The nearest usable port was Hotal Ans, a fishing town of fewer than four hundred souls. Hotal Ans meant something special in one of the old languages once used on Artecipea but nobody remembered what, now.

Piper Hecht arrived minutes after a ship from Sheavenalle tied up at the pier, bringing supplies and, more importantly, news.

A courier brought plenty of that and took the critical stuff directly to… Titus Consent. Who, minutes later, told his Captain-General, "Pacificus Sublime is dead. Of apoplexy, supposedly. He collapsed during a furious argument with members of the Collegium about his favoritism toward Peter of Navaya. He went red in the face, collapsed, and was gone before anyone with a healing talent could help. There were dozens of witnesses."

Buhle Smolens observed, "Sounds like God didn't approve the results of the last election." Invoking a timeless joke ascribing the final, definitive vote in any Patriarchal election to the Deity Himself.

Hecht asked, "What's our financial situation?"

Consent said, "There isn't a lot left in the war chest."

"Enough to get us off this island?"

"Some of us. What are you thinking?"

"That I'd like to have me and a convincing number of our hardest veterans in Brothe in time to monitor this new election." Having spoken, Hecht ground his teeth. Anticipating unfriendly seas during any crossing to Firaldia.

Miraculous staff work made it possible for the Captain-General and a thousand picked men, with all the firepowder weaponry of the Patriarchal army, to land in a suburb of Brothe just below the most downriver of the chains across the Teragi. A vast sympathy for a successful Brothen general made that possible. Titus Consent acquired a crucial bit of information before anything inexcusable took place.

"Principatè Mongoz was elected Patriarch on the second ballot. My guess is, the main business of the Collegium right now is trying to decide who steps in after Hugo Mongoz."

Hecht asked, "How much did Peter of Navaya spend to get Joceran Cuito elected? He sure didn't get value for his money, did he?"

"He didn't? Think. Where does Peter stand today?"

Hecht could not refute the vast good fortune the Direcian King had enjoyed of late.

There was no resistance to the return of the Captain-General and his troops. Rather, the opposite. Crowds came out to cheer as they marched toward the heart of the Mother City. It could have been a triumphal procession in olden times.

"What is this?" Hecht asked his staffers, most of whom had accompanied him. "It isn't like we did anything for them. They won't benefit." Buhle Smolens and Jokai Svlada were the main left behinds. Hecht felt guilty about having left Smolens. His number two had family he wanted to see, also.

Clej Sedlakova said, "They're just thrilled to be associated with victories, boss. You had big successes in the Connec, then you wrapped the war in Artecipea practically overnight."

"Five months is overnight?"

"Compared to what the Patriarch counted on, sure."

On some thoroughfares the City Regiment held back the crowds. Pinkus Ghort's men did not seem pleased to have the Patriarchals home.

Hagan Brokke observed, "We've started losing men, boss." And that was true. A few were falling out when they spied families unseen since their departure for the Connec.

"Can't blame them. It's what I want to do. It's damn well what I plan to do before nightfall, too." But first he meant to present the troops in the Closed Ground. To force the new administration to show him its attitude toward its soldiers. "As long as a few hundred stick we'll be fine." The problems would all be on the Church's side until the new Patriarch came to an accommodation. The troops would not tolerate the machinations of another Pacificus Sublime. They would not let that happen under this regime.

Hecht would not be able to control them. Nor would he try to stay their righteous anger if it was baited.

Brothe had laws against garrisoning Patriarchal troops inside the city wall. Hecht intended to test those, though not to the point of conflict.

The majority of the men stuck, knowing their captains were as eager as they to see their families. They formed a fierce formation in the Closed Ground. The falcon batteries with their smoldering slow matches were particularly intimidating.

The balconies of the Chiaro Palace filled with nervous dignitaries and functionaries. Hecht spied Osa Stile's pale young face. He did not see Principatè Delari. Palace guards assumed the stations they occupied whenever there was a ceremonial observance in the Closed Ground. They seemed anxious.

Good.

Boniface VII—Hecht had just learned that Hugo Mongoz had taken that reign name—appeared on the high balcony reserved for the Patriarch. Younger priests supported him. The soldiers immediately saluted, then took a knee, the Captain-General included. The men stayed down. The Captain-General rose and advanced a few paces. "Your Holiness, we who serve Mother Church bring victories to shine on Her crown of glory."

Titus Consent, Hagan Brokke, and Clej Sedlakova then rose and stepped forward. They announced offerings like the keys to Castreresone's gates, to the gates of Sheavenalle, and a piece of hearthstone from Arn Bedu. They were replaced by men carrying trophies from lesser cities and fortresses, plus a banner listing the names of the pagan chieftains slain during the battle at Porto. Hecht had elected not to present a similar banner for the battle at Khaurene. Many key names belonged to men close to Boniface's predecessor and Peter of Navaya.

In a surprisingly strong voice, Boniface declared, "Well done, Soldiers of God. Well done indeed. Our blessings and those of Aaron and the Founders be upon you, and Our Lord's Favor also."

The soldiers responded, "And also upon you."

"You have performed well and honorably. For this you will be honored and rewarded. And for this, as must befall all who do well, you will be given further tasks on behalf of Mother Church. But not today. Go to your homes. See the ones you love. Visit your confessors. Square your souls with the Lord of All Things. Most of all, treat yourselves to a well-earned rest."

Not many remembered now because few were old enough. In his youth Hugo Mongoz had spent five years in the Holy Lands, cleansing them of the Infidel. He had not forgotten what it meant to be a soldier.

Boniface's voice quavered toward the end. His hand and arm were shaky when he offered a last benediction. His companions helped him back inside the Chiaro Palace.

The Captain-General gave the sign to rise. "Sergeant Bechter. I want weapons turned in at the Castella. Keep them separate from those of the Brotherhood. Have any men who don't have somewhere to stay bunk at the Castella. Those who want can leave for their home garrisons tomorrow. I'll send word if we need to reassemble." The implication being that comrades still on Artecipea would not be allowed to languish.

He gave orders to everyone, those who needed them and those who did not. He shook hands with several intimates. Then, "Titus, ready to go home?"

"I am indeed, sir. I hope home is ready for us."

"Did you send word?"

"I'm trusting rumor. Anyway, I saw your kids in the crowd when we were coming up the old Chamblane Thoroughfare."

"Goddamnit, Madouc! What now?"

"We're your lifeguards, sir." Taken aback. The Captain-General never used blasphemous language.

"Don't you men have families?" He regretted asking immediately. Most of his lifeguards were Brotherhood. They had one another, and the Order.

"Those with that greater obligation have joined those going to the Castella dollas Pontellas, sir."

Hecht bit back what he was inclined to say. It would be a waste of venom. Madouc would do nothing but his best. And would cut no corners.

"All right. I understand. But I'm wondering, what will convince you that I'm in no more danger?"

"Us failing. You'd be dead. Then we wouldn't have to protect you anymore."

Hecht exchanged looks with Consent. Titus tried and failed to suppress a grin.

Madouc barked. Lifeguards scurried. Steel sang leaving scabbards. Hecht froze like a startled deer, taken so far off guard that he could have died right there if it had been another sniper attack.

"Easy! Stand easy!" Madouc ordered as Pinkus Ghort and two companion riders emerged from the late-afternoon gloom, hands far from their weapons.

"Damn, Pipe! Madouc. You scared the shit out of me."

"Don't jump out of the shadows like that."

Ghort had done no such thing but did not argue. His companions dismounted. Carefully. Making it clear they were doing nothing else. Ghort said, "I thought you might be tired of walking." Two lifeguards closed in, making sure he was not an assassin disguised as Pinkus Ghort.

Hecht said, "You shouldn't have changed your look so much. Why have you gone Brothen fop?" Ghort wore bright yellows and reds in the latest Firaldian courtly styles. He had a thin, Direcian style goatee, delicately trimmed and possibly colored. His hair hung straight, in bangs across the front, two inches below the ears on the sides and in back. The hair had been darkened for sure, and ironed. Nothing gray or
curled remained. The silly hat up top made him look like a flaccid mushroom.

Ghort's companions handed him the reins of their mounts, carefully backed away.

"His nails are painted," Titus observed. "Can you believe that?"

"Not my choice," Ghort said. "Orders. These days I got to spend most of my time with the senators and consuls. Principatè Doneto nabbed him one of the consulships last month."

The senators were what civic bodies elsewhere might call aldermen or city councilmen. The two consuls were similar to mayors or burgomasters. The dual power sharing went back to beyond the beginnings of the Old Empire. One consul managed the city's business inside the wall while the other's mandate concerned business outside. Meaning, generally, seeing to the procurement of water and grain. And commanding the army during wartime. Not something the consuls had done in recent centuries. But might again, now, with Bronte Doneto in office.

The ancient Brothens dreaded personal ambition more than they honored skilled leadership. Consuls had to swap jobs very three months. Nor were they allowed to serve consecutive terms, one of which lasted just a year.

That, of course, changed under the emperors. Emperors derived much of their legitimacy by being consuls. And, initially, by being anointed dictator by their political cronies in the senate.

"Good for him. He always wanted to be the big cheese. What's he doing about the hippodrome?" Hecht had seen no obvious restoration work while passing the site, heading for the Chiaro Palace.

"Funny you should ask. The hippodrome was the issue he harped on the loudest, getting himself elected. If I've figured it out right, he managed to get hold of one of the specie shipments from Salpeno, too. He plans to use that to restore the hippodrome."

"Did any of Anne of Menand's bribe money get through to Sublime?"

"Quite a bit, actually. He got out from under his debts from the Calziran Crusade. He didn't get ahead. He didn't lose ground on the Connecten Crusade, though. Thanks to you."

Hecht allowed himself a smirk. "Yes. The hippodrome isn't why you ambushed me, though."

"No. It ain't. I wanted to see you. Before you get swamped."

"You could've come by Anna's house." His only immediate plans were to hole up with Anna for as long as he could.

Ghort chuckled. "Right. She'd rather set me on fire, then chase me off with a broom."

"You could be right. Unless you play chess with her. You aren't the most charming of my friends. And you haven't answered my questions."

"True. Not that I was evading. The fact is, folks a lot more important than me are going to be sucking up all your time, going forward. I wanted to sneak in ahead and give you some straight shit."

"I appreciate that. I'd do the same for you. So what do I need to know that everyone else is going to lie to me about?"

"One thing is, there's been all kinds of riots. I'm out there with my guys braiding ropes of sand every goddamned night. league with the Adversary. If they weren't they wouldn't fight Every idiot in this damned burg thinks he's got a grievance and that entitles him to bash people and bust stuff up. About once a week some demagogue decides it's all the Deves' fault. A mob heads off to the Deve quarter. It gets mauled, which all the rabid Deve haters claim is proof that they're in the back. And they especially wouldn't have all those loud weapons that cause such cruel, festering wounds."  

Hecht glanced over at Titus, who was about to swing aboard the mount that Ghort had presented him. Consent shrugged. "I've been with you, boss. I'll get on it as soon at Noë lets me think about work again."

"What about Principatè Delari?" Hecht asked as he settled into a saddle. "He didn't show up when I presented the trophies to the Patriarch in the Closed Ground. I saw the boy, Armand. But not the old man."

"Delari and his pet aren't together anymore. I don't know why. They say the boy is playing night games with the new Patriarch, now."

Surprised, Hecht diverted himself by saying, "I heard that Principatè Delari's town house fell into a sinkhole. Because of some kind of confrontation down in the catacombs."

"That's crap. One corner of the place did collapse. But it wasn't because of anything like what happened with the hippodrome. Delari must be preoccupied with something. He hardly ever shows himself."

Mounted, Hecht walked his horse slowly in the direction of Anna Mozilla's house. Allowing Madouc and his lifeguards to keep up. He felt mild despair about the attention his passing caused.

"Things have really changed here, Pipe. But they've stayed the same, too."

"Good to know, Pinkus. But try to be a little less clever. What does that mean?"

"Never mind me, Pipe. I'm a walking cliche factory."

"That doesn't take us to any point, either."

"You are a hard, cruel man, Piper Hecht."

"The tasteful constraints of my faith won't let me say what you are, though it features the stern of a horse with tail upraised for the drop."

Ghort laughed. Then he got busy talking about everything he thought Hecht ought to know about the current situation in the Mother City. A situation unlikely to spark conflagrations of optimism.

The refugees just kept coming. There was nothing for them to do.

Ghort chattered all the way across town, from the Teragi right down to the street outside Anna Mozilla's house. He went right on chattering at Titus Consent when the Captain-General broke away. Hecht was grateful for Ghort's effort. The man had told him more than he had thought.

Vali and Pella were in the open doorway to Anna's house, Pella practically jumping up and down. They had known he was coming. They had been out scouting. Hecht had seen them dashing through the crowds, speeding ahead with news that he was coming.

Vali stepped in front of Pella and gave Hecht a huge hug, startling him totally. She did not say anything, though.

Pella had plenty to say for both of them. Questions. Reports. Brags about how he was doing with his studies.

Forcing a word in edgewise, Hecht asked Madouc to see Titus safely home, then told Pella, "You've grown about a foot. And Vali, too." Vali looked like she was starting to bud. He was thrilled to see the changes.

Pella continued to jabber. Vali was more restrained but did keep the fingers of her left hand touching his arm. "Anna! Anna Mozilla! Are you in there? Can you come rescue me from these wild monkeys?"

He was nervous about this. How had Anna dealt with their separation? Would she invite him in?

Anna came to the doorway because he had not been able to push past the children. His worries were unfounded. She was pleased to see him. Her embrace enveloped him, swamping him with hungry promise. But she said, "You smell like you haven't had a bath for a year."

"And I was just up at the Chiaro Palace. Why didn't I use the baths when I had the chance?"

"I refuse to say what I'm thinking. Pella! Calm down. Your father will be here. Piper. The other one, Lila, is too scared to come out."

"It's all right. I remember being the same way when my father came home from the marshes. You don't know how long it'll last. And you don't know if there'll be a next time. The Sheard are cruel and cunning."

Anna gave him the oddest look, as though wondering if he had started believing his own made-up back story.

No. But the children needed to believe it. Children talked.

Anna led him to the kitchen. She had bathwater heating.

The precursors of a meal were cooking. Vali and Pella worked on that, Pella never easing up on the chatter. When his questions interested Anna, too, Hecht responded.

She asked few questions herself. But, "We heard a rumor about a giant worm attacking you beside the Dechear River."

"Sort of true. Whatever you heard would've been exaggerated. We destroyed it. Hardly anyone got hurt."

She gave him a hard look. "Principatè Delari was there, too. Wasn't he?"

"He was," Hecht admitted. "I wonder if he exaggerated." Hecht had no answer.

By the time he was clean he was so warm and relaxed he was inclined to head for bed. "Oh, how marvelous it will be to fall asleep with no worries to keep me up. Knowing there won't be interruptions all night."

