversary. At last.

"Is it true? The rumor about the Queen of Arnhand?" Kedle Archimbault asked. No. Kedle Richeut, now.

Brother Candle was staying with the Archimbault family, essentially in hiding from those who haunted Metrelieux. He used all the resources of the Maysalean community to collect information about everyone close to the Duke. Those who did the scut work in Metrelieux were especially useful. People full of themselves generally failed to notice the worker bees.

"What rumor is that?" Brother Candle asked.

'That she's bribed the Brothen apostate… I'm sorry."

"No need. If you've heard that, news got out faster than usual." Brother Candle stated the facts as he knew them, feeling no need to keep any secrets.

"I hope you don't mind," Raulet Archimbault said. "I've invited the members of our circle in tonight."

"Not at all. An evening of talk and debate with your circle is what I need. They're intelligent people, open to the old ways. The ways of Aaron and Eis and the others." And they might turn up a few useful facts.

"Good. Though we'll be serious and practical for a while."

"Raulet?"

"We have worldly matters to discuss. We're having trouble refurbishing the works on the Reindau Spine."

"That would be?"

"The height overlooking Lake Trauen. Almost vertical, with a knife edge top. The stoneworks up there date from the bad times after the fall of the Old Empire. We're refurbishing them and laying in stores. Because someday the Adversary will make himself known in the End of Connec."

"I don't know the place but I understand what you're doing."

"Students everywhere have been getting ready since Black Mountain Massacre."

"When did Student come into use here?" Brother Candle asked. The usage was common in the dualist communities of the Grail Empire and the Lowland Duchies north of Arnhand, but not among the Connec's Maysaleans.

Raulet said, "I don't know. A year ago I wouldn't have understood that a believer who isn't yet Perfect could be considered a student. Now everybody knows."

"So. What's the trouble with your illegal fortification?"

"The cold. And ice. Everything is covered with ice up there. It's almost impossible to get there without falling and breaking something."

"Then don't go."

Raulet would have no congress with common sense. He shook his head, sorrowing at the Perfect Master's uninformed attitude.

"Ice?"

"The rain all turns to ice up there. When it does melt it drains down into places where it'll freeze and be more treacherous. Even the cisterns freeze over."

"They say the whole world is getting colder."

"Yeah. I don't remember it being nearly so cold when I was a kid."

"I don't know what to tell you. Except don't attract the Duke's attention. He has strong opinions about people who build their own forts."

Raulet sneered. "He may have strong opinions but it'd be ten years before he actually got around to actually doing anything. By then he'll be back for another go round the Wheel of Life."

The Learners' news swept across the End of Connec as swiftly as ever bad news does.

The Counts of Robuchon and Doy repudiated their oaths to the Dukes of Khaurene. They shifted their allegiances to Tramaine and Arnhand, respectively. Which allowed them to continue being enemies while aligning themselves with strong, decisive protectors. Jancar, Herve, Carbonel, andTerliaga formally took their allegiances southward, to Peter of Navaya, sheltering under the skirts of the day's strongest sovereign. A king not the least cowed by Sublime V.

Respect for Duke Tormond continued to wane. More local leaders hired more mercenaries, most of them Grolsachers. Which meant more refugees coming into the Connec in hopes of finding similar work. Neighbor fought neighbor. It became increasingly difficult to sustain the armed bands. Their to and fro destroyed resources. Travel grew ever more dangerous. Mercenaries who had not been paid indulged in fits of banditry. Then people who had lost everything fled to the wilds and became brigands themselves. In the very shadow and embrace of the Instrumentalities of the Night.

Those who could afford to recruited more mercenaries to guard what they had. While mercenaries who did not get paid not only robbed travelers, they turned on their employers and ate them alive.

The Chief Inquestor of the Patriarchal Office for the Suppression of Sacrilege and Heresy began to filter operatives of the Society for the Protection of the Faith into the eastern Connec. Many were retired members of the Brotherhood of War, come over from their island of Staklirhod. They were hard men accustomed to employing harsh methods.

Brother Galon Breul and a team twelve strong, confident of the righteousness of their cause, established themselves in Antieux while Count Raymone Garete continued to dally at court in Khaurene.

5. The Mother City: Sublime's Revenge

Hecht left the children with Anna Mozilla. Vali had not spoken yet. To an adult. She had Pella wrapped around her finger.

Anna was not pleased. "I don't know anything about children. Except that they're loud and dirty." She kept house obsessively.

"They're people. Just not as polished as you. Treat them like people. Pella's been through the survival wars. He's probably more grown up than you."

Not the best thing to say. But Anna had a knack for getting what he intended to say. Which saved a few blowups.

"What do I do with them?"

"Clean them up. Get some decent clothes on them. Put them to work around here. Pella will go stay with Pinkus as soon as he gets it worked out with Principatè Doneto."

Anna's look made it plain she considered Ghort a long shot. "When will you tell me the whole story?"

"Soon as I get back. I hope. I missed you."

"You missed me? You have things to occupy you?" As near as ever she came to lamenting her lot.

"It was a long, mostly unpleasant journey." He would not share the more gruesome details. Like most warriors, he spared the innocent the worst.

Principatè Doneto said, "As usual, you two have managed to avoid getting fired. By the expedient of having produced useful results. My cousin was thrilled to hear that Immaculate is desperate enough to try assassins."

Ghort asked, "How thrilled was he to hear about what happened to Haiden Backe?"

"Not at all. As you must know. He's summoned Bishop Morcant. We'll have to suffer Morcant's version of events before we're allowed to reach conclusions."

Meaning, Hecht supposed, that the conclusions had been concluded already and history would be hammered and polished till it fit. Because Sublime would want the official version to be one that served his purposes.

It was not a situation Hecht liked. Nor did Ghort. But their scruples would not be consulted.

Ghort had a miserable habit of spouting what he thought. "Easy to see where this is headed. That godsdamned thief will tell the world his victim is the villain because he had the effrontery to defend himself." He did not make clear whether he meant the Bishop of Strang or the Patriarch.

Doneto assumed the latter. "You may express that opinion with me, Colonel Ghort, but don't let me hear you say anything where people outside the family might hear."

"Heh? Why the hell? Is there anybody out there who doesn't know what kind of a dick he is?" So he did mean the Patriarch.

Anna Mozilla was psychic. Principatè Bronte Doneto did not opt to find room for Pella in his household.

"Why did you see Doneto before you came to family?" Principatè Delari asked Hecht. He asked similarly uncomfortable questions often. "I was disappointed, Piper."

"I went there first because Doneto is the man who can deflect the Holy Father's displeasure from Ghort and me. He won't gain any advantage from what I reported. Nor did Pinkus give him everything that he could have."

"I'm pleased to hear that."

"He could get me fired if he wanted. Who'd stand up for me? If he wanted Pinkus's job, though, three of the Five Families would get in the way as a matter of political principle."

"So. What will you share with me that you didn't let Doneto have?"

Hecht glanced around. "Where's Armand? I don't like telling you things in front of him. He makes me uncomfortable."

That irked the old man. "He's a boy, Piper. He cares about nothing but clothing and baubles."

"Even so, despite all, he makes me uncomfortable. I don't apologize for that." He would not tell the old man that his toy was an agent for both the Grail Emperor and Gordimer the Lion.

Delari did something that seemed trivial, said, "Go ahead. No one will hear what you say but me. If you like, I can add a veil to make it impossible for someone to read your lips."

"That won't be necessary." Hecht told his guardian angel the whole story. Including his suspicions about Sonsa.

The old man said, "That bothers me. The Brotherhood giving up their inflexible rectitude. That's the problem with the Special Office. They want to conquer the darkness by drowning it with darkness."

Hecht did not raise the question of the elderly Principatè's own devotion to powers drawn from the Night.

Delari went on. "I'm equally troubled by the monster on the West Road. Might it be a bogon? Possibly the one you ran into crossing the Ownvidian Knot?"

"I never was close enough to get a feel for it. Principatè Doneto would be the man to ask. He handled the thing in the Knot."

Principatè Delari shrugged. "I doubt he'd cooperate. His cousin won't let him."

When Hecht did not comment, Delari added, "Sublime really believes most people are cattle put on earth to enrich the Church. And the rest of us are here to help make Honario Benedocto's dreams and schemes come to pass."

Then he said, "He's decided not to punish Duke fon Dreasser. Not right now. You haring off gave time for cooler heads to prevail. So to speak."

"Oh?"

"There was time for word of what happened in the Connec to get here. The Collegium was outraged. Sublime did that without consulting anyone. He fell into a deep despair. He was counting on Backe and the Bishop of Strang to generate a flood of money. Instead, he's worse off than ever. His debtors are clamoring to be paid. No one will loan him another copper. Not just because of his poor prospects but because of the bad judgment he's shown in his efforts to acquire funds."