Anna said, "I don't know about that."

Pella and Vali snickered.

Anna said, "Pella, set the table. Vali, keep an eye on the sauce. She planned the meal, Piper. I'm just a consultant."

"But I saw her out…"

"A working consultant. It's her project. And Lila's."

Hecht got the message. Though he never saw Bit's daughter.

As he settled in to work on the capon and sides, Hecht said, "Blessed Eis and Aaron, it feels good to be clean and wearing fresh clothing."

"Which, I see, hangs loosely. You lost weight."

"That happens. So now I'll get busy putting it back on."

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

"Hunh?"

"Prayer?"

"Oh. Got out of the habit out there. The only priests were Brotherhood of War types. Pella, unless Vali wants to do it, you go ahead."

Vali smirked. Pella managed a rather imaginative grace. Following the lead of his literary namesake, Hecht supposed.

Later, before the inevitable adult encounters, Anna whispered, "Vali is talking now. To Pella. To Lila all the time when she thinks I'm not listening. To me sometimes, when she's excited. She'll slip up with you, too. She feels secure enough, now. Did you find anything out over there?"

Piper Hecht had no worries about Vali Dumaine. But, "Nothing. No famous child disappeared anytime in the last few years. Titus's people found relatives of the Erika Xan who supposedly brought Vali to the sporting house in Sonsa. They knew nothing except that Erika Xan disappeared years ago."

His worries had faded mainly because Vali was getting older.

In the wee, paranoid dark hours in the camp, awash in the pervasive enmity of the Night, he had come to fear that Vali might be a planted living artifact. Like Osa Stile.

Anna Mozilla soon distracted him from all outside concerns.

21. Alten Weinberg: Hard News

Tension in the Imperial capital escalated daily. The Princess Apparent did not share it. She had no cock in the fight. Nor was she near the center.

The Empress had sent numerous knights and nobles to support King Peter against the Almanohides. All had volunteered. Most backed the Empress in her romance with Brothe. Her stay-behind supporters were afraid that those who were displeased by that romance might take advantage.

Katrin was frantic with fear for Jaime of Castauriga, who had summoned his full feudal levy to assist King Peter. Katrin had seen Jaime just once but had talked herself into an obsessive romantic love that set courtiers wondering, in whispers, about her sanity.

Helspeth was pleased by it all. In the sense that anything deflecting attention from herself was pleasing.

She was able to participate in life at court. Friends were not afraid to be seen with her, particularly Lady Hilda Daedal of Averange. Lady Hilda joked that Helspeth was more likely to be stained by her adventures than by any of the Princess Apparent's own.

Court gossip suggested that Lady Hilda was involved with three different gentlemen of the court. Each believed that rumors about her and the others were vicious lies retailed by Lady Hilda's enemies. "Men are fools," Hilda insisted. "They're stupider than puppies."

"Then why get involved with them?"

"I like variety. And I have fun manipulating them. If you weren't a princess you'd have a chance to understand. Might still, after you get yourself a husband and give him a couple of sons."

"I'm not going to marry. I've decided."

"So you say. And you might make it work. For a while. As long as Katrin is frazzled." Lady Hilda smirked. "I had a letter from my cousin." She did not say which cousin. But her smirk expanded when Helspeth responded with an excited start.

The Empress was not the only Ege daughter with an obsession.

Lady Hilda's cousin Culp was a priest. He was secretary to Principatè Barendt, living in the Chiaro Palace in Brothe. Cousin Culp was one of Hilda's game pieces. Helspeth feared there was a totally wicked side to their relationship. Maybe.

"Now you're trying to play with me."

"Only a little. Just making sure I figured it out right."

Helspeth frowned but said nothing.

"You aren't as obvious as Katrin."

"Katrin will get what she wants."

"If Jaime survives."

"So?"

"Your fixation is back in Brothe. And the Collegium is scared. Pacificus Sublime tried to do the Captain-General dirty by giving him an impossible job. He did it in record time, then came over… What's that goofy look, girl?"

"What? Excuse me?"

"You look like you think he'll be in your bed when you get back to your apartment."

"He might be. In my mind."

Helspeth felt the heat hit her cheeks. How could she have said that, out loud, in front of anyone? She was Princess Apparent of the Grail Empire. She was not supposed to have fantasies.

Lady Hilda broke out laughing. "One of you girls is human, then."

"What?"

"Your father had appetites. They say."

"He was a man. Men are that way."

Lady Hilda nodded but did not pursue the subject. She shifted to the mundane. The usual stuff of women at court.

Helspeth followed all the forms when she responded to her sister's invitation to visit her in her quarters.

"Get up. Get up, Ellie. There isn't anybody here to see. We don't have to play the game."

Helspeth did as she had been told, clinging to Ferris Renfrow's instruction about being pliant. She could not restrain a gasp when her sister moved into a stronger light, though. "Have you been eating right?"

Katrin had aged terribly. Katrin gave her an ugly look. "Being Empress isn't what I thought it would be. Father made it look easy. People did what he told them."

Helspeth said nothing. She did not know what to say.

"I wish I could call down the lightning. I'd rid myself of these vultures."

"I agree with you on that." Though maybe not on who ought to be stricken.

"And Jaime… Helspeth, you can't imagine how awful it is, worrying all day and most of the night, terrified about what might happen."

And Helspeth could not. She worried, but not with the self-consuming intensity Katrin showed. The worst disaster imaginable in Direcia was unlikely to affect her personally. Other than in the misery her sister might choose to pass along.

"I can't eat. I can't sleep. I can't focus on being Empress."

"Will it get any better after you know how it turns out?"

The question caused Katrin's hysteria to stumble. "What?"

Helspeth decided she had asked the question wrong. "Uh… I just wondered if you haven't gotten yourself so worked up that no matter what happens…"

Katrin's expression hardened. She heard criticism. She did not take criticism well.

Anger did distract her from her growing lack of control.

Helspeth reminded herself: stick to Ferris Renfrow's formula. Give Katrin no provocation.

It was hard. Her sister had grown so mercurial it was impossible to guess what might set her off. In the greater court that did not matter. If Katrin shrieked absurd orders the court pretended to carry them out. She would calm down eventually. If she had done something egregious she would become deeply contrite. Then the object of her fury could be trotted out and forgiven.

Helspeth wanted to believe Katrin was a victim of cruel mood swings, from near deadly paranoia to unpleasantly deep depression.

A cycle of crude humor steeped Alten Weinberg. What could young Jaime do to relieve Katrin's moodiness?

Katrin went through one of her changes. "We've had feelers from Salpeno about an alliance for you with Regard."

"No!"

"Ellie…"

"The man is a bastard. His mother is a whore!" Helspeth flared despite the damper on her emotions, though not half as loudly as she was inclined. She did not mention Sublime V's role in supplying Anne of Menand's feeble claim to legitimacy. Sublime was Katrin's hero.

Katrin soothed her irritation at Helspeth by being catty about Lady Hilda. Then, sipping brandy brought up from Helspeth's Plemenza, through the pass that Helspeth had suffered so for opening, the sisters relaxed, came closer, and began to relive the gentler, warmer days of their childhood. They had a good cry over Mushin.

Alten Weinberg entered a timeless summer of waiting. Nothing happened because everyone, of every political allegiance, was focused on the Almanohide campaign in Direcia. Every Brothen Episcopal family backing the Empress had someone gone to crusade with King Peter.

Most families in Arnhand and many in Santerin enjoyed the same purgatory. To a lesser extent, so did those of Firaldia, Ormienden, Grolsach, the lesser Brothen kingdoms and principalities, and even the Connec.

Helspeth guessed that similar tensions might grip the Praman world, at least in the Kaifate of al-Halambra.

The outcome in Direcia was more certain to shape the future than were either of Sublime's crusades.

Katrin told Helspeth, in a whisper no spy might overhear, "If God grants victory to Peter and Jaime, I swear by the Grail crown that I'll undertake my own crusade to free the Holy Lands."

Helspeth shuddered. The Night would be listening. The Night would amuse itself by pushing the Empress to ruin Episcopal Chaldarean humanity by launching another hopeless war in the east.

"Father had that dream," Katrin said. "Once he united Firaldia and brought it all into the Empire."

"What? Really? I never heard him say that."

"Really. Father Volker told me." And Father Volker was Johannes's confessor before assuming the same role with his successors.

Helspeth sighed, defeated. Katrin would not hear a word against Volker or his master, Bishop Hrobjart. Nor could she pray for guidance in mellowing Katrin's bloodthirsty ideology. God might be the Almighty but He was Born of the Night.

The sisters enjoyed weeks of intimacy unmatched since their father's passing. Brandy helped. A lot. The obsession of the court with Direcia quieted the usual politics. Helspeth did not miss the whining, backbiting, and name-calling. She did enjoy the time with her sister, just being sisters. Though she found the adult Katrin's powerful, obsessive, driving emotions frightening and her ignorance appalling.

Grand Duke Hilandle was in a fine mood, graciously gifting everyone he appreciated, for whatever reason. Helspeth faked a smile and wondered, for the hundredth time, why Hilandle was not in Direcia, commanding those Imperials who had chosen to reinforce King Peter. Lord Admiral Vondo fon Tyre was not suited to the task.

Hilandle began telling a hitherto unbored embassy from the Eastern Empire about the monster in the Jagos. Wonder of wonders, he credited the Princess Apparent with having engineered the beast's defeat. Then he produced the grasper he had lopped off the monster in his own encounter. The emissaries of the Eastern Emperor pretended to be impressed.

Those men were not interested in the Grand Duke's adventures. Rumors had leaked out. They had come to assess the likelihood that the Empress really would back another crusade in the east. Earlier crusades had not benefited the Eastern Empire. Especially those that originated in the Grail Empire. Those earlier crusaders had traveled overland, of necessity passing through the Eastern Empire. They had been more terrible than any locust plague.

These days the eastern emperors, however mad they might be in their beliefs, policies, and social notions, made sure the locusts of the west would not scourge their empire again.

"Time to find out what those not beholden to us think," Katrin said. Shakily. Because of too much brandy, not the uncertainty that ruled her secretly. She wanted to sit down with the strangely dressed easterners, whose beliefs seemed almost as bizarre as those of the Connecten dualists. She wanted what she could not have here, even with her confessor. She wanted to talk on into the night, as young people do, playing with ideas as though they were counters in some timeless game.

The chieftain of the eastern embassy seemed older than the world itself. He wore a huge, brushy black and gray beard. Katrin paid him little mind. She was almost flirtatious with his younger associates. Helspeth followed Katrin's lead, as much as her nature allowed.

There was no point, she thought. Katrin was amusing herself at the easterners' expense. They pretended to be good Chaldareans but were only slightly less damned than the Praman Unbeliever. They refused to recognize the divine supremacy of the Principatè of Principatès, the Patriarch of Brothe.

Fifteen minutes into the audience Helspeth knew the easterners were playing the Empress more than she thought she was playing them. The encounter consisted entirely of posturing and lying. She tried to suggest that the visitors be left to the droning mercies of the Grand Duke. She failed. They played well to Katrin's need for approval.

For the first time since her coronation Katrin was having a good time, Direcia forgotten.

The Direcian situation had not forgotten her.

An obsequious courtier came at Katrin like a bowing, pulling crossbow bolt, clearly the harbinger of great news. While having no idea what that news might be.

As her sister fell into a chair, crying, Helspeth spied Ferris Renfrow weaving through the parasites of the court at Alten Weinberg. He looked like he had just stepped off the battlefield. He was filthy. Heavily bearded. His clothing in tatters. Under a mail hauberk in worse shape than a shirt ripped and torn by squabbling dogs. He had been leaking blood recently. He was pallid. He approached in a controlled stumble.

Where had he been? Helspeth had not seen him since last winter. Nor had anyone. Mainly to their pleasure. Many creatures of the court considered Ferris Renfrow a tutelary, not just a man whose labors on behalf of the Grail Empire had been appreciated by no one other than Johannes Blackboots.

At Helspeth's urging, Katrin brushed aside her tears. She recognized the spymaster and beckoned him. "Hurry!" she insisted. 'Tell me! What news? How awful is it? Must we go into mourning? Are we in danger from the Unbeliever? Why aren't the bells ringing?"

The bells in every Chaldarean church were supposed to ring if the news from Direcia was good.

Ferris Renfrow seemed to gather strength. He dispensed with the usual honors. He treated his Empress, her sister, her courtiers, and the nearest easterners as though they were companions on campaign. "Not at all, Highness. The news is good. God stood with the Chaldareans in Direcia. He gave us a victory for the ages. The Unbeliever may never be a threat there again. Unless he gets help from the eastern kaifates. His champions are all dead. Every Praman of substance who rode with Sabuta. Gone."

Katrin seethed with impatience. She did not care about the battle's outcome. She wanted to know, "What about my Jaime?"

"He survived, Highness. He was one of the heroes. A timely charge by the Castaurigans sealed the thing."

"I sense reservations, Ferris. Don't toy with me. Tell me. I am the daughter of Johannes Blackboots." And for a moment everyone within earshot believed, except Helspeth. Helspeth felt the fear devouring the inside of this girl who pretended to be the despot of the Grail Empire.

"You are. My apologies. Jaime suffered numerous wounds, two of which were not inconsequential. He'll be a while recovering but there's no reason he shouldn't. And, despite his injuries, he hopes the nuptials will happen on schedule this time."

Helspeth kept her expression blank. She was unable to believe that handsome Jaime of Castauriga could be infatuated with her horse-face, insecure sister. Other than as a means by which he could elevate his own status, especially inside the Grail Empire. Though the marriage contract kept Jaime from becoming more than Katrin's consort, he would father the next Emperor.

Ferris Renfrow glanced at Helspeth. She smiled weakly.

"When can I expect my beloved?" Katrin asked.

"Not soon, Highness. But as soon as he's physically able. He's as eager as you are. He'd be headed this way now, but for his wounds." Renfrow glanced at Helspeth again, caught her frowning. She thought he was just telling Katrin what she wanted to hear. He showed her a tiny smile she took to mean that he confessed the action but not the crime. What he said was true, although it did fit in with Katrin's wishful thinking.

The Empress swallowed a draft of brandy that dismayed everyone and made it plain she had lost interest in the easterners. She did not care if they were affronted. In a soft voice she spoke to the chief of the serving staff. That man began shooing pages and servers out of the hall.

Katrin could have been more directly offensive only by shouting, "Get the fuck out of here, you assholes!" By the standards of the easterners. Who did understand that she was not creating an incident willfully. She was female, after all. At her best, most brilliant moments she was certain to be distracted and emotionally confused.

The easterners withdrew. Other guests departed. Members of the Council tried to assert themselves. Just a scowl from Ferris Renfrow sent them scurrying.

Helspeth watched in wonder while the grand hall shed ninety percent of its occupants.

When Renfrow came so close that no one would overhear, Helspeth asked, "Who are you, Ferris Renfrow?" Getting no answer, she added, "I bet that battle isn't more than a day old. How can you possibly know?"

"Why do you care, Princess? Isn't it enough to know?"

Helspeth did not respond. But she had ideas that would not please the master spy. She shrugged, pretending it was only adolescent curiosity.

Renfrow went on, indifferent to the sharp-eyed suspicion of the younger Princess. He told the story of the battle, "In the central highlands of Direcia there's a blistering plain known by several names. Piano Alto is the most common. It's been a no-man's-land between Chaldarean Direcia and al-Halambra since King Peter overcame the Praman principalities farther north. It's set off by a range called the Brown Mountains. The most direct approach to al-Halambra is over those mountains, across the Piano Alto, then down to the river valley of the Plata Desnuda. Which means something like naked silver and makes no sense. But that's not germane.

"Four kings joined Peter of Navaya in responding to the threat of the Almanohides. With them rode the chivalry of many other kingdoms, great and small. Meaning our ever-prickly contemporaries can recognize a real threat. As opposed to one contrived." Just to make his point clear. Without naming any recent Patriarch. "Eighty thousand gathered. The Pramans were overawed. Counsels of caution prevailed. They decided to defend the passes through the Brown Mountains instead of invading Navaya until Peter's allies went home."

Ferris Renfrow glanced round, found his audience content to listen. "The Almanohides thought they had the advantage.

But a Chaldarean shepherd knew a way through the mountains that the Pramans hadn't found. We got through, behind, defeating numerous Praman bands before Sabuta abd al-Qadr al-Margrebi gathered his forces near a village known, in Direcian, as the Baths of the Spirits. There are healing hot springs there, of which King Jaime is taking full advantage. Each spring is an extremely feeble well of power. Kaif Sabuta's personal guard attached themselves by chains and shackles to posts driven deep into the ground all round their master's tent. So they couldn't run away if things turned out the way our side hoped.

"That was all for show. They didn't think their god would turn his face away. I expect they're asking him about that now.

"The Chaldarean victory was overwhelming. King Peter was the great hero. With King Jaime playing a smaller but still very big role."

Helspeth said, "So, once again Peter of Navaya is made stronger."

Renfrow said, "Some think he must be especially beloved of God. Each time he responds to the will of the Patriarch, his fortunes soar."

Helspeth kept her opinions behind her teeth. Not needing Renfrow's warning glance.

Katrin would not tolerate criticism of the Patriarchy. Although Boniface VII was doing bizarre things, like making overtures to Viscesment, canceling the charter of the Society for the Suppression of Sacrilege and Heresy, trying to open the Collegium to a broader range of prelates, and, especially, striving to revitalize the Church in its role as Protector of the Small. Meaning taking up its ancient obligation to shield the poor and the weak from the Tyranny of the Night. Boniface was making himself unpopular by absolutely insisting that Mother Church do all those good things that, supposedly, Mother Church had been created to do.

Every new Patriarch offered surprises. This one was the terror of all clerics of standing: an honest, God-fearing pontiff.

Because Katrin was not interested, Helspeth asked questions. "What's he done to make secular people unhappy?"

"He's about to send the Patriarchal army back to the Connec. But this time to hunt down the Instrumentalities running loose there."

"Instead of heretics?"

"It could be open season on dualists, too. But only if the troops want to bother. They call the Captain-General the Godslayer, these days. And that's what he'll be doing. Destroying things freed by the Artecipean pagans. Instead of just binding them."

Helspeth understood, tactically. Having witnessed the destruction of an Instrumentality.

The Captain-General's falconeers had, supposedly, refined and honed their methods dramatically since the encounter in the Jagos. Still… "How can the Church afford that? I saw the ammunition they use. It's expensive."

"The Deves of Brothe, who are allied with the Captain-General for reasons only they understand, have developed munitions that include only a twentieth of the silver needed when you attacked the monster in the Jagos."

"But…" She did note the use of "attacked" in preference to anything more absolute and final.

"Yes. You're right. It will be expensive to wage war on the Night, even so. Boniface will finance this campaign by the means used to fund the original crusades in the east. Every church, every monastery, every nunnery, every living, every instrument of the Church that produces revenue, will have to forward another tenth to Brothe to finance the scouring of the Connec. If that works, the compulsory donation could become a permanent weapon in the struggle against the Night."

"That's sure to cause him trouble."

"The Special Office will be thrilled."

"Are we going to trade in the Society for the Witchfinders?"

"Possibly." Renfrow shrugged. "Boniface's reign will be characterized by an inflexible adherence to canon law. He'll root out corruption wherever it's found. He's issued a bull saying the Church must put its house in order. That it must be beyond reproach when it makes demands of the secular realm. He might well loose the Captain-General on any bishop who remains obstinate."

"A great wind of reform, eh?"

"As Aaron declaimed on the steps of the Home Temple. It could be. Unfortunately, Boniface is older than the moon. He was a compromise, chosen to take up space while the factions agree on a younger man. A more flexible, more amenable man."

"Boniface won't live long enough to reform the Church?"

"That would require an immortal. Your Highness? Katrin? You haven't said a word."

"Jaime is all right?"

"He'll recover. Expect him here before winter closes the passes. His journey may be slow and painful but he's eager. You shan't have to endure virginity many months more. And now I must take my leave, sweet ladies. I'm an old man. I've come a long, hard way to bring the news. I need rest."

Katrin made a faint gesture, giving Renfrow permission to leave.

Helspeth surveyed those of the court who remained. They had closed in in order to listen. A few, old men of the Council Advisory, were not pleased. Not that they had hoped for a Chaldarean defeat. But they had hoped that King Jaime would embarrass himself somehow. This Imperial marriage, however much they had been part of making the arrangements, would only reduce their influence over Katrin.

Plotting. Always plotting. Helspeth fumed. And wondered how her father had controlled them.

Their natures must have compelled them to play the same games when Johannes was Emperor. Therefore, perhaps, one nickname: Ferocious Little Hans.

They did respect power. When it was employed.

Katrin employed her power inconsistently. She had trouble keeping her mind made up, except in the matters of Jaime of Castauriga and her allegiance to the Brothen Patriarchy.

Helspeth wondered what Katrin would do if Boniface tried to take over Imperial holdings in Firaldia. Lothar had come near war over Clearenza. Would have gone to war if he had lived. Katrin had accepted the Clearenza situation, urging that city's Duke to be more obedient to Mother Church.

Sublime's cronies did make sure the Duke's loans got repaid.

The change in Katrin was dramatic. It infected the court, then Alten Weinberg as a whole, though hundreds of families still waited anxiously for word of those they had sent to Direcia.

Helspeth hoped to manage a private conversation with Ferris Renfrow. That did not happen. The spymaster slept twelve hours, ate a huge meal in the palace kitchen, then vanished. The gate guards did not see him go. Nor had any seen him arrive, either.

Helspeth worried about that often over the next six days, though without real passion. Ferris Renfrew had been an unpredictable enigma all her life. And all her father's life before her, insofar as she knew.

Church bells began ringing the sixth afternoon after Renfoew disappeared. The racket puzzled Helspeth. It was not a holy day, a feast day, a church day, or time for a call to prayer. Then it struck her.

News of the victory had come. Officially so, by courier. Each parish was proclaiming the celebration, as had been the order since war in Direcia became unavoidable.

Helspeth calculated distances and how hard the couriers must have ridden. They would have done relays, changing horses frequently, pausing just long enough to tell local bishops to spread the glad news in their dioceses.

So how did Ferris Renfrew manage to arrive six days early, rank, ragged, and bleeding? As though he had stepped through a doorway directly from the battlefield into a courtyard in the Imperial palace?

Something surpassing strange was afoot. And much as she wanted to know what that was, Helspeth did not discuss it with anyone. She might have stumbled over something no one else had yet noticed. No one ever accused Ferris Renfoew of having anything but an eerie mundane knack for slipping around unnoticed.

She had asked Renfrow who he was. The better question might have been, what was he?

22. The End of Connec: The Master's Release

The interminable months in the misery of the Altai ground souls into spiritual dust. Winter isolated Corpseour for three entire months. It was a winter beyond the prior imaginings of anyone trapped there. The sole focus of the colony became keeping warm. Those who had stocked the fortress had done well with food and water and weapons, but they had failed to foresee the fuel demands of an unnatural winter.

Rationing was necessary. Fuel had to be reserved for cooking.

The refugees did everything to soften winter's bite. But up there, in a narrow, draughty edifice built beam-on to the prevailing wind, it was impossible to hide from the cold. Nor was it possible to leave. Worsening weather closed the path to Corpseour. Those who tried it inevitably lost their footing. Several fell to their deaths.

The dark running joke was that they could thank the Light that the Instrumentalities of the Night haunting the Connec would not trouble Corpseour. Those were smart enough not to climb into that icy hell.

"Lessons learned," Brother Candle muttered. "Next spring they'll bring up mortar for chinking, and firewood, too." He was talking to no one in particular but was cuddled up with Socia, the Archimbaults, and half a dozen others, buried under a communal spread of blankets, trying to keep warm. It was not bad for him. He was in the middle, holding Kedle's baby, they being the weakest of the group. The baby was not doing well. Brother Candle feared it would not survive. Kedle was not producing enough milk. If the baby did make it, it would always be a weak child.

Kedle knew. Kedle cried a lot, despite knowing that she would always be sheltered by the Archimbault tribe and Seeker community.

There had been no news about Soames.

The worst weather finally broke. A warm southern wind came. Ice began to melt. Brother Candle risked going to the battlements, being careful of his footing. Meltwater only made that more treacherous in shady places.

One glance told him it was warmer down by the lake. Warmer and less windy. People were harvesting ice. They would store it in caves, carrying a little winter into the summer. Birds drifted and soared at several levels between Corpseour and Albodiges. One species seemed unusual. The Perfect supposed it had come from the north, fleeing the permanent ice.

Cold came and went several times before spring achieved ascendance. And news came through.

It was a new world. There was a new Patriarch in Brothe. The Captain-General and his army had gone. A new war was taking shape in Direcia. This one posed a mortal threat far beyond those Chaldarean kingdoms in the direct path of the Almanohides.

The Maysalean Heresy had not been forgotten—the Society was making its notes and accusations—but in the larger picture the dualists had become insignificant. Had become annoying blowflies because wolves were running the borders.

Socia was put out. "We went through all that up there for nothing!" And Kedle backed her up, almost viciously.

"Indeed?" Brother Candle responded. "And which of you girls was prescient enough to foresee all those changes?"

"Bah!" Socia snorted. Knowing the argument could not be won.

"We make the best decisions we can using the information we have. In time to come you'll realize that one never has enough information to make the perfect decision. You do the best you can, and hope. Or, like Duke Tormond, you try to wait till you can make the perfect choice."

"Grr!" Socia said. "And then it's too late. I get it. But I sure as hell don't have to like it. What're we gonna do now?"

"Go back to Khaurene. Help these folk reclaim their places there." The Society must have tried to seize the properties of Seekers who had not stayed to protect them.

But, Brother Candle soon learned, the Society's influence in Khaurene had guttered and gone. Known members had paid dearly for the successes of the Patriarchal forces in the fighting outside Khaurene. Brothen Episcopal churches had been looted and their priests driven out. Members of those parishes had banded together to protect themselves. They called themselves the Scarlet Cross. They wore black robes with red crosses sewn on when they roamed the streets.

Chaldareans who supported the resurgent Bellicose in Viscesment wore pale robes with black, blue, or even purple crosses sewn on. Some younger, more spirited Seekers had adopted white robes with a yellow cross for their vigilance bands.

A seamstress told Brother Candle that the militias chose the cross because that was the most efficient way of making a symbol using costly colored cloth. Other shapes left waste material.

Khaurene had changed dramatically. It had become abidingly factional. Street brawls happened almost every day. Duke Tormond made ineffectual efforts to stifle them with insufficient resources.

Socia sneered, "I thought all the fools got wiped out in that battle last fall."

Brother Candle said, "Human nature being human nature, the fools were the more likely survivors. And, pray, don't say that in front of Kedle."

Still no news of the Archimbault daughter's spouse. His battalion had been overrun by the Captain-General's handful of heavy cavalry. Most survivors did not want to talk. Which suggested that they might have had their backs to the enemy by then. No one who would talk knew what had become of Soames.

Socia said, "He'll turn up if he survived. He looked forward to becoming a parasite. If you ask me."

Brother Candle's estimate of the man had been somewhat higher. But not much. He wondered what Raulet had hoped to gain from the match. "Not kind, girl."

"But true. All right. All right. I'll be a good Seeker and look on the bright side. We won't have to stay with that foul baker again." Spoken with Madam Scarre standing scarcely two yards away.

Brother Candle sighed. The child was hopeless. But, after all this time, she was almost a daughter. Or even a chaste young wife. He had difficulty imagining life without her. But that day was coming. He had to take her back to Antieux.

Khaurene was a sizable city but word got around. The summons to Metrelieux reached the Master his third afternoon back in the city.

Socia refused to go up the hill with him. She had no faith in the good behavior of the local gentry, probably because her own nature was wholly predatory.

Unfamiliar men guarded the gate of the ancient fortress. Younger than their predecessors, they might actually have offered a moment of resistance. An unfamiliar chamberlain greeted Brother Candle. Inside, the Perfect saw unfamiliar faces everywhere, mostly strangers dressed in Direcian styles. He wondered why they were here when so critical a campaign was taking shape in their homeland.

Securing somewhere to run to if the worst happened?

The chamberlain led him to a hall he had visited several times before. This was well stocked with familiar faces. "All the usual miscreants, I see," he said as he arrived.

"Welcome, Charde," Duke Tormond said, coming to meet him. With his usual overestimation of the warmth of their relationship. Tormond had aged horribly. He would not last much longer. Which might explain the Navayans another way. Was Isabeth somewhere handy, ready to step in?

Then the Direcians would be here to enforce her claim to succeed Tormond, despite the law?

The Duke continued. "Not all the usual gang. Sir Eardale perished in his ill-starred battle. He just had to fight. And Tember Sirht isn't with us anymore. He took his people into exile in Terliaga."

Duke Tormond seemed resigned to the Terliagan Littoral's defection. The man seemed resigned, in fact, to anything.

The effort to poison him had been a waste of ambition. When you came right down to it.

"You wanted to see me?" Brother Candle asked after he shed the Duke's embrace.

Bishop Clayto told him, "We need your wisdom. Great things will soon happen in Direcia. The backwash may drown us."

"I've just spent four months on top of a mountain. Freezing. Plus time going and coming. I have no idea what's happening."