"They'd have given him an old-fashioned triumph if his scheme had worked," Hecht opined. His regard for those who facilitated the Patriarch's lunacies was low. There was no morality among them at all.

"Probably. Success erases all moral failure and defects. However… We can expect a period of uproar and outrage when the news gets around. Maybe a riot or two. Then life will go on as it always does. You may have noticed that assumption of the Patriarchal throne endows its occupant with considerable insulation."

"I have noticed." Hecht chuckled. "The way donning the Imperial vestments insulated the old emperors from everyone but their own families and palace guards."

Delari raised an eyebrow.

"No. I'm not floating a suggestion."

"Good. I'm much more interested in that powerful Instrumentality near Alicea. And in what may be afoot in Sonsa. The Sonsans have done well, concealing their troubles from the rest of us. Give them credit for clever."

Hecht did. The raging capitalists of the Firaldian and Direcian mercantile republics ran rings around more traditional states. They were possessed of an amazing energy.

How much more dangerous might they be were they not ones to waste resources fighting each other over markets and themselves for family supremacy inside the several republics?

Delari said, "An aside. Your man Consent's conversion. Is it heartfelt? Or a ploy?"

"I don't think it's a ploy the way we Chaldareans would see it. Deves don't suffer that much, here. Has he discovered the verities in the preachings of Aaron and the Founders? Maybe. But I think the passion driving him is his own need to escape the expectations of the Deve Elders. He just wants to be Titus Consent, one part in a machine, peerless at what he does, well rewarded for it—then able to go home to his family at night."

"You're friends?"

"No. But we're around each other a lot. We talk about life. I talk with everyone. Sometimes I learn something. From him. From you. Or even from Pinkus Ghort."

"I imagine Colonel Ghort is a fountain of low information and possibly a plebeian sort of wisdom."

"He's a good man to have at your back."

If Delari harbored reservations he did not relate them. "The girl's name. What was it?"

"Vali Dumaine."

"There's no important family in Firaldia with that name."

"There is one in Arnhand. Minor nobility. The current count is in bad odor with Anne of Menand. He wouldn't make the beast with two backs when she offered the opportunity."

"That wouldn't make sense. What would the Brotherhood hope to gain from a minor Arnhander?"

"Consider this, too. The girl doesn't talk but she understands Firaldian perfectly. Vulgar and High, both. At her age I doubt she would if she'd been kidnapped from north and west of Salpeno."

"I'll make inquiries. When you're Principatè Muniero Delari of the Collegium you can ask for any damned thing you want. You get it without much question."

"Naturally."

"Again, I'm especially intrigued by that monster up there. Except for the thing you ran into crossing the Ownvidian Knot, there hasn't been anything like that seen since the dawn of history. Not since Era Itutmu came over from Dreanger with his elephants and armies and crew of tame monsters."

The Kaif of al-Minphet and those who recognized him as the Living Voice of the Founding Family discouraged interest in anything that happened before the Revelations and Conquest. Despite his decades in Dreanger Piper Hecht knew little about the priest-king general who tormented and terrified the young Old Brothen Empire for a generation. Pramans rejected the glories of their pagan ancestors.

"I won't speculate. That's your area of expertise."

"So it is. Once more about the villain from Viscesment, Rudenes Schneidel."

Hecht told it. "I think Schneidel is another enigma dragged up out of the shadows, like Starkden and Masant al-Seyhan when Calzir went crazy."

Delari nodded. "An interesting notion. Although I have heard of Schneidel. As a rumor out of the High Athaphile, and that only recently."

"I don't know that geography."

"The High Athaphile is the central mountain range on Artecipea, the big island in the Mother Sea between Firaldia and Direcia, southeast of the Connec. It's claimed by the Patriarchy, the Empire, and Peter of Navaya by his recognition of Calzir's claim, since much of Calzir passed to him by right of conquest. Peter and his Plataduran allies have made inroads. Neither we nor the Emperor can do anything but bark. We've got more immediate problems."

Hecht knew little about the islands of the western half of the Mother Sea. Vaguely, he recalled having seen Artecipea on a map. "Is that a Praman realm, then?"

"The Kaif of al-Halambra reckons it part of his kaifate. But in name only. He's occupied elsewhere, too. Sonsa and Platadura are the leading players there. No one else cares. There isn't much of value there."

"Except to sorcerers, apparently."

"True. It's a throwback land. The pagan presence is strong. It's been ages since anyone bothered to slaughter them so the survivors turn to the Church for salvation."

Piper Hecht enjoyed Principatè Delari's cynical attitude. But he made a face. His own purported homeland had a long history of murdering the pagans of the Grand Marshes.

Delari ignored that. "We'll try to dig out the connection between Rudenes Schneidel and the attacks on you."

"Colonel Ghort plans to send a man to Viscesment."

"Tell him to be careful. Pagan sorcerers have cruel habits."

"I know the man he'll send. He served with us in the Connec. He'll treasure caution like it's his secret name."

"Good. See Consent. Arrange his rebirthing ceremony. We're coming up on Heron's Day. That evening would be perfect for it." Heron had been a fanatic Dainshau religious monitor, fierce in his suppression of the Chaldarean sacrilege—and barely tolerant of the Devedian—before suffering a dramatic, overnight conversion. Heron credited the Apparition of the Well of Atonement for showing him the way.

The Apparitions of the Wells were critical, if minor, entities in the narrow Dainshau pantheon.

"That should do. I'll let him know."

Delari smiled a small smile that Hecht would not understand until later. He said, "That's enough of that. Come walk with me, Piper."

Hecht thought they were headed for the baths. He did not mind, after being on the road—though he resented spending the time. Chasing adventure just left him that much farther down the unconquerable mountain of his work as a military bureaucrat.

Delari forged on through the baths and regions beyond, which Hecht had not known existed. Delari took flights of stairs downward and down, into depths known only in rumor even inside the Palace.

Brothens were sure that the Chiaro Palace sat atop catacombs that descended a mile into the earth. They believed that all the major structures associated with the Patriarchy were connected by tunnels, including those on islands in the Teragi River, the Krois Palace and the Castella dollas Pontellas of the Brotherhood of War.

The Principatès Hecht dealt with regularly never confirmed nor denied the rumors. The Collegium savored the mystery surrounding them. Even the outright lies. They left rivals and enemies unsure.

Hecht asked no questions. If Delari meant to confuse him so he could not find his way again, he would fail. Sha-lug were trained to remember under much more distracted and stressful conditions.

"Just in through here."

Hecht took three steps, halted, astounded. He faced an empty space as vast as the basilica where the Patriarch celebrated holy days with the Collegium and bishops. The ceiling arched eighty feet above the floor. There were no pillars other than those supporting the balcony on which Hecht stood, twenty feet above the chamber floor. Wooden catwalks crisscrossed the chamber, at the level of the balcony. The vast chamber appeared to have been carved out of limestone bedrock.

The Collegium was supposed to be a conglomeration of powerful sorcerers. Piper Hecht had seen little evidence of that, though the old men of the Church had made a small effort during the Calziran pirate incursion a few years ago. Here, though, he saw proof enough for him.

The hall was round. It was three hundred feet across. It was lighted bright as day by some witch light that made his amulet turn icy cold.

There were a dozen monks and nuns on the floor. The monks belonged to one of the orders sworn to silence. Hecht knew little about nuns.

They moved along narrow aisles between long, wide tables. Delari explained, "This is a relief map of the known world sliced into strips so the geographers can make adjustments when new information comes in."

When Hecht moved thirty yards to his left the map came together. It had to be the most accurate map ever, at least within a thousand miles of Brothe. "This must have taken ages to put together."

"I was a boy the first time I saw it. That was sixty-four years ago. I was apprenticed to Cloven Februaran, about to move up to probationary journeyman." Cloven Februaran was a legendary Collegium sorcerer, renowned as a recluse. So reclusive did he become in later years that it was not commonly known when he died. If he did. He would be over a hundred twenty now.

"The Cloven Februaran?" Hecht murmured. Awed. "The Ninth Unknown?" Despite his withdrawn, secretive nature, Februaran was rumored to have stalked the worst of Brothe by night. Which might have been true. No one knew what the man looked like.

"He was called that sometimes. Because he was the ninth man chosen to manage this project. Each Unknown was handpicked by his predecessor. Each kept his role secret. Well, mostly. I haven't done that well. You could call me the Eleventh Unknown. I may be the last. I haven't found a worthy successor. Grade would have done. But neither Clemency nor Concordia were interested in adding another apolitical member to the Collegium. And Sublime is beyond hope."

Muniero Delari felt unappreciated amongst his own kind. He continued. "New Principals include fewer and fewer scholars. They're either political animals or cretins who buy their robes. Or both. None of this will matter after I go, anyway. Probably. The end of the world won't dally once I do."