"There's a new Patriarch in Brothe. Another new one. Boniface VII. We don't know what he'll be like, yet. The Captain-General destroyed the pagan revivalists in Artecipea that the last Patriarch forced him to attack, hoping he'd get bogged down. Because he'd become strong enough to be feared by his masters. Meantime, the flower of Chaldarean chivalry is flooding into Direcea. We expect to hear of a battle any day now. And we fear that, no matter the outcome, what follows won't be good for the Connec."

"How so?"

"If God averts His countenance we'll soon see Almanohides horsemen outside the walls. If King Peter is victorious, it'll be Arnhanders out there doing mischief as they trudge on home. Anne of Menand certainly had that in mind when she sent Regard down with half the feudal levy of Arnhand."

"Regard?" Brother Candle asked. "She dared let the boy out of sight?"

"She had no choice. Strong as she is, fierce as she is, Anne's position is still fluid. And will never get any more solid if Regard doesn't win the respect of the fighting nobilty."

"I see," Brother Candle said. "To tighten her grip Anne has to let her baby go off to war. Suppose the worst happens? Who succeeds? The younger brother?"

"Anselin? Probably. Though Anne hasn't thought that far ahead."

Duke Tormond chipped in, "Anselin is on crusade in the Holy Lands. Or that was his plan when I visited Salpeno. He wasn't happy. He didn't want to go. It was the only way he could get away from his mother."

"Then Regard's fall throws Arnhand into chaos. The nobility would never let Anne take charge diretlcy. Might not even accept her as regent while Anselin was recalled."

Bishop Clayto said, "So you're suggesting that we could experience several years respite if Regard doesn't make it back from Direcia."

The Master protested, "That's not what I meant at all!"

The Duke said, "You see, gentlemen? I told you it would be worthwhile to drag Charde up out of the stews."

Brother Candle protested again. And was ignored. The Council, including the Brothen Episcopal  Bishop, began amusing themselves by conspiring to cause the premature ascent to paradise of King Regard of Arnhand. It as not a conspiracy with any heart. It was a wishful thinking game played by a covey of weak men who had been drinking too much wine too early in the day. Men, Brother Candle concluded, who would shepherd an ancient culture into oblivion not because they could not withstand predators from within but because they could not get up on their hind legs and take charge within.

Not once was his advice actively invited. He went away again after a few hours. No one seemed to note or care.

Brother Candle and Socia Rault had just settled in to rest with the resurgent Seeker commity in Castreresone. The city's bells began ringing joyously, celebrating the Chaldarean victory at Los Naves de los Fantas. Word spread fast. No one believed the news was not exaggerated. Al-Prama's worst defeat in four hundred years? Impossible.

"And now the torment of the Connec resumes," Brother Candle observed.

"When did it let up?" Socia demanded.

Reaching Castreresone had taken nine days. Not so bad as the trek westward, yet fraught with danger from bandits and men serving surviving local lords who were little better than bandits. Not to mention things of the Night.

The pagans of Artecipea had released more dark spirits than they anticipated. When the ghost of a Shade or Rook or Hilt began to crawl the earth again, and reached a breakthrough level of restoration, it began to call up and release its own satellite Instrumentalities. Scores of which now roamed the wilderness, frail and blind but perfectly capable of preying on the incautious and unwitting.

Brother Candle stayed a while at Castreresone to relax and recollect his strength. He was there longer than he hoped. He wanted to send a message to Antieux. Socia would not hear of it. He hoped she would not be as surprised as Count Raymone might.

He was looking forward to turning his charge over. That would free him, finally, to tend to the cleansing and healing of his soul.

The pause at Castreresone seemed endless. Just when Brother Candle felt ready to go on, he fell sick. Then the situation outside became so nasty the consuls locked everyone in till patrols cleared the danger. That danger did not keep news out: Neither Regard nor his chief followers were interested in more war after what they had survived in Direcia. They just wanted to go home.

Eventually, the old man and girl did return to the road, he observing, "I expect Regard will get a real scolding when he gets back to Salpeno."

"Or his mother will. He's a veteran, now. He's been tempered in the flame. Maybe he's developed a backbone."

Socia was dressed to look like an older boy. As always when they were on the road. And a good choice it was.

Maysalean pilgrims, a Master and his student, were troubled by none but the frenetically insane. Masters disdained money. Their only currency was wisdom. Any student companion would be poorer still.

Later, they learned that a few Arnhanders did, indeed, indulge in looting and terror tactics, ignoring the distinction between heretics, Unbelievers, and Chaldareans of various allegiances. They just took whatever had not been taken already by previous invaders or predatory neighbors. They captured few towns or castles, nor did any great slaughter, but they did guarantee that they would find no allies if they returned.

Antieux was in sight when the old man and girl met a frightened traveler who shared what he believed was terrible news. The new Patriarch, Boniface VII, intended to send the Captain-General back to the Connec. He would have fewer men but all of them would be hardened veterans.

Antieux had begun preparing for yet another siege already.

Socia was grim. "How will we manage? There was almost no harvest last year. And the enemy isn't likely to let us get many crops in before he shows up this year."

Brother Candle had listened to the traveler more closely than she. "This is a new Patriarch. Not that lunatic Sublime. My guess is, he really does want to clean up the Instrumentalities that got loose here."

"We're talking about a man who said he would put an end to the Society's wickedness. Have you heard of any changes for the better, there?"

He had. But Socia was not about to hear it. He saved his breath. There were miles to be walked and his old joints ached. He thought about retiring altogether, not just dallying in a cloister while he rebuilt his spiritual center. Some Perfect did withdraw permanently, generally into one of several fastnesses down in the mountainous frontier counties between the Connec and Direcia. Even devout Episcopals there scorned the rule of Brothe and loved their neighbors more.

From crusty and bellicose, Socia turned concerned. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, child. It's just age slowing me down."

She eyed him suspiciously. She had been his companion long enough to follow the weakening of his flesh.

"I'm just tired." But he knew a hint of fear. His fiercest will could not push him forward at as fast a pace as he could make just last summer. He thought his decline had begun during that terrible passage from Castreresone to Khaurene. The miserable sojourn in Corpseour had not helped.

He despised his own weakness. Not his physical failing. That came to every man fortunate enough to grow old. No. He detested the fear that slipped foul tendrils through the armor of his faith. Death should not be dreaded. Death was no revenant creeping through the night, spreading corruption. Death was the doorway to the Light.

"I just need to get my feet back on the Path."

Socia understood that side of him, however weak her own faith.

Someone riding, who had passed them heading east, must have recognized Brother Candle. Socia's surprise did not materialize as planned. As they began the last mile downhill, Antieux's gate spilled a covey of horsemen. The Perfect recognized Bernardin Amberchelle almost immediately, then several Rault brothers and Count Raymone. "Looks like they mean to run us off before we can pollute their city."

"Smart-ass." Tearful, Socia began to run.

There was no run left in Brother Candle's old corpse. He trudged on, considering the countryside around him. A determined effort at restoration was under way. It appeared amazingly successful. The siege must not have been as harsh as rumor insisted. Or…

Or Count Raymone had done something extraordinary. And what that was became obvious after a study of the people in the fields and on the hillsides.

Raymone was using forced labor to restore his county. He must have rounded up all the Grolsachers he could find.

The Perfect would learn_s later, that not just refugees had been forced into the labor gangs. Prisoners of war, criminals, captured bandits, and members of the Society were slaving out there, being used up with grim indifference to their humanity. And Count Raymone's logic was hard to refute. Those were the people responsible for the damage to the Connec. Let them die undoing the evil they had wrought.

The reunion was well under way when Brother Candle caught up to Socia, who was pummeling her brothers severely in her excitement. Of them, only Booth seemed the worse for wear. He had suffered a fierce wound to the left side of his head. Part of his ear was gone. The scar itself remained puffy and purplish. It was one of those that might take a decade to subside into normal scar tissue. The Perfect noted that Booth's left eye did not track, either. But the youngest Rault was wearing one huge grin.

Count Raymone came to Brother Candle. "I don't know how to thank you, Master. I didn't mean for Socia to become your whole life. You kept faith through hardships I can't begin to imagine. Till yesterday I feared you were lost. Bernardin has been keeping my spirits up since he came back from captivity. He was more confident of you than I was. I'm sorry."

The warrior enveloped the old man in his powerful arms. "I owe you, Master. I don't have much anymore, but anything I have is yours. For the asking."

"Peace, then."

"Master?"

"Make peace with the new Patriarch."

"I am at peace with him. And shall ever be. So long as he stays in Brothe. If he comes to Antieux to tell us what to do, then it's him who breaks that peace."

Brother Candle abandoned the argument. For the moment. There would be a better time. A time when reason might practice its subtle sedition against prejudice.

Count Raymone said, "Socia tells me that you're eager to get back to the intellectual harbor of Perfect companions. But I hope you'll stay for the wedding."

"I can do that. Unless war comes. I'm done with war."

Count Raymone's conviction that that was silly shone through. Then he grinned. "Done. If it looks like we can't get along with somebody, I'll slap your skinny ass on a donkey, point it west, and give it a whack on the rump."

Brother Candle considered the possibility that, even now, his outlook was too naive. If he lived much longer he would see more war. The Arnhanders would be back. They sensed the weakness and rot in the Connec. The province's hope was not Tormond, never Duke Tormond, nor even Count Raymone Garete. Count Raymone did not have the resources. Hope lay beyond the Verses Mountains, in Direcia. In Peter of Navaya.

"All right. Who could resist that offer?"

The wedding came off perfectly, within the month. Two newlyweds could not have been more thrilled with one another. And Socia won the hearts of the obdurate people of Antieux with her fierce talk.

Following the wedding Count Raymone sent Bernardin Amberchelle and a hundred men to take the Rault brothers home. Caron ande Lette was in the hands of Grolsacher squatters. The expedition did not go well. The squatters were more numerous than expected. And the Night haunted the land. It was no longer a place for a man who had not surrendered to the will of the Night.

When the tattered survivors returned to Antieux Count Raymone decided, "I'll send word to the Captain-General. He can muck out that cesspool for us."

Brother Candle stayed in Antieux way longer than he planned. Worldly things had a definite hold. He was reluctant to leave companionship he had enjoyed so long. As though Socia had become the family he had put aside to walk the path to Perfection.

But he could not stall forever. The Seekers of the west needed leadership and encouragement. And he needed his refreshment of the soul.

"Raymone," he said reluctantly, accepting the lead of a pack donkey the Count had nicknamed Socia for its stubbornness, "I've decided how you can repay me. Other than with this tragic beast, who will no doubt be taken by bandits before I'm out of sight of the wall."

"Not while you wear the pilgrim's robe, Master. They're superstitious, living out there with the Night so close. They won't trouble you."

"Yes. Only the Church will dare. Eh?"

"As you say. What boon would you have of me?"

"Peace being impractical, protection for those who follow the Path."

Count Raymone lowered his face as though to a king. "So shall it be, Master. So long as I have breath."

Socia, standing by quietly, reluctant to speak because she feared she would burst into tears, repeated the formula. "So shall it be, Master. So long as I have breath. And an arm to raise a spear." Which remark sparked an immediate squabble between powerful personalities.

Smiling in spite of his sorrow at parting, Brother Candle tugged the donkey's lead and took a step down the road to his future. First destination, Khaurene. After that, somewhere to reclaim Perfection. In essence, out of history, having shaped the minds of several people who would sculpt it with sharp steel.

23. Dreanger: At al-Qarn, in the Palace of the Kings

The old house slave, Gamel, strained under the weight of the burden he carried across the polished serpentine floor of the vast hall where Gordimer the Lion was holding the autumn assizes. Er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen was present, evidently having an interest in some case due to come before the Grand Marshal. Likewise, Kaif Karim Kaseem al-Bakr, who dozed on a chair nearby. He was there for a case with religious implications.

The slave had little time left in this hard vale. Decades ago he had been a fierce young Sha-lug. Time, luck, and an amazing knack for healing had conspired to rob him of a battlefield death. Sha-lug who grew old despite the endless wars had to earn their keep managing the work of the Palace.

Gamel was well known to Gordimer. Gamel had taught him the lance when he was a pup. The Marshal concluded the case at hand by ordering the defendant strangled for defiling the daughter of his sister. Sentence was carried out on the spot. Gordimer then ordered the daughter stoned. Both corpses to be thrown to the crocodiles.

Then he sent two lifeguards to help the old man.

"Forget all that, Gamel. Your life has earned you the right to stand in the presence of the Marshal." Though not, perhaps, in that of the Kaif. If the Kaif were anything but an extension of the will of the Sha-lug, and awake. "What is this?"

It had to be critical if the old slave came here, now, during the height of the assizes.

"This box was given to me to bring to you. I was told it had to be delivered immediately."

"And what is it?"

"I don't know. But it's been dripping cold water."

"Who gave it to you?"

"General Nassim. Nassim Alizarin."

"The Mountain? He's here? In al-Qarn? Er-Rashal. I thought Nassim was dead."

Shaken, the court sorcerer replied, "I was sure he was no longer among the living."

"Let's see what it is. You two. Bring that box here. Open it."

Er-Rashal faded into himself while the lifeguards carried out instructions. Suddenly, he snapped, "Don't open that!" An instant too late.

"What do we have?" Gordimer demanded. He glowered at the scores of supplicants and defendants, all of whom leaned toward the scene.

"A head. In melted ice." The lifeguard lifted a severed head from the box by its hair. His companion retrieved a wooden tube about six inches long and an inch in diameter, covered with wax. He handed that to the Marshal.

Gordimer twisted an end off the cold tube, fished out a piece of paper. He asked er-Rashal, "What's the matter?" The sorcerer stared at the head. "You've turned gray." The Lion unrolled the paper. And read aloud, " 'To my lord the Grand Marshal of the Sha-lug, Gordimer, called the Lion, and to the sorcerer er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen. Greetings. A gift. All that remains of the pagan sorcerer Rudenes Schneidel, by whose order my son Hagid was murdered. He was the first to pay. His partners in wickedness will follow.

" 'Nassim Alizarin, once a friend.

" 'In recollection of friendship, O Lion. A courtesy. Be warned. The storm from the north is rising. I have seen it with mine own eyes, and it is of your own construction. Nor even the Almighty Himself shall stand before it.'"

Gordimer the Lion closed his eyes. This was the voice of prophecy. Half a minute later, he said, "Clear the hall. The assizes will resume tomorrow morning." He roamed his own mind till the hall fell quiet.

He opened his eyes. Er-Rashal was no longer present. The Kaif still slept. Gamel had retired. He addressed the lifeguard still holding the head by its hair. "Glaid. What do you make of this?"

"That General Nassim disappeared because he heard his son was murdered. But Hagid was supposedly among those Sha-lug lost in Calzir."

"Where he was not supposed to have been."

The lifeguard nodded. "There are evil rumors about what happened over there. About Sha-lug who were abandoned, denied the chance to board ships carrying survivors of the disaster away from Calzir."