Hecht admitted, "I have no idea what you're talking about. Or what's going on down there."

"It's a map of the world. Ever less exact as you stray farther from Brothe. Our priests, legates, and missionaries send news of changes in their areas. Those people down there translate the reports into physical representations. So we track what's happening in the physical world."

"Which would be?"

"What everyone is talking about, now. What the First Unknown suspected when he started the project two hundred years ago. The world is turning colder. The wells of power are drying up. Even the Wells of Ihrian have slowed. Sea levels are falling. The ice is advancing. Both of those are happening fast.

"In my lifetime the Mother Sea has fallen nine feet. It's fallen thirteen since the project began. Beyond Hypraxium and the Antal Land Bridges the Negrine has fallen even more. The inland seas farther east are shrinking, too. While ice piles up in the mountains beyond." Delari pointed as he spoke.

"A thousand years ago the Old Brothen Empire had a hundred thousand slaves permanently raising and reinforcing the Escarp Gibr al-Tar because the storms on Ocean were throwing up waves that topped it sometimes and threatened a breakthrough. Imagine the disaster that would be."

The surface of the Mother Sea lay hundreds of feet below that of Ocean. If Ocean broke the Escarp thousands of cities and towns, with millions of people and countless acres of farmland, vineyards, and orchards, would be obliterated. And the water would, no doubt, then overtop the Antal Land Bridges and flood the Negrine basin, too. And the surface level of the Negrine lay a hundred feet below that of the Mother Sea.

It would be the end of civilization.

Delari shrugged. "They succeeded. So now, instead of drowning, civilization appears destined to freeze. Come."

The old man shuffled onto the nearest catwalk. From overhead the layout looked more like a map. Except that it was three-dimensional. Delari said, "The vertical dimension is exaggerated. Otherwise, the contrast wouldn't be obvious."

"This is all hugely impressive, sir, but I don't see the point."

"Planning was the point, originally. So our people could survive. If we had forward-looking leaders able to see the true long term."

The progression of change was not obvious to Hecht. The despair harrying the edges of the world required no trained eye, however. The entire north, down to the Shallow Sea, was buried under ice. The Shallow Sea itself showed only scattered pools of open water, suggesting leaks of power from the underwater wells common there and in the Andorayan Sea. The Ormo Strait, despite vicious tidal bores, had become an icy bridge. Elsewhere, wherever there were mountains, there were permanent accumulations of snow. Areas exposed by the dropping sea levels were a sickly gray in color. Some, along the northwest coast, were extensive.

Delari said, "Overall, they're way behind reports. This represents the situation at the end of last winter."

"Planning, you say?"

"The advancing ice is pushing whole peoples ahead of it. The ice might explain Tsistimed the Golden and the Hu'n-tai At. When their grasslands could no longer support their herds they had to move somewhere else."

"So you're trying to predict where problems will pop up in time to do something useful."

"Yes. Though there doesn't seem to be much point to the project, now. Sublime isn't interested in anything but his own delusions. He'll still be ranting about crusades when the ice comes over the city wall."

"It can't happen that fast, can it?"

"No. It won't get here for generations. Which is good, Sublime being mortal. My hopes aren't high, though. My predecessors couldn't interest the Patriarchs much, either."

"Some of that isn't natural. Are they markers of some kind?"

"Yes. Supernatural phenomena are part of the landscape. So are power leaks. And anything else somebody wanted to track."

Hecht looked south of the Mother Sea, at the Realm of Peace. The Praman Conquest. The Principal's project had not gotten perfect reports out of the Praman world. But the details were better than anyone over there would like.

Changes were smaller there. So far. There were no fields of ice or snow. But the deserts were shrinking because of increased rainfalls.

"Enough for now," Delari said. "I just wanted you to know this resource is here."

Hecht knew he had missed something important to the old man. To do with the map? With the Night? Or had he hoped to find Hecht armed with some talent he was unaware of himself?

"We'll revisit later. You must be behind in your work."

The Principatè took a stairwell directly to his own apartment. And made the climb without killing himself.

Hecht headed for the Castella dollas Pontellas. Principal Delari still looked mildly disappointed.

ANNA BROUGHT THE CHILDREN TO TlTUS CONSENT'S conversion ceremony. Over Hecht's objections. Pella might behave like the street creature he was. Vali would irritate people by not responding when they told her how pretty she was.

His dread was misplaced. Anna had tamed the boy. She cleaned and polished and dressed Pella till he whimpered. She had him convinced that the end of the world would taste sweeter than what would come down if he embarrassed the Captain-General.

His final assignment was to stick with Vali and explain that she was mute. Vali was expected to bow and curtsy at appropriate moments.

"You stop fussing, Piper," Anna told Hecht in the coach. They'll be fine. Worry about yourself. What do you have to do?"

Hecht had only a vague notion of his part in the ceremony.

"How come they's all them soldiers?" Pella wanted to know as they neared the Delari family's city residence. It was modest by the standards of the Principatè's class. Contingents from the Brotherhood of War, the City Regiment, and Hecht's own small in-town Patriarchal guards company filled the street. Most wore formal parade costume. But a few remained in mufti, there for trouble instead of show-

"In case the Deves try to keep Titus from converting."

They won't commit murder over it," Anna said. "One more time. What do you do?"

Until only a short time ago Hecht had had no idea how a conversion ceremony went. It was similar to a child's confirmation.

He rehearsed it aloud as the coach came to a stop.

Anna said, "You've got it." She told the children, "He's never done this before."

Hecht grunted. "Where I come from they baptize babies when they're born because so many die. And conversions usually happen at sword's point, blessed by the nearest sober priest."

Pella said, "I don't think I'd like Duarnenia, sir."

"Me neither. That's why I left. Watch that puddle. Those shoes cost a fortune."

"Piper!"

"I can't help it, honey. I grew up poor."

Anna's schooling proved adequate. Principatè Delari, as Consent's sponsor, required nothing of Hecht but a ritual attest to the excellent character of the candidate.

There was little pomp and circumstance. A few questions and responses, a "Who presents this man?" and the remarks about what a good fellow he was, followed by a ritual laying on of hands by the Bruglioni and Arniena Principatès, then Bronte Doneto, and Titus Consent became an Episcopal Chaldarean of considerable stature.

Consent seemed appropriately excited. Hecht did note that Noë and the children did not go through the ceremony. Though, as Consent's wife, Noë would be whatever Titus decided. The children were not old enough for baptism and confirmation, the way those were handled locally.

Hecht shook Consent's hand. "I admire your courage, Lieutenant." He presented the customary baptismal gift of a coin. For children that was usually, a small silver piece. Hecht turned over a gold solidus, or five-ducat piece, which bore the bust and crest of a long-dead, obscure Patriarch named Boniface. The senior military men, including Colonel Smolens, Clej Sedlakova, Hagan Brokke, and members of their staffs, were equally generous. Consent had to start a new life. His situation would be difficult. His skills were crucial.

Despite his background, Consent was well liked.

"Thank you, sir. Courage isn't as important as knowing what you want, though."

Principatè Delari was more generous than Piper Hecht. After amenities, the old man said, "If I can borrow you for a moment, Piper, I need a word in private."

"Or course, sir. If you'll excuse me, Lieutenant?"

This time the official rank and title sank in. Hecht watched Consent's face light up. He had been welcomed to the tribe he had chosen over his old.

"Sir?"

"When we're in private."

The Principatè led the way upstairs, away from the public rooms. Hecht had deemed those austere, even by his own standards. The private quarters were more so.

Here Principatè Muniero Delari had no congress with decadence or sinful luxury. Hecht considered a man who chose to live that way one worthy of respect. But only here. His Chiaro Palace apartment lacked no comfort desired by his boy.

Delari took Hecht into a room with four unpainted plaster walls, furnished with one rude table, three rude chairs, and two clay lamps burning cheap, unscented oil. Hecht's amulet tingled.

Delari sat, said, "I've examined the matter of Rudenes Schneidel. He is in Viscesment." Delari pulled a cord. A bell tinkled somewhere, muted.

"You have? So soon? How?"

"I'm a member of the Collegium, Piper. And not one of the hacks. There is some basis to the rumors about us. Which, I'm pleased to see, are the subject of public disparagament lately."

"Oh."

"Occasionally, I worry about your powers of observation, Piper. I fear that my son overestimated you."

"I worry about that, too. I never understood why he chose to mentor me. So, did you find out anything useful about Schneidel?"

"Very little. But enough to caution you against sending someone after him. Unless there's someone you want to dispose of without taking the blame."

A woman came in. Hecht had seen her downstairs, looking vaguely out of place. She was tall, faded blond, and worn down by life. She brought coffee and cups. Hecht pulled the aroma into his lungs. Coffee was his biggest vice. "Ah. The best Ambonypsgan beans." He sighed. "You're much too good to me, sir."

"Quite possibly true. Time will tell. This is my granddaughter. Brewing good coffee is one of her special talents."

Hecht exchanged nods with the woman as she presented a cup.

Delari continued. "The sorcerer has set up shop not far from the Palace of Kings. But there's no obvious connection with Immaculate. He may want it thought that there's a hidden connection. He seems to have much too exalted an estimate of himself. A fault he may be granted the opportunity to regret."

"Thank you," Hecht told the woman. The beverage was rare and rich. Frowning, he eyed her more closely. Had he seen her before? There was something remotely familiar there. Then he concentrated on Delari.

The Principatè said, "Rudenes Schneidel can't possibly have any feud with you personally. He may have wanted to eliminate the Captain-General. My own feeling is, the attack was meant to frame Immaculate." Delari frowned as he spoke, possibly questioning his own reasoning. At the same time, he again seemed disappointed in Piper Hecht.

"A stretch, sir. That would mean he knew how things would go before they happened."

"It is a stretch, isn't it?"

"Did you find out anything else?"

"No. Rudenes Schneidel is an accomplished sorcerer. He has no trouble covering himself."

The woman refilled Hecht's cup, then left. Hecht said, "She doesn't look much like her father."

"You knew him only as a dying cripple. And none of Grade's children took after him. She's the image of her mother."

"How many kids did he have?"

"Four. Two sons, two daughters. All on the wrong side of the blanket. While he was overseas. By a woman he freed from Praman captivity. She'd been captured by pirates as a child and purchased by a merchant in Aselin who treated her badly. Grade was in the field for the first time. The Brotherhood and the Gisela Frakier had taken Aselin by surprise. Grade saved the woman from the Frakier when he recognized her rusty Old Brothen. She came from a family of education and standing."

Though key words had been butchered in transition from Peqaad to Firaldian, Hecht understood the Principatè. Gisela was a transliteration of a tribal name. Frakier, roundabout, came from a phrase meaning "beloved traitor." In common usage in the Holy Lands, Frakier were Pramans who allied themselves with the crusaders.

"I apologize if I've made you uncomfortable, sir."

"You haven't. I'm at peace with all that. I'm guilty of the same indiscretion. I did do a better job of seeing my son to his maturity. I never had to leave him behind because of my martial obligations."

"You didn't want him to be a soldier."

"Nor a priest. But he was of age. He chose. When he created a family he did the best he could. But three of the four were lost."

Hecht could think of no appropriate response. That was the way of the world. As the world had been, always.

Harsh. Cruel. Unforgiving. Merciless. That was the world Piper Hecht knew. Happiness and pleasure were fleeting. Each moment had to be seized. The positive constants he had known were the brotherhood of the Sha-lug and the loyalties soldiers shared. Which, with limited success, he had been trying to recapture in exile.

"You seem troubled, Piper."

"My faith has been shaken lately, sir. I'm troubled in spirit"

"What more can you ask than what you have?"

"I don't know. That's part of the problem. A higher purpose? I owned one, once."

Principatè Delari looked disappointed yet again. "We'd better get back downstairs. Leave the cup. Heris will take't are of it."

"Who was that woman you kept staring at?" Anna demanded as they left Delari's house.

"Delari's granddaughter. Drocker was her father. He wanted me to see her for some reason. Maybe to show how he takes care of family. Drocker kind of adopted me. I kept thinking I'd seen her before. I was trying to remember where."

He was not concentrating, though. There was something not right. He beckoned a soldier from the City Regiment. "Where did the rest of the men go?" He saw none of his own guards, nor anyone from the Brotherhood of War.

"Sir. Armed men were spotted up that way. Where the coaches would pass. Maybe setting an ambush. So the Brothers and the Patriarchals decided to ambush them back."

A distant tumult began on cue, metal rattling on metal. Anna heard it, too. She dropped her nag immediately. "There may be problems bigger than my insecurities."

"Huh?" Piper Hecht was not a man who caught things unspoken by women. Till Anna he had spent very little time around them.

"Let's get the children home. By a different route."

This was something Hecht did understand. "No. We'll go the way we know what the situation is. Somebody may want people to go another direction."

"You're the expert." She began harrying the children into the coach.

The kids were excited. Hecht thought that Vali might break down and talk. But Pella would not shut up long enough for anyone else to get a word in edgewise.

Hecht had the coach stop at the scene of ambush. A young officer hurried over.

"We got them all, Captain-General."

"Indeed? Any prisoners, Mr. Studio?"

"Uh… No, sir. The Brotherhood guys killed everything that moved. They were seriously angry."

Hecht sighed. "Claim some of the bodies. Maybe somebody interesting will come looking for their dead." At a glance, in the poor light, he saw nothing unusual about the bodies. "We might yet come up with a clue about who to hunt." Damnit, prisoners should have been taken! "And see that any wounds get taken care of right away."

Hecht's amulet gave him a series of tweaks, none of any weight. Things of the Night were about, drawn by pain and fierce emotion. As he was about to climb back into his coach, he asked, "Was this a diversion or the main attraction?"

'The Brothers say this was it."

"Interesting. Drive on," he told the coachman, then considered his improvised family. Vali was pale as paper. She stared at him fixedly. Pella, suddenly, was as quiet as Vali. Anna had grabbed hold of his arm, so tight it hurt. "I had a good time. Really. Everyone treated me better than I expected."

She started shivering. The night was not that cool.

"Maybe because the only married man who brought his wife was Titus." Other than Consent's whelps, Vali and Pella had been the only children, too. They had milked all the spoiling possible from celebrants in their cups, Pella selling the tragedy of the poor little mute girl. "Why wouldn't they fawn over you? They're all goats. And you were the most beautiful woman there. I'd have been worried about leaving you alone with the Principatè. Poor little Armand."

"Piper!" But Anna liked it. She had seized the day, shipping a cargo of fine wine. "Where did you and the old man disappear to? Or is that too secret for girls?"

"We had coffee. Fresh roasted Ambonypsgan. Maybe he didn't want to share with the whole mob." Hecht shuddered suddenly.

"What?"

"Creepy feeling. Like something we might not want to meet just started following us around."

"The women in the square talk like that happens all the time. A lot of people won't go out after dark anymore."

Not an entirely remarkable state of affairs. Brothe was dangerous at the best of times. A glance outside revealed nothing unusual. The street was empty except for one man in tattered brown who staggered along without showing any interest in the coach.

Piper Hecht and Anna Mozilla moved in distinct circles when they were apart. His life was all studies of companies and regiments and how to feed, arm, pay, transport, and keep happy the troops who formed them. He had to outthink the ambitious warlords of the Grail Empire, his employer's lesser enemies, and Sublime himself. The latter was his biggest headache. He never saw the man. There was little reason to his decisions, which were subject to whimsical shifts. Too many, like letters of marque granted to Haiden Backe, originated deep inside a circle of cronies so intimate that even Sublime's cousin, Bronte Doneto, seldom knew what would happen next.

Hecht said, "I get the feeling that I keep disappointing Principatè Delari. But I can't figure out how."

"You'll have to tell me more than you have. Unless it involves your super-secret Collegium business."

He described recent visits with Muniero Delari. Anna asked questions. Good questions.

"Obviously, there's more than a big map down there. Just having it buried like that, all secret, means you have to think that it's a powerful magic artifact. Or will be when they finish it. It sounds like they're still building it."

"We're home. Let me look around first." He still had that sense of a presence close by. Though his amulet remained dormant. "You kids need to get right to bed." That would not be a hard sell. Vali was groggy, all reserves exhausted, and would have to be carried. Pella was dragging.

Hecht saw nothing unusual. He paid the coachman, adding a generous gratuity. The man fawned. Times were hard.

The coach team clip-clopped away, on damp cobblestones. A light sprinkle had begun. Hecht entered the house last, backing in, like a rearguard covering a desperate retreat. There was no light outside once the coach and its lamps turned a corner, the driver in a hurry to get away.

Hecht made sure of the locks and shutters while Anna put the children to bed. Vali had to be carried.

In bed, still nervously alert, Hecht remarked, "What you said about the Principatè's map. That's why I love you. I never thought of that." Could his blindness be the cause of  Principatè Delari's disappointment?

"Talk to me about that ambush, Piper. Were they after you?"

"I don't think so."

"What did you and the old man talk about? When you were having coffee."

"Rudenes Schneidel."

"Does he think you know something you're not telling?" Plainly, she thought he was holding out on her.

"Honey, I never heard of Rudenes Schneidel till a couple weeks ago."

"So maybe he never heard of Piper Hecht, either. Or you might know each other by different names. There's a lot of that going around."

Worth reflection, Hecht thought.

He was about to say he knew no one from Artecipea, nor had he heard of the High Athaphile or Artecipea before hearing that Schneidel called them home. He stopped as his mouth opened. He had had a thought about Vali. Which should have occurred to him long ago. One that meant a visit with the newest Episcopal Chaldarean before Consent's information sources dried up.