"Is that so? I haven't heard anything like that. Sidiki. You look like you're about to explode. If only you dared. Dare."

"There is much that you do not hear, sitting here in the Palace, O Lion." Sidiki carefully avoided the least implication of criticism, though the lifeguard complement were scandalized by the behavior of the Marshal in recent years and even those nearest him thought he had ordered those Sha-lug abandoned to the mercy of the Infidel because of their connection with Else Tage, the once-popular band leader whom Gordimer feared for no reason anyone could fathom.

In the end, the lifeguards, and those Sha-lug who spent much time around the Palace of the Kings, chose to blame all misfortune on the sorcerer er-Rashal el-Dhulquarnen.

"Enlighten me."

24. Brothe: At the End of the Day

After a week of loafing Piper Hecht started half days at the Castella. Nothing official had come out of Krois. But rumors ran hot and fierce. There would be another invasion of the Connec. For sure. To war against the Night. So staff work did go forward.

Ships were at sea, collecting the troops from Artecipea. Titus Consent made sure those men knew that it was Piper Hecht's fault they were coming home. The Captain-General and Boniface VII had an understanding. The Patriarchy's soldiers would be treated well, henceforth. With a big or else! implied.

Pinkus Ghort visited Anna's house briefly. After losing to her at chess, he told Hecht, "Take care how forward you are about your soldiers, Pipe. You got people in the Collegium putting you on their shit lists just because you're in a strong place."

Hecht had seen the signs. Wherever three or more people got together somebody developed a need to drag somebody else down.

He was about to snap defiantly, arrogantly, but caught himself.

"What?" Ghort asked. "You don't believe me?"

"No. I do. I'm having trouble believing me."

Ghort gave Hecht that look he reserved for times when he had no clue what Hecht was talking about.

Hecht asked, "One of them wouldn't be your boss, would it?"

"One of them would. He's developed a hard-on for you."

"He always had one. I wouldn't be his running dog."

"He figures you owe him."

"Really? Because he got us out of Plemenza?"

"Yeah. And some other stuff."

"Despite the fact that he wouldn't be alive if I hadn't wakened him in the Ownvidian Knot."

"I won't make excuses for the man, Pipe. I'm just saying. I tell you this, he's gonna push for enforcement of the quartering restrictions."

Which Hecht had anticipated. Bronte Doneto being consul or not, the city senators would have gotten to that. Maybe just not as soon. No one not part of the Church hierarchy wanted the Patriarch's soldiers stationed in the city.

"I think we're in compliance already." By sleight of hand. By means of a deal with the Brotherhood of War whereby the Brotherhood claimed those of Hecht's men quartered in the Castella.

"Not with the spirit of the law. You could have five thousand armed veterans here inside four days. And a hell of a lot more handy once the rest get over from Artecipea."

"And that's a bad thing with the troubles you're having here?"

"Hey, Pipe, I'm not trying to pick a fight. I'm just saying. And I'm wondering. What's your pal Principatè Delari been up to? We haven't seen hide nor hair in a rat's age."

"I don't know. Why?" Hecht smiled at Vali and Bit's daughter, Lila. The kids kept finding excuses to wander through. They were both curious and hoped that Ghort had brought treats. He did that sometimes.

Lila had recovered physically from the attack that had injured her and killed her mother but she was not yet over it inside. Though older and bigger, she had become Vali's timid shadow. She seemed to have put her harsh early years aside, Anna described her as well mannered and industrious around the house, but remote. She was more bookish than Pella. And could bring Vali out of her shell.

Hecht had overheard the girls talking himself. Chattering, even, almost like kids who had enjoyed a normal childhood.

"Doneto is really interested," Ghort said. "They aren't good buddies. Were almost enemies back around the time the hippodrome fell down. But they patched it up somehow. They tolerate each other, now."

"The way Delari tells it, it was all a misunderstanding. Too many people talking when they should have been listening ended up with them squabbling when they were both trying to get the same job done. Which was to destroy the monster that was murdering people."

Ghort frowned.

Anna said, "I don't think they got it, Piper."

"What? Of course they did. Principatè Delari…" He stopped. He could not explain.

"Then the monster's little brother came round to take over the family business."

Ghort was as taken aback as Hecht. "Anna?"

"The murders started up again. Like before."

Hecht watched color drain from Ghort's features. "Pipe. You said Delari dealt with it."

"That's what he told me."

"Did he produce a body?"

"Not for my benefit. And I wasn't interested in seeing one. I was dodging assassins and getting ready for a war."

"You need to find him and see what he thinks."

"Your boss is a consul. And a pretty potent sorcerer."

"You're right. It would be his job. But you still might want to consult Delari."

"I will. We're supposed to have supper at his town house tomorrow night. I assume he'll be there."

"All right. When are you heading back to the Connec?"

"I haven't been told. It's all still rumors. Boniface… I have an abiding suspicion that the bureaucracy around the Patriarch is so dense and so tangled that even though the Patriarch is God's dictator on earth he has to hack his way through a jungle before he can work His will."

"You ask me, it's just a bunch of assholes being obstructionist. He ought to have you clean them out. There's people at Krois belonging to families that have been underfoot there for fifteen generations. All of them take bribes from anybody with a piece of silver."

A conversation about corruption in high places got the attention of all the kids, and Anna, too. Before Hecht could caution Ghort about little pitchers, someone knocked on the front door.

Anna told Pella, "See who that is."

It was Titus Consent, Noë, and their brood.

Hecht said, "Titus, I completely forgot. Let me see the baby." He had not yet met Avran.

Noë passed the infant over, but hovered. In case he decided to take a bite.

"No doubt who was this one's daddy. Look at those eyes. Already calculating." Hecht passed the baby back. His mother proceeded round the room, giving everyone the same opportunity. Except for Pinkus Ghort. Noë Consent was seriously nervous about Pinkus Ghort. Ghort was too outgoing. She was a mouse, the most timid woman Hecht had ever met. Only a powerful pride drove her here.

Hecht said, "Pinkus, I completely forgot about Titus. We have business at the foundry."

Ghort faked a scowl and said, "I can tell when I'm not wanted."

Anna offered, "You can stay and play chess."

"Sure. I love getting my head kicked in."

"Shame on you, Pinkus Ghort. You win sometimes." Anna indicated the children. "And none of these miscreants can survive ten moves." Because they were children and could see no point to the game. Though when she focused Vali could be a deadly opponent.

"I've got work of my own that I let slide so I could come down here to talk my best buddy into keeping on being careful."

Titus said, "Noë could play you, Anna. She holds her own against me." 

Consent's wife turned bright red. She murmured some sort of demurement and refused to meet the eyes of anyone but her baby.

Still insisting that Hecht remain cautious, Ghort let himself out.  "Best buddy?" Consent asked.

"Not quite hyperbole. We've been friends a long time," Hecht said. "Unfortunately, we find ourselves with different employers. I hope we never butt heads."

"We should get moving." Consent started to say something to his wife. Hyperactive toddler Sharone had vanished with Vali and Lila in hot pursuit. The baby was working his magic on Anna. Pella stared over Anna's left shoulder, fascinated.

Hecht said, "Pella, come on with us."

Anna shot him a startled, questioning look.

"He's old enough."

Having the lifeguards along frustrated Hecht. But they would not go away. Titus said, "Resign yourself. You're the most important man in Brothe. After Boniface VII. Bodyguards are the price you pay."

Hecht vented his irritation with rambling nonsense about how Duarnenians never had to suffer this kind of crap. Pella walked alongside, nodding as though he agreed with every word.

Their destination was the workshop and foundry of the people who now manufactured all the firepowder and firepowder weapons for the Patriarchal army, a consortium of leading Devedian families.

Ironic, Hecht thought. If that was the proper word. Unbelievers manufactured the weapons and munitions by which the Chaldarean Patriarchy would enforce its will upon the Faithful.

"The Faithful?" Titus asked. "Mainly things of the Night will be affected by what these people make. You want to whip up on an Imperial town or one of the petty duchies, you'll need to do it the old way."

Hecht did not argue. But Titus was only mostly right. Drago Prosek and Kait Rhuk had a hundred ideas about how firepowder weaponry could change the ways wars were fought. Few involved the Instrumentalities of the Night.

Prosek and Rhuk, with a couple more falcon specialists, were there already when Hecht, Pella, and Consent reached the Krulik and Sneigon Special Manufactory. Consent told Hecht, "We've consolidated firepowder and falcon production here. These people are wonderfully cooperative in helping work out new ways to kill people. And things."

"Especially things," Shimeon Krulik told Hecht soon afterward. "You understand, we Devedians aren't overwhelmed by a compulsion to make life easier for Brothen Episcopal Chaldareans."

"Of course. But we have common interests."

"Indeed. Crippling the Instrumentalities of the Night."

Hecht nodded. Not sure of that at all.

Shimeon Krulik handed Hecht, Pella, and Titus off to a Moslei Sneigon. Sneigon was in charge of production and testing. He was a bent little man who would have been right at home in an ethnic joke. But he was brilliant when it came to knowing what was going on inside his business.

"We've cut costs and improved effectiveness by nearly a hundred times this year, Captain-General. Look. We drip molten iron through these star forms. It comes out cooled just enough so each dribble is a rough arrow shape two inches long. That falls into water. The sudden steam expands and distorts the dart's surfaces."

Sneigon produced a severely irregular iron dart just under two inches long. "We pack these in fine sand treated with a vegetable gum inside these wooden forms that are the same diameter as your falcons. The shock and heat of the exploding firepowder breaks up the charge."

Sneigon showed them workers dipping the tips of the little arrows in molten silver. "We produce the darts fast. The bottleneck is silver application. Quantity doesn't seem to matter with the silver. As long as it's there. One tiny bit on the tip is enough."

"We can save a lot on silver, then?"

"Fortunes. Given time, I think we'll work out how to use a hundredth of the silver we're using now. You'll be spending way more for the iron, the firepowder, and, especially, the falcons themselves."

Hecht was amused by how well Pella managed to fake an understanding of the discussion.

Hecht was fascinated by everything at Krulik and Sneigon. These people were determined to produce new and ever more amazing weapons for deployment in the struggle against the Tyranny of the Night. The darts amazed him. Their battering by steam dramatically expanded their surface area, which meant that more iron would be brought into contact with whatever Instrumentality the missile hit.

Hecht said, "I understand what you're doing. But these darts won't go far, or fast. And the reason firepowder weapons work is, the shot moves too fast for the Instrumentalities to get out of the way."

"Smart man," Sneigon said. "And right. These charges are for when you're up close, smelling their bad breath and seeing the whites of their eyes. Which we figure would be most encounters. We're looking at a variety of other projectiles for longer ranges."

"Very good," Hecht said. "How are we coming with the firepowder?"

"Substantial improvements there, too," Sneigon told him. "We've developed three distinct formulations suitable for several different tasks." He grinned a big white grin behind his black forest of a beard. "You leave these boys free of worries about where their next meal is coming from, then hand them a big intellectual challenge, they end up going after it fifteen hours a day. Besides, it's fun, making all the stinks and bangs."

Hecht looked sideways at Titus Consent. Consent shrugged. "Curse of the breed."

"You stereotyping your own people?"

"Not mine anymore. Except by blood."

"Sorry."

"Mr. Sneigon," Titus said. "You were there when my uncle committed suicide?"

"I was, young Titus." Sneigon turned grim. "That was a dark day. It made no sense. He started babbling about the ravens of wickedness coming home to roost… Really! Those were almost his exact words."

"Bizarre. But I believe you. Now here's the thing. Seven elders have committed suicide since the end of the Calziran Crusade. None of them were the sort we'd consider likely candidates. Four were men who fled Sonsa after the riots there. Some time ago, when I was especially rattled by the suicides, the Captain-General asked me if they were all rich. And if they were, how did they get that way? A silly question, I thought then. But now I'm thinking he was more profound than he knew. I don't have the resources in the community that I did before I converted, but I was still able to work out that the men from Sonsa and at least two from Brothe knew each other when they were young. It looks like they were involved in something that made their fortunes. And that might be something they don't want anyone to find out about."

Moslei Sneigon and Titus Consent looked one another in the eye. Seconds clicked away. Sneigon broke eye contact to glance at Hecht. "There was a rumor, a long time ago. That they made their fortunes slave-raiding. One quick summer, making fast raids where nobody expected slavers, disguised as Praman pirates." He glanced at Hecht again. Hecht had close contacts inside the Brotherhood. The Brotherhood hated pirates almost more than they hated Pramans.

Hecht said, "That's interesting. I heard something similar from Principatè Delari. His illegitimate son, Grade Drocker, had a secret family tucked away in a harbor town over in the Eastern Empire. They got carried off in that kind of slave raid. Drocker spent the rest of his life hunting the slavers, using all the power of the Brotherhood. He died distraught because he never got all the men responsible for his despair."

Sneigon and Consent both were taken aback.

Hecht said, "So Delari says. He didn't understand. I don't, either. But Drocker definitely was a driven man. Obsessed with revenge. So I'm told. I never really saw it myself."

Consent said, "All these men died after Drocker did."

Sneigon suggested, "Delari might have…"

Hecht interrupted. "Might not have. Unless he could manage it from over there in the Connec."

Consent trampled Hecht. "That's right, Moslei. You can't blame Delari."

"You think those men would even know what a conscience was? And I'd dispute you, Titus. Three of the suicides probably weren't involved in the old-time slave-raiding thing. But they might have known. They were all friends."

Hecht asked, "Why are we worrying about it? Why aren't we worrying about going forward? None of this means anything to us, now."

Was Cloven Februaren carrying out Grade Drocker's revenge? He was sure Muniero Delari was not.

"And, whatever else," Consent said, "we can't get around the fact that those men did take their own lives. In front of witnesses, every one."

Moslei Sneigon made a noise Hecht put halfway between a cat's purr and a dog's growl. Disappointment without disagreement.

Sneigon demonstrated several more experimental notions. Hecht smiled and nodded and pretended enthusiasm. His smiles never reached his eyes. He knew that Krulik and Sneigon would reserve the best weaponry for defense of the Devedian quarter. Which, Titus Consent later assured him, was suspicion entirely misplaced. He needed to get beyond his traditional prejudice. Krulik and Sneigon were getting filthy rich producing godkiller weaponry. According to Consent, chances were good that it had not occurred to them to hold anything back. They were interested only in the profits of the moment.

Hecht did not divorce his traditional prejudice.

"If it wasn't for you I don't think I'd spend time in this cesspit city," Hecht murmured. He lay on his back in the dark, Anna's head and left hand on his chest. A hot tear hit his skin. "I'm just a soldier. But everybody thinks they've got to get something from me."

"You aren't just a soldier, Piper, You've never been just a soldier. I wouldn't have come here from Sonsa if you were just another thug for hire."

Anna was being very serious. Neither of her hands were urging him to demonstrate his manhood again. He was nervous. What should he say?

He was distracted, anyway. On his return from the Devedian quarter he had learned that he would have an audience with the Patriarch in the morning. The Arnhander ambassador to Krois wanted an interview. Likewise, the ambassador from the Grail Empire. And his people at the Castella needed him to come make some decisions. And Bronte Doneto wanted a few minutes of his time.

Down deep inside him lurked an inclination to grab control of everything so he no longer owed anyone any part of his soul or time. Only, he knew that making himself lord of everything would just pile on more responsibility and suffering. He could never just avert his face and be done.

"I suppose. I'm thinking tomorrow may be the worst day of my life."

"How can that possibly be?"

"I have to see the Patriarch. I have to talk to the ambassador from Arnhand. I have to see Bronte Doneto. Redfearn Bechter was generous enough to make all the arrangements. I threatened to cut his ears off. He told me he'd saved me having to see some fanatical moron from the Society." He explained, "The Brotherhood doesn't get along with the Society."

"Piper, I don't care about any of that stuff. I just care about you. And the children. They aren't my own flesh, but they've grown on me to the point where… Hell. Never mind. We're as makeshift as it gets, but we're a family. But I would appreciate it if you didn't send me any more strays."

"I thought Lila wasn't a problem."

"She isn't. She's very helpful, especially with Vali. But she's another body to clothe and another mouth to feed. And your pals with the purse haven't been good about looking out for my expenses."

"I'll take care of that tomorrow, too. You ought to be up to your hips in money. I've been doing damned good."

After all the people he had to face during the day, he would have to deal with family in the evening. With Muniero Delari and Cloven Februaren. And Heris, probably.

Despite his worries, he fell asleep. And enjoyed uncomplicated, pleasant dreams.

Hugo Mongoz was sharper and more focused than ever in Hecht's experience. And was amused by his surprise. "It does come and go, Captain-General. I am half as old as time. But it does become easier to focus when you know that millions are counting on you to stand in for them before the Throne of God."

Hecht said little of substance.

"You're uncomfortable here."

"I've visited Krois only once before. Briefly. Sublime was almost completely irrational."

Mongoz, as Boniface VII, had shooed his hangers-on out, then had ordered his Captain-General to abandon ceremony.

"Almost? You're too generous. But let's get to it. My keepers won't leave me unchaperoned long. I'm sure you've heard rumors. A few I've set free myself. A lot more were their own mothers. Let me assure you directly, I do mean to cleanse the Connec of the million shadows that have escaped there these last few years. I'm not determined to enforce a rigorous Episcopal orthodoxy. The Church doesn't need to find itself any more enemies. I'm also interested in conciliation, not just there but with Viscesment and our eastern cousins."

Hecht's surprise was so obvious the old man chuckled. Mongoz said, "I am a different man indeed. And totally surprised to be here. In my younger days I considered myself too rational to be welcomed into the Collegium, too. So I mean to use my few hours as Patriarch to try to enforce reforms that will help my Church avoid extinction."

"That seems a little harsh."

The old man launched a protracted homily: He was engulfed by circle upon circle of functionaries possessed of the imaginations of pretty marble slabs. Their views sprang entirely from wishful thinking and "This is the way things have always been!" Never mind that the world was going through dramatic changes all round. Never mind that the faithful had lost their tolerance for bad behavior by their spiritual shepherds.

Mongoz touched on several points that had worried Hecht since first he became an agent of the Church. In a way that would make Boniface toxically unpopular with most of the clergy.

Amused, the new Patriarch said, "I have nothing to fear, Captain-General. I have nothing to lose. It won't be long before God calls me home. While I wait I'll cleanse His Church of the evil within and I'll make war on the renascent evil outside. And I'll beg our great, good God not to take me till I've finished."

Hecht shut out what he considered a righteous rant of little substance in the world where he had to work.

He pressed for specifics about what he was expected to accomplish. With what men and resources.

He heard little that had not been part of some rumor already reported by Titus Consent.

Hecht told his staff, "This one is just as loony as Sublime was. But his ambitions are less mean. He's honestly determined to make the world a better place. For everyone, not just for himself and his cronies. Hell, for as old as he is, he's ridiculously naive. He thinks all the evil accumulated over the last few years will clear off if we're just men of goodwill. Ready to invade the Connec again. And, just like the rumors say, we're supposed to use our new tools to render that land free of its revenant Instrumentalities."

The expressions he saw ranged from baffled to unbelieving. His officers were unable to comprehend. "Never mind. It signifies nothing. Just get ready to enter an environment where the Night is used to having its own way."

Hecht's companions gawked.

They did not understand.

Nor did he, really.

He said, "We're getting paid. Prosek. Take delivery on as much weaponry as possible. Get your new crews trained up."

"Yes, sir." Prosek grinned from ear to ear. He loved the bangs and stinks.

Coming off one of the bridges from the Castella, lost in thought, Hecht found himself suddenly seized and dragged backward. Lifeguards rushed past, responding to some threat he did not see. Then Madouc announced, "False alarm, men."

The bodyguards had pounced on two civilians, now shaking in terror. "Stay here, sir." Madouc went to ask why the two had gotten into the Captain-General's path.

Madouc returned. "They've been hanging around, waiting to take you to the Arnhander ambassador."

"Is it that time already?"

"It is."

"Damn. I was hoping to sneak into the Chiaro Palace and get some coffee from Delari's cook."

"I've never had that pleasure," Madouc informed him. "I have smelled it. Delicious."

"It smells better than it tastes. Tell them to lead on. And I hope it isn't far. Bechter has me loaded down all day."

"Sergeant Bechter took time into account when he filled your schedule."

Of course. Bechter would have consulted Madouc.

He needed to talk to Bechter about the lifeguard situation. Madouc was a good man. But he and Hecht had begun to resent one another simply because of the demands their relationship placed upon them. That was not good.

Hecht's face went stony the moment he saw the purported ambassador. He had not met the man before but recognized him by his hunchback. Rinpochè. One of those thoroughly corrupt priests that Sublime had so favored.

The man had a knack for surviving the disasters he authored, apparently. Morcant Farfog had had, too. For a time. Never really interested in Arnhand's efforts in the Connec, Hecht had paid little attention so long as that kingdom's agents stayed out of his way.

Rinpochè smiled. "Thank you for seeing me, Captain-General."

The smile went unreturned. Hecht said, "You aren't the Arnhander legate. I was told I'd be seeing King Regard's man."

The hunchback smirked. "I may be closer to the heartbeat of Salpeno than the Count d'Perdlieu."

"I doubt it. I recognize you. I know your reputation. Neither the Church nor I have any business with you."

Rinpochè's expression hardened. "Remember who you're talking to. Remember whom I represent."

"I am. I'm not impressed. You should recall whom you're talking to and whom I represent. Sublime isn't Patriarch, now. His follies are being addressed. Incompetence and corruption are no longer tolerated. Any odor whatsoever out of Arnhand could cause this Patriarch to review his predecessor's decisions concerning the legitimacy of marriages."

A man in brown turned into being behind the gnome. He grinned and waved and twisted away into invisibility again.

The hunchback visibly controlled himself. He was unaccustomed to being thwarted. Anne of Menand must see something in him that remained invisible to the rest of humanity. Else why invest him with so much power that he could not imagine disobedience?

"Perhaps. But this Patriarch will not be with us long."

True. And Hecht had a few ideas he wanted to kick around with Principatè Delari and Cloven Februaren. He liked having Hugo Mongoz in charge.

"As may be." No leading candidate to succeed Boniface VII said anything good about Anne of Menand. Some Principatès from neighboring states argued for a successor who would withdraw the Church's blessing from Regard and his mother. Hecht did not expect that to happen. Arnhand lashed by Anne, provided the majority of the Church's income. And most of the warriors who went to defend the Crusader states in the Holy Lands.

"The situation in Salpeno won't be your problem, Captain-General. I want to talk about things you will have to deal with."

Hecht felt obligated to give the man his say. "I'm listening." He might learn something.

"Boniface means to send you back into the End of Connec."

"I hear rumors to that effect. I have no orders yet."

"This Patriarch withdrew the charter of the Society. He's ordered its dissolution."

"Yes." Reserving his approval of that.

"He might expect you to enforce that."

Hecht nodded. It would be enforced. He meant to see Society members who defied Boniface VII returned to Brothe for ecclesiastical trial.

"We urge you to look the other way. Those brothers are doing the work of the Lord."

"In defiance of the Infallible Voice?"

Flash of irritation.

The hunchback had swum so deep in corruption, for so long, that he had no grasp of the notion that others might not be equally corrupt. Or, at least, useful in their peculiar honesty.

Rinpochè said, "The Connec will be cleansed of heresy. My lady will see to that. I'm offering you the opportunity to be part of the solution to the heresy problem."

"If that's the will of the Patriarch and the Collegium, then that's what will be."

More irritation. "The King is young. He has many years ahead. Before the end of his days the Connec will be subject to Arnhand's crown."

"We have nothing to discuss. You're living in a fantasy, disconnected from all political and religious reality. I suspect that it's impolitic of me even to have spoken with you."

"You'll regret your attitude."

"I doubt it. So long as Anne trusts men like yourself to further her ambitions she'll go on enjoying successes like Caron ande Lette, Calour, and the Black Mountain Massacre. Good day."

"There'll be a new Connecten Crusade, Captain-General. With or without you."

"Without, most likely. But the Patriarch will make that decision."

Madouc fell into step beside Hecht. "That went faster than I expected."

"It wasn't the Arnhander ambassador. It was an agent of Anne of Menand. He wants me to ignore her mischief in the Connec. Wants me to let the Society run wild there, again."

"You told him where to insert his idiot ideas?"

"I was more circumspect. But not by much." He wondered if Cloven Februaren would do anything to add misery to the hunchback's life.

"An ambitious woman, Anne. Up to her ears in enemies, inside Arnhand and out. She just ignores them. That has to catch up someday."

"How long before we need to show at the Penital?"

"Two hours. Because this visit was so short."

"The Castella is on the way. I can get some paperwork done."

"Why not just relax?"

"I can relax forever after I'm dead. Besides, I want to get today wrapped early. I'm supposed to join Principatè Delari at his town house tonight. It would be nice to show up on time."

The Penital, the Brothen palace of the Grail Emperors, was another immense stone pile, eclipsed in size only by Krois, the Chiaro Palace, the Castella dollas Pontellas, and several half-ruined city-managed edifices dating from classical times. The Penital was only as old as the Grail Empire itself. It had been erected on ground once featuring a prison and, farther back, a gladiatorial school where men condemned to die in the arena trained to suffer their fates in style.

The name was a play on an Old Brothen word. That had to do with the dim view of service in Brothe nursed by those sentenced to represent the Emperor in the Mother City.

A majordomo met Hecht in the vast foyer, after he had been passed on by several committees of Braunsknechts. At each layer he lost some of his lifeguard. Only Madouc was with him when the majordomo led him away for his interview with the ambassador.

Then Madouc had to stop. And just hope the northerners would not start a war by doing something stupid.

Piper Hecht stepped through a doorway. And spied Ferris Renfrow at the far end of a long, narrow, richly appointed room. "Everyone is arranging meetings under false pretenses today."

Renfrow looked surprised. "Really?"

Hecht described his meeting with Rinpochè. The Empire might be interested in what Anne was thinking.

"I see what you mean," Renfrow said. "I'm not out to get you to serve the Empire's interests. Not directly. We're all happy as clams the way things are."

Did sarcasm lie beneath those words?

"I just wanted to deliver your invitation to the wedding of the Empress and King Jaime of Castauriga."

"Again?"

"Again. It will come off this time. Barring another Direcian crisis."

"Why?"

"Why a wedding? Or why an invitation?"

"The latter."

"I don't know. It was the Empress's idea. I was surprised. Another source seemed more likely."

Hecht showed nothing. He had no idea what this man knew. Or did not. Irregular letters slipped back and forth between Alten Weinberg and wherever life dragged him.

Renfrow's cast-iron expression suggested that he knew more than he should. Possibly even some content. Though a letter that went astray would do little to compromise its sender.

Helspeth stopped taking risks with the letter delivered by the Braunsknecht who had come to beg the loan of Drago Prosek. Exile had taught her caution.

Hecht said, "You'll have to present an invitation formally, through the Holy See. To get leave of the Patriarch. I expect to be campaigning against revenant evils in the Connec by then."

"Maybe you'll see King Jaime when he passes through."

"It could happen."

"Did you ever learn the truth about the child you brought home from Sonsa? The niece or daughter or whatever it was you were faking at that inn?"

"She was a clever liar. She convinced the women of the sporting house that she'd been kidnapped by Special Office types. In fact, her mother sold her to the house. Why are you here? An invitation doesn't need the infamous Ferris Renfrow."

"Infamous?"

Flickering, an old man in brown appeared behind the Imperial spymaster. Renfrow was looking directly at Hecht when it happened. He spun around. And around again. "What was that?"

"What?"

"Behind me. Something happened. You were looking at it. Tell me."

Hecht put on his best baffled face. "What are you talking about?" And, "If this is all you want, I have real work that needs doing. This Patriarch has strong ideas about his armed forces."

Ferris Renfrow had lost interest in Piper Hecht and whatever else had led him to arrange a meeting with the Church's leading warrior. He was off on a small, local quest, determined to unravel this sudden mystery. He mumbled, "What's become of Osa Stile? Why haven't I heard from him?"

Hecht did not respond. The question had not been addressed to him.

The Ninth Unknown showed himself just long enough to flash a grin and an old-fashioned thumbs-up. Renfrow spun around again.

Madouc said, "Again you're out of an interview with an important legate earlier than I expected."

"This one was crazy."

"Based on all I've seen lately, sir, most of the world fits nicely into that category. Meaning us three or four normal guys maybe better get to work making sure wickedness doesn't have its way completely."

"And you aren't so sure about me being one of the three or four. Right?"

Madouc grinned. Hecht suspected the man was not joking.

Hecht saw Titus Consent briefly before he moved on to his interview with Principatè Doneto, who, after an exchange of messages, had agreed to move their meeting up. But he would have to see Doneto at his city home.

"There have been two more deaths," Titus whispered.

"Suicides?"

"The one in the quarter was. The other, probably not. Though it wasn't murder."

"Tell me."

"Syphon Credulius. In the quarter."

"I don't know the name. Who was he?"

"A recent immigrant. Came while we were on Artecipea. Supposedly from the Holy Lands. But he didn't have the accent. He spent a lot of time nagging people for details about what happened in Sonsa. During the riots."

"Sounds like a spy."

"And a stupid one. Him killing himself made me think about what he was looking for. Which led me to a connection between most of the dead men that doesn't rely on them having been part of a slaving ring."

Hecht's heartbeat increased slightly. Titus seemed to have found his way to the conclusion Hecht himself had reached not long ago. "And?"