Anna continued. "There's been some fibbing about where people really come from, too. But forget that. It's time to find out if I drank too much to enjoy anything else."

The nightmare was so real it remained convincing after Hecht awakened. Anna demanded, "What was it? You're shaking."

"Nightmare. Haven't had it for a long time."

"The one about your mother?"

Hecht frowned. He did not believe Anna was psychic. She made no such claims. But she surprised him sometimes.

"It started there. Same as always." The same as memories he had had when he had cried himself to sleep in the Vibrant Spring School, back when they took the new slave boy in. He doubted he would recognize his mother today, even as she had been then, if she walked up and boxed his ears.

"Must be awful, being little and having no family."

"You make your own family there. Or you don't survive. That's the whole point." The Sha-lug schools produced hard men who disdained anyone who was not Sha-lug.

Piper Hecht feared he had softened during his sojourn amongst the Infidel, but his core remained adamantine Sha-lug. The Sha-lug were still his brothers, his family.

"It started out?"

"Huh? Oh. Yeah. Then it turned dark. There was a monster I couldn't see but I knew what it was. If I could catch it I could kill it. But I couldn't catch it. It kept doing awful things to people I cared about. And getting closer and closer to ambushing me. Meaning I wasn't really the hunter."

"That's ugly, Piper, but it sounds like standard dream fare."

Hecht grunted. He agreed. But… "It had more than a dream flavor. Like my mind was trying to create images it could understand."

"Think you can lay down and go back to sleep?"

"Probably not. But I'll try."

Sleep came more swiftly than he expected, though that sense of the nearness of horror never went all the way away.

Anna let him sleep in. She wakened him, though, when neighbors came looking for someone who could act in an official capacity. "They don't know where else to turn," she told him as he pulled himself together.

Grumbling, he stumbled out into the cold to see the body some children had found. Pella and Vali ducked around Anna, tagged along, though not so close that Hecht would notice and send them home.

Hecht stiffened when he saw the corpse. Not because of the atrocities he had suffered but because he knew the man. Who had no business being anywhere within a thousand miles of the Mother City.

"You know him, Your Honor?"

"Sorry. No. It's the wounds."

One gawker said, "This ain't the first one that's been chewed up like that."

Another agreed. "And this one, he's got a foreign look to him."

Hecht nodded. The dead man looked like someone pretending to be Brothen without knowing the nuances.

Alive, he had been Hagid, son of Nassim Alizarin al-Jebal, a soldier in Else Tage's company. He had been placed there by his father, for seasoning in the field. Nassim Alizarin, called the Mountain, was a crony of Gordimer the Lion. A classmate from his old school. Nassim had sent Hagid out with the unstated understanding that the boy would come home if everyone else had to die to make it so.

Back in the house, with the kids still outside, Hecht told Anna, "He was a good kid. He tried hard. But he started fifteen years behind the rest of the company. I can't imagine him ever leaving al-Qarn once I got him home alive."

"You're sure it isn't somebody who looks like the boy?"

"I'm sure!" He was angry. "Here's another mystery I don't have time to solve. And I can't hand it off to anyone else."

"We'll see."

"Honey! Before you get any ideas, go look at what happened to…"

Pella burst in. "Anna, you shoulda seen! Part of his skin was gone and his stomach was cut open. They said they pulled out his heart and his liver."

Hecht's glower shut him off. "I want you to remember that there's someone out there who does that to people."

Pella was suitably cowed. For maybe thirty seconds.

"At least Vali has sense enough to be scared," Anna said as the children raced off to the kitchen. "I'd better keep an eye on them." But the children, excited, returned eating seed cakes and scattering crumbs. "They're hopeless!" Anna' complained. "Freke will quit on me." Freke (pronounced Freck-ie) Blagowidow was Anna's part-time maid and housekeeper. A desperate refugee, she would not quit no matter what.

"I'll talk to Herrin and Vernal next time I visit the baths."

"Oh, no. This is my house. You won't bring any of your toys in here."

Hecht leapt into the squabble happily. It distracted Anna from thoughts of Hagid.

A Captain-General was seldom alone. Especially since the attempts on Hecht's life. He wanted to vanish into the confusion of the Mother City, to sneak off to the Dreangerean embassy or the hideout of a spy from the Kaifate of al-Minphet, but the opportunity never arose.

Principatè Delari asked, "Did you collect this body, too?"

"I did, sir. I thought you'd want to examine it."

"We're developing quite a collection. Though we've started releasing those from the other night. People are claiming them. We buried the ones that attacked you. Nobody wanted them."

Hecht was surprised. "People are claiming them?"

"They were all city residents. Disgruntled Brothens who wanted to bash whoever was in charge for being in charge when they're disgruntled. If you follow."

Hecht did not and said so.

"There's an upwelling of revolutionary sentiment out there. Which doesn't seem to have caught any official attention yet."

Hecht understood that. 'The Deves haven't bothered to warn us?"

"Say, rather, that a man in my position can't logically trust the cooperation and faithful support of people who follow false gods."

Hecht considered reminding the Principatè that Aaron of Chaldar never declared his god a deity different from that of the Devedians. What Aaron and the Founders set forth bore only passing resemblance to its Episcopal descendant.

"Were there Deves among the dead?"

"No. Mostly unemployed Episcopals, according to relatives—who had fallen in with a crowd that blames Sublime for all the world's ills."

"Interesting. After centuries of being told that the Holy Father is infallible. Would the ambush be part of a broader conspiracy?"

"My sense is that it was, yes, but it was just slapped together, on the spur of the moment, by drunks in a winehouse egging each other on. They didn't mean it to go as far as it did. It wouldn't have if the Brotherhood hadn't been there."

"No half measures there. For them it's all black and white."

"A certain kind of man likes everything inscribed in absolutes. He gravitates to the Brotherhood naturally."

Pinkus Ghort had inherited the problem of the dead. He had arrested none of the claimants of the corpses. He hoped to find out who was connected to whom, and how.

"Maybe Pinkus organized it so he can keep his job. No, sir. I'm joking. It doesn't look like the Five Families see much point to maintaining the City Regiment."

"Oh. I have trouble recognizing it when you aren't being serious."

"You aren't unique, sir."

"Yes. So. Let's go examine your corpse."

Hecht stayed out of the old man's way. Delari muttered to himself. Hecht worried that the body might betray its origins.

The Principatè observed, "A Calziran, presumably. A Praman, certainly. His one true God didn't protect him from this horror, though."

"Sir?"

"We have a problem, Piper. Of a sort I've only read about."

"Sir?"

"There's a necromancer among us. A sorcerer who kills people in order to effect his sorcery. And he's thrown it in our faces. He's daring us to come after him. Possibly to draw us out."

"Really?" Hecht did not want to believe it. Firaldia was civilized. That sort of thing had not happened since the black heart emperors of the Old Empire had indulged their egos. "If some human monster did this for sorcerous reasons, wouldn't that mean that there are Night things around strong enough to need rough handling?"

"It does. We should've anticipated this. It could become a real crisis."

"What can I do?"

They were headed for Principatè Delari's apartment now.

"Nothing. Pretend you haven't noticed. This animal won't watch his back if he thinks he hasn't gotten our attention."

"All right."

"You seem rattled."

"I am. This is outside my experience. Outside my imagination."

"Then loosen your mind up. Because horror and madness is coming."

"Sir?"

"I'm not supposed to know. Sublime's party lumps me with Hugo Mongoz. Failing to realize that Mongoz is more than he seems, too."

Hecht stirred impatiently. Which made Delari smile. "In that case, you get to enjoy a short lecture before I give you the bad news."

Piper set his expression in stone. The Principatè could ramble endlessly if so inclined.

"Don't throw yourself on your sword, Piper. I'll keep it short. Here in the Chiaro Palace we not only fall into pro-and anti-Benedocto parties—siding with the high bidder— we also form factions according to our talents for manipulating the Instrumentalities of the Night. And our inclinations to use those talents. So while Doneto and I are at odds over Sublime's idiot ambitions, we're in lockstep about harnessing the powers of the Collegium."

"I thought. You and Principatè Doneto don't squabble nearly as much as you should."

That thin old man smile again. "Good. You didn't ask for it. So you shall receive. Sublime wants to punish Duke Germa fon Dreasser and Clearenza after all. He's heard that Lothar is sick and not expected to recover. The Imperial court is distracted by succession concerns."

Hecht kept his opinion behind his teeth. Even Principatè Delari operated under serious misapprehensions about the Imperial court. Other than Pinkus Ghort, nobody Hecht knew took Ferris Renfrow seriously. In Delari's case it was obvious why. Osa Stile would have put a swarm of bugs in the old man's ears. And would report everything Delari
learned as soon as he learned it.

Ferris Renfrow would know about Sublime's shift in attitude toward Clearenza before official word came out here.

"Would it do me any good to protest the stupidity of it all?"

"If you argue with Sublime he just gets more stubborn."

"I know the type. My sister… Sir?"

"Piper? Oh. Nothing. Just surprised. You never talk about vour family."

"I don't think about them much. And wouldn't mention them at all around anybody I didn't trust." He hoped he sounded suitably mysterious. He dared not stop not being who he really was.

They reached the Principatè's apartment. The old man halted a few steps inside. "You need to get to work. You'll get your orders in the morning. I'll start sniffing around for this necromancer."

Hecht glimpsed Osa Stile. The boy had a talent for lurking. If there were a curtain or tapestry nearby Osa Stile might be closer than you hoped.

Hecht said, "Don't count Lothar out. He's always sick. But he always comes through."

Delari frowned. He did not want to hear that any more than Sublime did. Probably not for the same reasons.

Hecht ran into Pinkus Ghort before he left the Palace. Ghort said, "I see you've heard. My boss would be interested to know how."

"How come you know?" Not asking what Ghort meant.

"My boss is a crony of your boss. And I have friends who get on the eary with anything he says. He talks to himself you know. When he thinks he's alone."

"As long as he doesn't answer."

"But he does. He really does. It's kind of spooky."

"Must be because of all that time he spent locked up with you and me in Plemenza."

Ghort chuckled.

"So what did you want?"

"To let you in on what was coming."

"Thank you, then. I appreciate the thought."

"And to ask about last night. Bad?"

"Worse than you think." Hecht explained about the dead man found near Anna's house.

"Crap. Sounds like big-time shit. Black fairy-tale stuff."

"Don't talk it up. We don't want this monster to find out that we've caught on."

"No problem, buddy. I'm staying far away from that shit. This other stuff with people who want to stir up shit, though. I'm all over that. If I don't see you before you go off to your war, good fucking luck."

"I'll need it." He was being paid well not to think but to execute the Patriarch's will, however ill-conceived. If the man distracted himself from his ambitions in the Holy Lands, then the diversionary insanities needed to be nurtured.

Hecht often wondered about Sublime's mental state. He did not know the man. Had been in his presence rarely. Might have exchanged words with him once, on demand. Did not think Sublime would recognize him without an introduction, though he was the Church's top soldier.

He did not expect a more intimate relationship to develop. Orders would be relayed by Bronte Doneto or another of Sublime's cronies, mostly relatives less public than Principatè Doneto.

Titus Consent seemed glum. Hecht asked, "Second thoughts?"

"Not exactly."

"Really? Then you know yourself better than I know me. Isn't every Devedian in Brothe trying to make you miserable?"

Consent donned a strange expression. "Sir, who is the last Deve you know of who converted?"

Hecht could not recall one. "A lot must have. Once upon a time there weren't any Pramans or Chaldareans."

That's true. The Founders converted. Some of the Founders Those who weren't Devedian to start. Those who started out Devedian never considered themselves anything else."

"Your point being?"

"That conversion may not be unknown, but it's rare. Brothen Deves can't remember the last time it happened here. So they're sure that it hasn't happened this time, either."

"I see. That'll be handy." He placed no faith in Consent's conversion himself. "That will make my life easier." Maybe.

From Piper's viewpoint, unfortunately, there was too good a chance that Consent knew all about his shortcomings as  a Chaldarean.

"How so?"

"I feared your connections might suddenly dry up. Just when we need them most."

Consent nodded. "That probably wouldn't happen even if the Deves did believe I'd converted. It's a tit for tat game, information moving both ways. They really want to know what the Patriarch is thinking."

Hecht understood. Everyone wanted to know that. "Why are they staying cooperative? The war is over." Deve espionage efforts during the Calziran Crusade had bought them immunity from the fury of the invaders there.

"Because they know there'll be more crusades. One after another while Sublime is Patriarch. Maybe longer if his peculiar brain disease transmits  itself to his  successors. There'll always be Deves who need shielding."

"I have two things for you. Clearenza is the most pressing. We're going to get orders to march. Maybe within a few hours."

"I've been on that since right after Duke Germa had his political stroke. You're in good shape. Move fast. The Emperor's people can't react right now. They're tied up with internal politics."

But Osa Stile was sitting in Principatè Delari's lap. "They'll know as soon as we pull our boots on."

Consent nodded. Brothe was awash in Imperial spies and sympathizers. "And the other thing?"

"Somewhere there's a man who really interests the Brotherhood of War. Probably the Special Office. I don't know, who he is. His child has gone missing. The bad guys took her because they want to twist his arm until he helps them with some underhanded plot. I want to know who he is."

"And that's all you can give me?"

"That's all I've got. I was hiding in a shadow in Sonsa when I got it. Sonsa is where the plot is headquartered."

"We're out of Sonsa. You must know that. There's been enough crying about how unfair it is that Deves should stand up for themselves."

Hecht nodded but did not believe Consent. "At least one of the Three Families, the Durandanti, is involved. They had a relationship with the Brotherhood before. The plotters may be getting orders from the Castella dollas Pontellas. When Ghort and I went up they had us take a courier pouch."

"If it's underhanded and involves the Castella, then the Patriarch is probably involved, too."

"The notion has occurred to me."

Consent bowed slightly. "I'll do what I can, Captain-General."

Captain-General Piper Hecht, with two hundred men and two small brass cannons, camped a half mile outside Clearenza's east gate. Two hundred men could not impose a siege. They did interfere with traffic to and from the city, known for its embroidered linens and its exquisitely colored glassware.

Duke Germa chose not to fight. His family were devout Episcopals. He did not want to provoke the Patriarch to the point where he issued Writs of Anathema and Excommunication. But fon Dreasser made no attempt to treat with Sublime's Captain-General. His disdain for the Patriarchate was palpable.

Piper Hecht sat under a canvas awning. It was a miserable winter day. Another in a parade of cold, gloomy, drizzly days. He and Redfearn Bechter shivered and stared at Clearenza. The city was a gigantic gray boar shape behind the misty rainfall.

Bechter said, "We could occupy the estate houses south of town."

"Make it happen. I miscalculated. I thought the hardship of living under canvas would make the men bond. It's been more miserable than I expected."

"I like an officer who's flexible," Bechter said. "It would've taken Drocker longer to see the light." He went on to opine, "Bonded men aren't much use if they're dying of pneumonia."

Hecht grunted. That was an iron truth of warfare. Likely, more lives would be lost to disease than to any enemy effort. Thus had it been during the Calziran Crusade. Most conflicts operated at a low level of violence. The last big western battle had taken place at Themes, eight years ago.

Though Sergeant Bechter was the Captain-General's aide, he had acquired his own assistant, Drago Prosek. The youngster hailed from Creveldia, a province of the Eastern Empire that more closely resembled Firaldia in religion and culture. Prosek was an apprentice member of the Brotherhood of War. For generations most Brotherhood recruits had come from Episcopal Chaldarean enclaves inside the Eastern Empire.

Though never treated as badly as Devedians and Dainshaus, Episcopals were a persecuted minority.

Prosek appeared. "Permission to approach, Sergeant."

Bechter waved him closer. Drago leaned down,'s swiftly and softly. Piper Hecht did not catch what he said. Prosek whispered for nearly a minute. Bechter nodded occasionally. Drago finished, stepped away. He did not volunteer to abandon the shelter of the awning.

Bechter said, "A courier just came from the Castella. He brought the usual sack—and some news. There's been rioting in Brothe. About food shortages and inadequate shelter. Somebody is provoking them. And the first chest of money from Arnhand has arrived."

Would that render the action against Clearenza obsolete? Sublime could buy back Duke Germa's love.

Drago Prosek brought the courier. He presented the document bag to the Captain-General. Verbally, he related more news. "Nobody knows how much Anne pledged but it looks like Sublime will retire all his debts. Even those left over from his election. With money enough extra to finance new mischief."

Not good, Hecht thought. Sublime could start lining up a whole new clutch of creditors. Getting ready to make more people die.

"Sergeant, I fear we'll be visiting the Connec again, before long."

"Sir, I wish I could say you're wrong. And I'm not looking forward to it. Our next visit isn't going to be nearly as sweet as the last one."

"It was sweet last time?"

"It should've been. And would've been. If the black side of the Night hadn't taken hold of Bishop Serifs."

"The man did do everything he could to make people hate him."

"The guys in there now are probably even worse."

"No doubt. Where's Sedlakova? I haven't seen him all morning. I need to know if we can make those hounds bark." He meant the cannons. Devedian artisans had cast and crafted them, based on a design he recalled from the east. The Sha-lug falcon was supposed to be a secret weapon. The Deves of Firaldia, though, had turned out to know more about firepowder weapons than ever he had, and understood them better.