"I believe they shared a common thread of knowledge. I wonder how deadly having any grasp of that knowledge might be. And I wonder who it worries so much that he has to execute anyone who might be in on the secret."

Titus did seem to have worked it out. People who knew that Piper Hecht was not a fugitive from Duarnenia had been killing themselves. Only… "I don't know who's doing what to whom, or why, Titus. I once thought I saw the same connection you're seeing now. But a third of the dead men just won't fit. And, I gather, there have been similar deaths overseas. A whole rash in one port once famous for its slave market. Do you want permission to dig? Go to it. Maybe Bechter can enlist a Witchfinder to help. Whatever is going on, there's got to be sorcery involved."

Titus looked puzzled. But only for a moment. "I'm more worried about Noë and my children. They'd be lost if anything happened to me. None of our relatives would take them in. Because of our conversion."

"I can't see any reason for you to worry. But, I do admit, I don't know what's going on. I'll look out for you the best I can."

Titus was not reassured.

"There was another death?"

"Polo. That was your man, then Ghort's, and got crippled in that ambush."

That startled Hecht. He let it show. "Polo? That's sad. He was a good soul, if slow and inclined to pocket small coins and trivial bits that didn't belong to him. What's the story?"

"He fell down a flight of stairs. At home. No obvious signs of foul play. He'd been drinking. He'd been doing that a lot. But the Bruglioni are suspicious."

Hecht was suspicious. Polo was another someone who knew things about Piper Hecht. Possibly things he did not know he knew.

"Was this recent?"

"Day before yesterday. Paludan had him interred in the Bruglioni crypt. In the servants' area."

Hecht shuddered. "I started to go down there once. Got as far as the wine cellars and whatnot. Polo talked me out of going deeper. He said there was nothing to see but bundles of bones."

"That would be typical."

"And now I have to see Doneto. I'm not looking forward to it."

Pinkus Ghort guided Hecht into the little room where Bronte Doneto waited. It was overfurnished and overheated. Hecht had visited it once before, following the Plemenzan captivity. This was Doneto's ultimate refuge. Here the man felt safe to be whatever he wanted. Undoubtedly, the walls included stone from the Holy Lands.

Ghort did not leave. Neither did he appear thrilled by having to stay. Hecht did not question his presence.

Doneto said, "Make yourself comfortable. Coffee will be up momentarily. Your only vice, as I understand it."

"That and, according to some, being steadfast."

"A trait highly respected in Duarnenia, I hear. A title of high respect, Steadfast Guardian."

"Steadfast Guardian is what they call the Chief Castellan of the Grail Order. But, you're right, it can be given as an honor, too. Generally to somebody who has slaughtered an impressively large number of savages."

"Such is the way of the… What?" Doneto sat straight up, reminding Hecht of nothing so much as a hound startled out of sleep. "Pinkus. Did you… ?"

Ghort asked, "Principatè?"

"Something just happened. A force stirred. But I don't feel it now."

Hecht suspected someone in brown might have tried to enter the room. Something in the doorway had made his amulet react when he arrived.

Hecht put on his best perplexed expression and waited.

Doneto relaxed. He said, "Colonel Ghort tells me you feel we have a neutral balance of obligation between us."

"Essentially. I wakened you in the Ownvidian Knot. You got me out of captivity in Plemenza. Most would consider a life of slightly more value, but I'm content."

Doneto nodded. To himself. "And how do you feel about Principatè Delari?"

"I owe him a great deal, professionally."

"Indeed. And many wonder why."

"It's worked out well for everyone. So far."

"I think Rudenes Schneidel would demur."

Hecht chuckled. "And well he ought."

"Were you aware that Muniero Delari and I were once great enemies?"

"He mentioned having had a problem with you, yes. He said it was all a misunderstanding. That you'd discovered that you were both working toward the same objective."

"Not quite true, but a good foundation for a truce. Where has he been lately? He's been invisible since the election."

"I don't know. I haven't seen him. I'm supposed to take the family to his town house this evening."

The coffee arrived. The old woman who brought it was shaking.

"Hannah?" Doneto asked. "What is it?"

"A ghost, Your Grace. Or something of the Night. Right out there. Cold, Your Grace. Cold as the grave."

Doneto scowled at Hecht. "What did you bring into my house?"

"Nothing. You know I'm stone deaf to anything sorcerous."

"Except when it's about to murder you in the mountains. So. The question would seem to be, what follows after you? The answer would interest a lot of people."

"Sir?"

"You live a charmed life, Piper Hecht. Neither Death nor the Night seem able to find you, however hard they try."

"Praise the Lord."

"Enjoy your coffee. Hannah, show me where this happened." Doneto left the room.

Hecht asked Ghort, "Want some?"

"Only two cups there, Pipe."

"Only two of us here."

"I can't get away with the games you play, Pipe."

"Speaking of, what's he up to? What does he want?"

"Honestly?"

"Of course."

"I think he's trying to get a feel for how much trouble you'll be down the road."

"He's known me almost as long as you have."

"And I'm wondering, too. Things happen around you, Pipe. You maybe don't have a friggin' thing to do with getting them started. Like them soultaken that turned up at al-Khazen. You didn't conjure them, but according to anybody who looked into it, they were there on account of you. Them and Starkden and Masant al-Seyhan. Then you got Rudenes Schneidel making a career out of trying to kill you. And a giant-ass worm crawling up out of the ground, fixing to eat your ass. And that's just the shit I know about. What all else have guys like Doneto spotted?"

"So I'm like, what? The Chosen One of Legend? Something like that? And God, or the gods, haven't bothered to let me in on the secret?"

"Hey. That could be." Ghort stepped over to where he could look out the doorway. Then he stepped back and helped himself to a long swig off a bottle of liqueur he took from a sideboard near where he had been standing. A dozen bottles in various shapes stood there. Glass bottles. Those alone bespoke wealth and power. "I'm not the expert." He did the peek-out-and-duck-back again, drank from a different bottle. "Ugh! That's foul."

"What do you think is going on?"

"I told you. Sizing you up. Him looking farther down the road than most of the Collegium. Those others just want to get you gone to the Connec. You can do some good there and be out of the way at the same time. Doneto is maybe worried that you might turn into the kind of threat that Pacificus Sublime feared."

Hecht wondered how rehearsed this might be. "Why would people consider me a threat because I do my job?" It had to be his fault, somehow. It kept coming up.

Doneto returned just after Ghort helped himself to a third draught of liqueur. He stopped halfway across the room, sniffed, frowned, seated himself. His glance darted to the bottles. "How is the coffee?"

"Excellent."

"Pinkus, you should have taken the other cup. It's getting cold."

"I'd never presume, Your Grace."

Doneto almost smiled.

"Hecht, I'd hoped to spend a few hours getting a better feel for your views. But I have to deal with something that's gotten into the house. That's a real problem right now. I'll have to take the rest as it comes."

Hecht hoped he looked suitably bewildered. And just irked enough, with a dark glance at Ghort, to make Doneto think he believed the interruption had been staged.

He hoped Cloven Februaren had gotten a running start.

"It must be you," Madouc said as they descended to the street outside Doneto's town house. "You go in anticipating a long session and they bounce you right back out."

"This time the guy had a paranoid seizure. He suddenly decided that something awful had invaded his house. He had to get it out. Nothing else mattered."

"And he wasn't looking at you when he said it?"

"You're in a feisty mood. He was not looking my way."

"Got to do what I can to keep my spirits up, sir. This will be my longest day since we got back from Artecipea."

"Take the rest off. I don't need a shadow."

"How can you be bright about so much, yet persistently dumb about your own safety?"

Hecht started to argue.

"Sir! There are people and things who want to kill you. Wishful thinking won't change that."

Hecht grumbled something to the effect that somewhere Anna Mozilla was cackling and rubbing her hands together. Anna had started hinting that he should consider retirement. He owed no one. And the Connecten campaign had brought wealth his way. Not a vast fortune such as Sublime had hoped to gain but enough to live comfortably.

He could not do that. He was not made that way. Chances were, he would follow Grade Drocker's example and die in service. Possibly equally miserably.

Hecht grumbled some more. Without point. It was unreasonable to expect the anonymity he had enjoyed when he, Ghort, Bo Biogna, and Just Plain Joe joined the first expedition into the Connec.

"Madouc, I understand. Intellectually. But I'll never like dragging a mob around."

"We could solve that by letting you get got once. Not fatally. Just enough to get the message pounded into your soul."

"Yes. That might do it." Really? After the attempts he had survived already?

There was. only one way he could get what he wanted back. Rid the world of er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen. Or pray that Nassim Alizarin would do so.

"Well, Madouc, I'll try to uncomplicate your life. I'll stay inside safe places as much as I can."

Madouc did not appear mollified. Presumably because he recalled the firepowder attack on Anna's house.

"At least learn to delegate." Madouc did not trust his own men to do their jobs without him watching over their shoulders.

"A shortcoming of my own."

"Well, that's interesting," Hecht said as he helped Anna board Principatè Delari's coach.

"What's that?" She was ravishing. She had commissioned a new gown. Hecht wished he could parade her through the Chiaro Palace, just to make those cranky old men drool.

"Madouc. He found a way to compromise with his conscience and let his men do their jobs."

"Does he have a family?"

"The Brotherhood. Come on, kids. Vali, you look stunning." Vali had a new gown, too. She would be a beauty in a few more years.

"And you, Lila." Lila wore a gown of Anna's that had been refit for her. Her idea. She loved the particular piece. It was the richest thing she had ever worn.

"Pella, you look like a young lord."

"An' I itch like one, too."

Pella did not want to go to Principatè Delari's town house. He felt too self-conscious.

"It's the price you pay for the life you live. You want to be comfortable, you have to dress up and be uncomfortable. Look at me."

Hecht was an adult reflection of Pella. Though Pella was heavy on green and Hecht wore dark blue. Both preferring one main color to the flash lately shown by Pinkus Ghort. "I always feel silly in hose."

Though he protested dressing in style, Hecht had grown accustomed to doing so. The west had seduced him thoroughly.

He climbed aboard the coach and settled beside Anna, opposite the children. Lila was terrified. Vali took her hand and tried to look bored. Hecht observed, "We'll need to get Pella a razor pretty soon."

Anna grumbled, "Did you have to bring that damned sword?"

The hilt of his weapon pressed the outside of her thigh. "I did. Yes. I'll move it."

He had a bad feeling, suddenly. Like mentioning the blade might conjure a need for its use. Just when Madouc decided to take time off.

It was a tense ride. And for naught. They reached Muniero Delari's town house without misadventure. There was still some light when Hecht began handing the other passengers down.

Noting his stare, Pella said, "That's where part of the house fell down. They got it almost all fixed."

"You've been over here?"

"I go exploring. When there ain't nothing else to do."

"Interesting." Hecht was inclined to go look. He did not, despite being early. Nothing of the original disaster remained to be studied. And the lifeguards were getting that strained look.

Heris came out, followed by Turking and Felske. In case anything needed carrying, Hecht supposed. "We're early."

"Grandfather will be pleased. There'll be more time to talk." She embraced Anna. Anna had no trouble with that. Her negativity had faded. "Anna, you look like a queen. And the children like young lords and ladies. You didn't need to go to so much trouble." She eyed Lila, plainly curious.

"Nor did you, then."

Heris had made an effort. "Grandfather's idea. He wants me to become more social. I'm starting small."

Anna said, "This is Lila. She lives with us, now."

"I see." Heris would know about Lila. Given her own history, she was unlikely to be judgmental.

They entered the house. Heris said, "Make yourselves comfortable. Grandfather will show up whenever he can tear himself away from his sorcery." She squealed. "Damnit! Stop doing that!"

She had turned to follow Turking and Felske. And had bumped into an old man dressed in brown.

Cloven Februaren flashed a big grin. "It's juvenile but it never stops being fun. So, Piper. Introduce me."

Hecht was not quite sure how to do that. When he did nothing, Februaren stepped up to Anna. "The boy must be tongue-tied. I, lovely lady, am Muno's grandfather, Cloven Februaren."

Pella blurted, "You can't be! Nobody is that old."

Hecht said, "Pella. Manners."

Februaren said, "He's right, Piper. Almost. Hardly anybody human is as old as I am." To Anna, he said, "You don't know about me."

Anna shook her head. "It seems like I should, though."

"Admirably closemouthed, our Piper. I'm his guardian angel. I follow him around and protect him from assassins when he's too stubborn to listen to his bodyguards."

Pella blurted, "You were the Ninth Unknown!"

"Still am. You'd be the literary character, eh? Pellapront Versulius. Have you read The Lay of Ihrian?"

"There's only one copy in Brothe, Your Grace. Principatè Doneto owns it. Colonel Ghort tried to get him to let me read it. He wouldn't let me, not even if I did it in his house."

"Wish I'd known that this afternoon. Piper and I were there. I could've borrowed it."

Hecht said, "I'd bet it was in that room you couldn't get into."

"I could have. But it would've made a mess. And would've gotten Doneto more upset than he is. Which is upset enough to launch an effort to trace back the true history of the Duarnenian sellsword, Piper Hecht."

Anna betrayed herself with a sudden intake of breath.

"Not to worry. Duarnenia and the Grand Marshes are under the ice. Your friend Bo Begonia won't wrestle the Windwalker to find some dirt."

"Biogna," Hecht corrected. "So. He's back with the City Regiment."

"I imagine he became a Patriarchal because Bronte Doneto insisted. And to be around his friend Joe. Again, not to worry. Hardly anybody remembers you passing through, headed south. But he'll find your name in the pay books some of the places you worked." The old man grinned.

"I need to talk to you about a couple of things. Privately."

"They'll have to wait. Here's Muno. And he looks hungry."

Hecht thought Delari looked distracted. He did not have much to say, then or during the prolonged dinner that followed. The company took their cue from him. Even Pella remained subdued.

At one point Delari looked up and seemed surprised to see them all. Apropos of nothing that had been said at any time since Hecht's arrival, he announced, "I don't think it's a war that we can win." He withdrew into himself again.

Cloven Februaren shrugged, signaled Felske to pour more wine. He was putting it away. To Anna he confided, "I can take the night off. Piper is safe here."

Anna glanced toward Hecht. A joke?

Hecht shrugged. He had no idea how the old man's sense of humor worked. Except that he enjoyed practical jokes.

Hecht said, "Your Grace, I have a question about the killer we hunted down back before the Connecten Crusade started. The one underground."

"Hunh?" Delari was in touch enough to understand that he was being addressed.

"The same kind of murders are happening again. In the same neighborhood."

Delari forced himself to focus. "It's back?"

"Something is."

"What did Doneto say about it? You saw him today."

"The subject didn't come up. There was an intruder in the house. He cut the interview short."

"Intruder." Delari eyed his grandfather. "I see." He smiled wearily. "Good. If he's chasing his own tail he can't get up to any other mischief."