Bechter said, "He's having trouble keeping his firepowder dry enough to go bang."

True. Sedlakova would handle that by baking the powder at a low heat, carefully keeping it away from any flame.

Hecht opened the courier packet. "Messenger. You see any of the rioting yourself?"

"No, sir. The Castella did go on alert. So did the Patriarchal Guard. But the City Regiment handled it."

"And they still won't keep Pinkus on," Hecht muttered. The Five Families wanted to shed the costs of the City Regiment, finding it not worth the price if they could not use it against one another. "Go ahead," he told the courier. "I'm listening." He read while the man talked.

Titus Consent was right about his former co-religionists. They remained cooperative.

Consent had joined the expedition. He was inside Clearenza now. No siege had been set. Hecht was mounting a demonstration meant to intimidate Duke Germa. If fon Dreasser remained stubborn, and his Imperial friends lent no more support than they had to this point, he would summon additional troops and lay a real siege.

The other side knew the plan as well as he did.

Word of Sublime's financial windfall would be spreading. The troops would be more cooperative.

Hecht's natural cynicism made him wonder if Sublime hadn't planted the story.

How could Sublime be thwarted if the Anne of Menand story was true?

How would that much specie be moved from Salpeno to Brothe? Any number of people might be tempted to interfere. Grolsach, in particular, would be dangerous. Those people were hungry enough to dare holding up the Church itself.

A roll of thunder off toward Clearenza got his attention. Sergeant Bechter, Drago Prosek, and the courier started, suddenly frightened.

They had not heard the hounds bark before.

Hecht said, "I hope that stone comes down somewhere that will impress the Duke." He had no real hope, though. The hounds threw a stone that weighed about ten pounds. That would not do the damage caused by traditional stone-casters. But the hounds were impressively loud and smoky and could hurl their missiles a lot farther.

"Unless we have a spot of luck they'll put holes in a few roofs and let in the drizzle," Bechter said.

"Tell you the truth, I'd as soon go home and get out of the weather."

"Sir, if I had a woman like yours I wouldn't ever have left."

"I'll mention your appreciation, Sergeant. I'm sure she'll agree."

Bechter reddened.

"And here's a note from the boss himself. Wants us to be quick and wrap this up on account of he's got other work for us. Are you sneering at our master, Sergeant?"

"Not me, sir. He's the Infallible Voice of God."

Drago Prosek was appalled. Hecht said, "Prosek, go check out the houses south of the city. Find us a place. Duke Germa's would be good, if we fit. You. Courier. There's a mess tent about thirty yards back there. Go get warmed up. Get some sleep. I won't have anything for you to take back till tomorrow."

After a moment, Bechter asked, "Why did you get rid of them?"

"You were giving them apoplexy. They both really believe the Patriarch is the Living Voice of God."

"They'll get older. What else?"

Bechter was getting to know him. "Titus Consent is headed this way. He shouldn't be back this soon."

There was another boom. Different. Louder. Less directed. Hecht sighed. "I hope they were behind something before they matched that fuse. Because that sounded like it blew up." Which had been a big problem during the development of the weapons in Dreanger.

Titus Consent slipped in through the closed back of the tent, looking for eavesdroppers hiding in corners that were not there.

"You found out something special?" Hecht asked. "I didn't expect you for a few more days."

"Plans have to adapt to circumstance."

"Good news? Or bad?"

"Depends on what you want to do and who you are."

"You going to play games with me?"

"No. I came back because I thought we could… Shit!"

"Language, young man. Language."

Consent grinned, showing bright, perfect teeth. "What was that?"

"One of the hounds barking. I didn't think you'd be surprised." A second boom followed a moment later. Which meant that there had not been a blowup, after all. Hecht told Bechter, "Go check that out. Find out what that odd bang was before."

Sergeant Bechter nodded. "Of course, sir. Of course."

A moment later, Consent said, "You didn't need to send him away."

"That wasn't the point. I do want to know what happened. There was an explosion. It sounded like one of the hounds blew up. Those things are expensive. And almost as dangerous to their crews as to their targets. So. Why are you back already?"

"They aren't taking us serious. It's business as usual over there. The Duke's men and some advisers from the Grail Empire have been looking at the defenses and talking about reinforcing the gates, but they aren't in any hurry. Two hundred men don't scare them. They don't expect us to get help from our garrisons. And they expect reinforcements of their own."

"How soon?"

"I don't know. Because they didn't. But Lothar promised to send a company of Braunsknechts."

"Not good, that. But the first shipment of money from Anne of Menand has arrived. That should alter the balance of power."

Consent looked skeptical. "In that case, I recommend we move right now."

"Tell me what you're thinking."

Titus Consent had in mind jumping on Clearenza with both feet before anybody thought there was the least chance that the Captain-General would do anything but show the flag.

The night sky began to clear as the Patriarchals stole toward the city. They made very little noise, except by snarling at one another to keep quiet. A fragment of moon kept trying to peek through cold clouds that promised snow.

Clearenza's north gate was a minor one. It served agricultural traffic. The gate was shut, but not so the sally port built into it. That was not secured because illicit traffic, avoiding tariffs and customs duties, moved in and out by night. Titus Consent and several obvious Devedians took point. Those who were not Episcopal Chaldareans were subject to a weighty head tax by day.

The guards were not alert. So much not so that all the sneaking went to waste. The only guard awake enough to demand bribes was so focused on a jug of wine that he found himself tied up before he understood what was happening. His only comment was, "Oh, shit!"

Piper Hecht muttered, "Is this a trap? Can they possibly be this lax with an enemy outside?" Though he saw the same loose attitude every day, everywhere. There was no professional tradition amongst Firaldian soldiers. Maybe because they did not get into many real fights. "Please tell me this isn't a trap."

"They've been setting it up for ten years if it is."

"Really?" Did Pinkus Ghort's adventure here predate that time? Or was his story about service here another tall tale?

"This was the easy part," Consent said. "Now we have to reach the citadel without raising an alarm. If they lock us out…"

"Thought the Duke goes whoring every night."

"Not every night. He's not as young as he used to be. But a lot."

"None of us are as young as we used to be. Send your lead teams."

Three teams of three men each headed for sporting houses Duke Germa was known to frequent. They would do nothing but find out if the man was there. That would be obvious. He dragged a retinue everywhere he went. A runner would carry word from each location to Consent. He would be waiting outside the citadel. If fon Dreasser was out, they would try to capture the citadel gate. The Duke always left it open when he went out on the prowl. Or such had been his custom since the advent of the Patriarchals had forced him to abandon his manor outside the wall.

Hecht told Bechter, "If we don't bring this off, I'll make him hurt by using his manor for our headquarters."

"Aren't we supposed to respect his properties? Sublime wants him back in the fold."

"I must've misunderstood my instructions."

Bechter grunted. He was recovering from the hike from camp. He was in shape for his age, but he was his age, trying to keep up with men mostly younger than the Captain-General.

Hecht said, "That's enough head start." Consent's band was five minutes gone. "Move out by squads. Quietly." The group leaders had been briefed by Titus Consent but Hecht was sure somebody would get lost. Clearenza was not vast but it was old and had grown organically. Streets meandered and were not marked.

Confusion was the natural state of combat. Hecht hoped to cause more of that on the other side than plagued his own. His men supposedly knew what to do even if they got turned around.

Hecht offered an encouraging word to each departing team leader. He did not want anyone getting killed.

He shuddered suddenly, touched by an unexpected chill. It was not the weather. Maybe it was his imagination.

Or maybe not. Sergeant Bechter murmured, "You felt that, sir?"

"Sergeant?"

"You shivered. It was a cold presence. I don't know how else to put it. Like there's something here. Right behind you. Looking over your shoulder."

"And there's nothing there when you look."

"Yes, sir." That almost defined the Instrumentalities of the Night. "I've been feeling that a lot, lately."

"As have I." But that just puzzled him more. If there was something of the Night out there, close by, of the magnitude suggested by the creeps he and Bechter felt, his wrist ought to be hurting so bad that he would be thinking about cutting his amulet off.

"Stay alert," Hecht told the men who would stay at the gate. "Let those guys tied up in the guardroom be your inspiration. Sergeant, let's go."

In the dark street, headed for the citadel, Hecht concluded that there was only one way his amulet would not function in the presence of the Instrumentalities of the Night. Because er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen, the man who had created it, did not want it to work.

Only Gordimer the Lion and the Rascal knew the amulet existed. Gordimer would not know how to get around it.

But why would the sorcerer want to kill Else Tage?

Hecht had not been able to work that out. He was sure er-Rashal had been trying from the moment he had left Dreanger. And possibly from even earlier.

Someone had raised that bogon in Esther's Wood, near the Well of Calamity, beside the Plain of Judgment. He had slain it. And by doing so had demonstrated a hitherto unsuspected vulnerability of the Instrumentalities of the Night.

Death had stalked him ever since.

There was fighting at the citadel entrance. There were occasional pops inside, suggesting that the men were discharging their handheld firearms in spite of orders to save them for something supernatural. Hecht understood why. Those weapons could bring an enemy down while he was still too far away to hurt you back.

One of his subalterns reported, "We surprised them, sir. But we had some bad luck. They surprised us back."

"How?"

"There are Braunsknecht guards in there. We don't know how many, but they aren't staying neutral."

"What about that, Titus? You didn't know they were here?"

"I knew there were advisers. I told you. I thought there were only a few. That's what people outside thought. We don't have to take the citadel, though. The Duke is holed up in a sporting house. I've sent men to dig him out."

Rapid popping inside signaled a counterattack by the defenders.

"Good." Hecht gathered his officers. "We don't push back unless Lieutenant Consent has his signals crossed. But we'll hang on here till we have the Duke. Titus. Don't wander off. Bechter. I need stuff to start a fire." That ought to win Sublime a new crop of hatred.

A fresh chill made him shudder. He looked around. Spectators had begun to gather in the moonlight, at a distance. They twitched every time there was a pop inside the fortress. "Bechter. Break that crowd up before it gets tempted to turn into a mob."

"Yes, sir." Bechter grabbed several men who had nothing else to do.

Consent reported, "There's word, sir. They've got him. They're headed for the gate. We should think about going."

"Excellent. You men. Get that fire started." That would make it hard for the Duke's men to come to his rescue.

Bechter fell in beside Hecht as they left the city. "Sir, there was a man in that crowd back there that we've seen before."

"Uhm?"

"In Brothe. He's a little under average height, average frame, hair well trimmed. Beard likewise. No hair on the cheeks. Head and chin both brown, so he's probably not a native. Salted with gray. Gray eyes. Forty to fifty years old. He looks pretty much like Grade Drocker did at the same age. Make that like Drocker would've looked if he didn't get mutilated."

"Really?" He would have to consult Principatè Delari about that.

He thought he had seen the man Bechter meant. Without noting any resemblance to Drocker. Whom he had not known unmutilated. He had had only a few glimpses of the sorcerer earlier. "Was he wearing brown?"

"Yes, sir. And every time I've noticed him it's been right after that creepy feeling came on."

"Worth remembering. Keep an eye out once we're back in Brothe. I'll see if I can't get the Collegium after him."

The Patriarch himself came out for Piper Hecht's report on the Clearenza operation, though the Captain-General never spoke to him directly. By the time the Collegium assembled Sublime had accepted Germa fon Dreasser's ransom and the Duke was headed home. The soldiers were not pleased. They had received no share of the ransom. There had been casualties, though just a few and only two of those fatalities.

Hecht told Anna, "I can't fathom this man's mind. He doesn't understand people at all. Next week he'll tell my men to go break up one of those riots. And he won't be able to figure out why they just stand around watching."

"It's getting scary here, Piper."

Her tone got his attention. "Yes?"

"It isn't just the riots. I don't feel safe outside anymore. I don't like the kids going out. Not since that man was killed. I always feel like somebody is watching me. Even stalking me. The kids feel it, too."

"I'll talk to Pella. He understands the streets better than you or I do."

Anna was not impressed. He needed to make a better showing. "There's an advantage to being the Captain-General of the Armies of the Faith."

"Other than being able to fling around an overweight title?"

"Yes. I can tell people to do things. And they do them. Even if they think it's crazy to hold exercises in a neighborhood like this. They'll do what I say because they're afraid they won't get paid."

"And what does all that mean?"

"That I can come around here and turn the whole neighborhood over. And claim it's business. I'd be hunting heretics."

Heretics were about to become big business. There was a lot of talk about heresy in the Collegium, mostly among Sublime's cronies. Preparing minds for what they hoped would come.

"Bring that idiot Morcant Farfog. Maybe the boogeyman will get him."

Hecht had not met Bishop Farfog. He knew little about the man other than that he headed the Patriarchal Office for the Suppression of Sacrilege and Heresy, with the title of Chief Inquestor. Rumor had the monasteries emptying out as monks signed up to help.

What little Hecht knew about Farfog suggested that he was more foul than Bishop Serifs of Antieux had been.

Why did Sublime favor such men?

"Clever work in Clearenza," Principatè Delari told Hecht, joining him in the baths. Osa Stile smirked from behind the Principatè.

"Thank you, sir. Lieutenant Consent deserves most of the credit."

"And you used his information to sculpt a plan. You made the decision to go."

"Uh…"

"You took a chance. It paid off. Most men would have dithered like Tormond IV, never confident enough to jump. We suffer from an absence of decisiveness. Everyone wants a sure thing."

"We sure got a surprise when we discovered those Braunsknechts." Though the Imperials had gotten a big surprise themselves.

Delari chuckled.

Herren and Vernal seemed a little starstruck this morning. And unusually friendly. "Stop that!" Hecht told Vernal.

Delari chuckled again. "Everybody loves a winner."

"There's a problem, sir."

"I don't like the sound of that. What?"

"I thought it was my imagination till Sergeant Bechter mentioned having the same problem."

The Principatè listened. Hecht described the creepy feelings he sometimes got and that Bechter sometimes saw a particular man when that feeling got to him.

"I may have seen this man myself, once or twice. Bechter says he looks a lot like Grade Drocker a few years before his misfortune. Though shorter."

Delari frowned. Drocker's passing still pained him.

Hecht preferred to avoid the subject, too. Because Drocker's unhealing wounds, that claimed him eventually, had been his fault.

"Sir, I'm just reporting hearsay. I didn't know Grade Drocker before his misfortune."

"What happened to my son still troubles me, Piper. A lot. You can't imagine how much. But talking around the sides of it doesn't help. Say what you mean if you have something to say."

"Yes, sir. Though there isn't anything else to say, now."

"How is your Anna doing?"

"She's worried." Hecht explained.

"We haven't learned anything more from the man who was butchered. No one claimed his body. Other than the usual sailors and embassy people, there aren't many Pramans around. The dead man doesn't seem to have any local connections. If we had anyone capable, I'd try raising his shade."

"Sir!" That lurked at the edge of the blackest of sins imaginable.

Osa Stile looked shaken, too.

Might Hagid bin Nassim have known Osa Stile, back in Dreanger?

Possibly. Hagid's father might have been in on the planning. But had Osa seen the corpse?

"Only thinking out loud. Tell Anna not to worry. We'll arrange for her to feel more comfortable." The old man might have been decreeing a new law of nature.

Chip by chip, glacially, another face emerged from the facade of the doddering Principatè Muniero Delari. Was this the real Eleventh Unknown? Hecht was certain, now, that
Muniero Delari was the heavyweight sorcerer far peoples believed members of the Collegium to be.

"Herren, stop that!"

"You don't like it, Captain-General?"

"I like it altogether too much. Stop it."

Osa Stile snickered. So did both girls. But Herren desisted.

Delari made a tiny gesture. Osa's amusement stopped instantly.

Osa might not be as much in control as he wanted.

"There are two worlds, Piper. This is particularly true in the Church," Principatè Delari said. They were under the Chiaro Palace, overlooking the huge map. Hecht saw no obvious changes. "But it's true everywhere, every when. There's the raucous old world of everyday passion, pain, and corruption. The one where we come of age, basically. Then there's the world few touch but which most are sure exists. That's the world of secret powers and secret masters. The silent kingdom. The silent kingdom shapes the raucous world without revealing itself. Just as surely as do the Instrumentalities of the Night, though with more direction and purpose. The silent kingdom hides in the secret spaces between mankind and the Night."

Hecht asked, "This is a common belief amongst men of talent?"

Delari peered at him intently, sniffing after the thought behind the question.

"Some of us have a foot in the world between. Knowing about it only because we've been shown. Others, like our Special Office brethren, are too ideological to contribute."

"And get shown for no obvious reason? Because of the murky motives of those already inside?"

The curtain had been opened enough for one day. The Principatè changed topic. "Has the girl spoken yet?"

 "Uh . . Vali?"

"Yes."

"Not where any adult can hear. She talks to Pella. Occasionally. Sometimes Pella deigns to tell us what's on her mind. Mainly, she's worried about what's going to happen to her. You find out anything about her?"

"No. There is a Vali Dumaine but she's Countess of Bleus. The wife of the Count who got into it with Anne of Menand. They don't have children. She's twenty-nine. Rumor says evil sorcery keeps her from conceiving. It also says Anne means to buy the Archbishop of Salpeno with the Dumaine honors."

"She's giving everything away."

"She's a determined woman."

"With everything to gain. I see that."

Hecht could not understand how one harlot could become so influential.

Delari mused, "She must be quite something in private."

"Curious?"

"Intellectually. I'd like to meet her."