"Mischief? Like what?"

"We'll talk later. Heris, be a good girl, make the coffee, then join us in the quiet room."

Dutifully, Heris left, taking Felske. Turking began to clear away. Anna and the youngsters were at a loss. What now?

Delari started to leave, recalled his guests. He came back. "Anna. Pardon me. I've been thoughtless. I'll have something done about that monster. I wish I could tell you how to entertain yourselves while we spit and roast Piper. I've been in another world since I got back from the Connec. Turking. You've got the rooms ready?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Then we're not doing everything wrong. Piper, Grandfather, we should get there before Heris and the coffee. Turking, see if our guests would like some, too."

"Yes, Your Grace."

Climbing upstairs, slowly because neither Delari nor Februaren were especially spry, the Principatè observed, "She's quiet about it but she's angry. Anna."

Hecht said, "She thought this would be a major social event. She had a new gown made. She worked hard to make the kids look good."

"My fault. My fault. I should've seen that. I'll do what I can to soothe her."

Heris did almost beat them to the quiet room. Delari closed and locked the door while she poured. They settled at the sides of a small, square table, new since Hecht's last visit.

Hecht sipped rich coffee and waited. Heris and the Ninth Unknown did the same. Delari started to speak several times, backed off to get his words right.

Februaren finally said, "He can't get to what's on his mind, I'll go with what's on mine. Piper, I need you to get rid of the ring. Take it back to the Bruglioni. Make up a story."

"What ring?"

"Sainted Eis. Here we go again." Once he had reminded Hecht of what he was talking about, he said, "Give it back. It's becoming a liability. They know you have it. The servant, Polo, remembered. You don't want to provoke them more than you have already."

Hecht started to protest that he had done nothing… "They don't know about that, do they?"

"Gervase Saluda has suspicions. He's mentioned them to Paludan. Neither believes it. Yet. They can't get it to make sense. They don't know the history that brought Divino Bruglioni low. Returning the ring ought to disarm them."

"And the Night?"

"We'll find another way to blind or distract them."

"The Night. That war can't be won."

"Muno?"

"Grandfather?"

"You can only kill the older gods. The discrete Instrumentalities. Not the diffuse modern ones."

Delari had his audience. Only Heris moved at all, slowly lifting her coffee cup to her lips. He asked, "Piper. How would you kill God? Our God, not something like Rook or Weaver."

Hecht intuited the problem. "I'd have to get Him to manifest so I could shoot Him."

"But that can't happen. Not with our God, the God of the Pramans, or the God of the Deves or Dainshaus. Pretty much the same God wearing different masks for the benefit of the faithful. The problem is, unlike Ordnan or Seska or whichever, this Instrumentality is expected to be everywhere at once. He does that by putting a little bit of Himself into each place that is consecrated to Him. Which is God doing to Himself what the sorcerers of the Old Empire did to the most powerful Instrumentalities of their time."

"Which might be why there's no credible example of God stepping on stage since back when the Dainshaukin murdered goats in His honor." Cloven Februaren stabbed the air and grinned. He had marvelous teeth.

Delari said, "To destroy God you'd have to visit every church and shrine in the world, find the bit of God consecrating them, and treat it. A thousand Witchfinders working for a thousand years might only get to the point where the surviving fragments could pull themselves together from places you didn't know about and places you couldn't reach because they're under the ice."

"No one wants to destroy God," Heris said. "Just the Instrumentalities. The things that make human life awful."

Februaren said, "Humans make human life awful, girl. Instrumentalities are a handy excuse."

"Speaking of making life awful," Hecht said. "Have you been making people kill themselves?"

"I? Why? Who killed himself?"

Hecht explained.

"Interesting. Maybe you have more than one guardian angel."

Hecht did not believe that. Nor that the old man was innocent.

"It matters not, if they belonged to the ring that sold you into slavery."

"It matters…" Hecht noted real emotion in Heris. For the first time. The hatred rolled off her like clouds of black steam. "Not those men. The others "

Februaren looked like he might really be surprised. "Others?"

"Men have died, by their own hands, who had nothing to do with slaving."

"You're certain?"

"Yes."

"Possibly their lives had lost meaning. Better yet, name me three you know were innocent."

Hecht could not do that.

"Better still, give me another motive."

While Hecht and the Ninth Unknown glared at one another, Principatè Delari visited a small sideboard, took a scrap of greenish paper from a thin drawer. It had been folded once, crosswise. He dropped it in front of Hecht. "That's your father's list. Exculpate whomever you can."

It was a long list inscribed in tiny characters in the crabbed hand of a man near the end of a painful terminal disease. Tick marks had been placed beside a score of names. Hecht recognized only a few. He knew several of the unchecked names. "There'll be another list with check marks."

The man in brown pulled one out of his sleeve, pushed it over. It was on slightly tan paper. Heris snatched the green list. "Oh! These two. We worked in their houses in Shartelle. Mintone was particularly cruel to Mother."

The old man in brown said, "Josuf Mintone died last year. His house burned down. He was inside. It took him a long time to die. He understood why."

Hecht could see there was more. Februaren did not tell it.

Hecht consulted the old man's list. It matched the unchecked names from Grade Drocker's, with two additions. Just one name remained unchecked.

Heris took that list. Februaren indicated the unchecked name. "He may have gotten away by dying on us. Or he may have been smart enough to see what was coming. He was last seen on a barge on the Shirne headed toward al-Qarn, whining because he had malaria."

"There are names missing," Heris said. She was alive now, like some vengeful harpy Instrumentality.

Hecht said, "I thought shared knowledge might be a thread linking some of the dead."

Februaren observed, "And it would be right to leave them rambling around sharing that thread with anyone who wants to listen."

"I didn't say that."

"You're thinking it. If only obliquely. Being dishonest with yourself."

"You can't kill everyone who knows about me."

Muniero Delari said, "You can't kill Armand."

"And why not, Muno? He's a spy. A slimy spy."

"I know that. I always knew that. When he was in my household I controlled what he reported to Alten Weinberg."

"Anna and Titus Consent are immune," Hecht said. Ferris Renfrow he was not so sure about.

Heris muttered to herself as she continued to glare at Cloven Februaren's list. "I said there are names missing, double-great-grandpa."

"I'm listening, sweetheart."

Heris named three men and a woman against whom she enjoyed abiding grudges. After questioning her, Februaren concluded, "Only the woman Hasheyda fits. The rest were just slaveholders. They treated you the same as their other slaves. The woman, though, has come up before. She may have helped finance the slaving expedition. Her front man paid his due before she became suspect. She'll be interviewed."

Heris muttered, "I'd like to interview her. For about a year, in a torture chamber."

"You wouldn't come out any happier."

Hecht changed the subject. "Principatè. Where have you been since you got back? Everyone keeps asking."

"They don't need to know."

"I wouldn't tell them. But the asking leaves me curious."

"I've been down under. With the Construct. And in the catacombs."

"Staying out of the way?"

"I came up to vote. Twice. And to campaign against myself in the second election. The world is getting harsher every day. I have no time to waste socializing with idiots who can't see what's coming right at them."

Februaren suggested, "If you spent time with them you might open their eyes."

Delari snorted. "The only one out there interested in anything but his own power and pleasure is Bronte Doneto. And he's interested for the wrong reasons."

Hecht said, "I was impressed by Hugo Mongoz. Though our interview wasn't as thorough as it might have been."

"I'll give you Boniface. But the man won't be around long. And most of what he gets done is because people are humoring an old man."

"Fix him up with enough time to do some good."

"Eh?"

Hecht pointed at Februaren. "He's figured out how to hang around forever. Fix it so the Patriarch stays with us for a while, too."

"Nice idea. In theory," Februaren said. "Probably impractical. But I'll think about it. The ring, Piper. Tomorrow. Get shut of it. It's important. The Instrumentalities are about to figure it out."

Hecht nodded. He asked Delari, "Do you know the whole story about Osa Stile?"

The Principatè frowned. "Osa Stile?"

"Armand? Osa Stile is his real name."

"How would you… ? He's an agent of Ferris Renfrow, the Imperial spy. He arranged embarrassments for the Church in the Connec before I inherited him."

"Osa was a gift to Ferris Renfrow from Dreanger. He was made by er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen. He's almost my age. His first loyalty is to the Rascal, not Renfrow. Nor his lovers. I believe er-Rashal subtly suggested Osa's use in the Connec. Where al-Dhulquarnen and his allies would experiment with resurrecting banished gods. They didn't count on Bishop Serifs being so awful that a Braunsknecht would fling him off a cliff."

Delari asked, "You know this for a fact?"

"About Osa Stile? Yes. I'm speculating about er-Rashal's conniving."

"And where does your loyalty lie now, Piper?" Februaren asked. "Since you were sent west to die, and have been attacked repeatedly because you won't stop breathing."

"I don't know. Honestly. Intellectually, I know I've been betrayed by Gordimer and al-Dhulquarnen. They've made enemies of themselves. But I haven't been betrayed by the Sha-lug. My own company, that I commanded before I came over here, were at al-Khazen. And, later, at Arn Bedu. They were betrayed, too. Because of their association with me. They didn't turn on me. Neither, I suspect, would most Sha-lug." Though he had been away so long that few would remember him.

Februaren nodded. "The one called the Mountain. Hiding amongst the Pramans at Arn Bedu. He's in Lucidia, now. Supported by the Kaif of Qasr al-Zed. He's gathering Sha-lug willing to turn on Gordimer and er-Rashal. But he's gotten less sympathy than he expected. He's survived several assassination attempts. He'll need luck to keep on."

"Tomorrow," Delari said. Evidently lost inside his own head.

Everyone stared. He did not go on.

"Muno? You were going to say something." Februaren put an edge in his voice, adult to inattentive youngster.

"Uh? Oh. Yes. Tomorrow. Heris. You start Piper's education with the Construct."

"Piper has to visit the Bruglioni."

"Afterward, then. But tomorrow. We need to get on with it. It can't be that long before he has to go off to the Connec again."

"I don't have time!" Hecht protested.

"Make time, Piper," Februaren said. "Trust your staff. This is important. Muno and I aren't immortal."

"I have no talent for sorcery."

"Talent not required. No more so than to throw a rock. We'll both be there to instruct you. Right, Muno?"

The Principatè nodded. But he was drifting again.

"What did you talk about?" Anna wanted to know when Hecht slipped into their borrowed bed.

"Yesterday, today, and tomorrow. Depressing stuff."

"And secret?"

"Naturally."

"Politics?"

"That, too. But you'll get help with the killer in your neighborhood."

"And you have to… ?"

"I have to study something with Delari before I go back to the Connec."

Disappointed, she murmured, "How soon will that be?"

"Depends on Boniface. He doesn't seem to be in a hurry. Certainly not till all the troops from Artecipea are over and rested and refitted."

Anna pressed against him, head to toe. "I don't want you to go."

"I know. But I can't not."

"I know. You can't stop being you."

That was not really it. Or, maybe it was.

"You're the last person I expected to see," Paludan Bruglioni said, looking startled. "You've gotten us out of your life." The man was nervous. He had trouble meeting Hecht's eyes. He had lost hair and gained weight.

"Not at all. I owe you. You gave me work when I was new here. I gave you my best while I was here."

Grudgingly, Paludan admitted, "You did turn us around. You did win back the respect we'd lost." Lost because of Paludan Bruglioni's indifference toward management of the family he had come to head at too early an age.

"But you were unhappy with me anyway. So I hear."

"You say you have something… ?" Paludan lost focus. He stared at a shadowed corner, the color draining from his face.

"I may have found the ring I was so sure I didn't have."

He had a note on paper fixed to his left wrist. Writing never forgot. "If this is it." He handed the gold band to Bruglioni. "I found it with some coins and jewelry I brought back from Artecipea. I don't know if I picked it up there or if I had it all along. All along makes more sense."

Paludan glared as hard as a frightened man dared.

"I showed it to Principatè Delari. He said there's a spell on it that makes you forget it. I wrote it all down." He showed his wrist.

Bruglioni studied the ring. "It looks like the one Divino had. And he always claimed that only people who had seen it but didn't actually have it could remember it."

"So what's the point of it if you don't know you have it? What kind of lunatic sorcerer makes a magic ring like that?"

"I couldn't guess the reasoning. Maybe the ring did what it was supposed to do way back when and is still around because nobody remembers it long enough to melt it down."

"That fits. The Principatè thinks it goes back to antiquity, even before the Agean Empire. But he couldn't guess why it was made."

Bruglioni had been turning the ring over and over. Now he slipped it onto a finger. "Uncle Divino didn't know. Didn't remember he had it till it was gone."

"I'm really pressed for time. I just wanted to do right after I found out I'd been wrong and really did have the ring. And I wanted to see for myself that everything was going good here."

"Still better than before you came here. Gervase prods me when I backslide. He shows me the youngsters coming up. That reminds me what might be—if I don't pay attention. I'm sorry I shoehorned him into Divino's seat. He isn't around enough, now." He shrugged. "Gervase is the best we have."

Hecht offered to shake hands. Bruglioni passed. It was not a current custom. He told Hecht, "Good luck in the Connec. Clean them out this time."

"I mean to try."

Paludan let out a startled squawk soon after Hecht left him.

That old man was going to get himself into something he could not handle, someday.

Principal Delari was in a dark mood. "You're late."

Hecht said, "Your grandfather played one practical joke too many. We almost didn't make it out of the Bruglioni place."

Februaren managed to look sheepish. For a moment.

Hecht joined Heris. She was looking down at the giant map of the world. "There've been changes." Heris was grubbier than usual.

"The ice line?"

"That." That was obvious. "But some more subtle things, too."

"There's the sea levels rising in the Negrine and those two lesser seas farther east. More snowfall to the north means more meltwater during the spring and summer."

"You're well informed."

"Grandfather has been sneaking me in here all year. To learn the Construct. Hoping I'll be able to work it someday. Now he wants to crash train you, too."

"What? We don't have an ounce of talent for sorcery between us."

"He claims it doesn't matter. The sorcery is in the engine. You just have to know how to tell it what to do. Februaren is a true master. He doesn't even have to talk to it. Maybe he'll teach us. Grandfather isn't good at getting ideas across."

"If Februaren can stop pinching bottoms and tugging ears. How did you get here? Bribe the guards?" The only women allowed in the Chiaro Palace were nuns of the Bettine Order. And those nuns down there, updating the map.

"I come in underground."

That explained the dust and grime. "Wow. You have more guts than I do. I've only been down a few times. I won't go again unless I have to."

"Grandfather told me. But it's tame, now. He's made sure. The old man helped."

Hecht sighed. "I don't know how he gets around and gets all those things done."

"The Construct." Heris gestured at the map. "He's a virtuoso."

"That's how he skips all the walking in between?"

"Yes. He's the only one who can do it today. The wells of power are too weak and too many revenants are competing for what power there is. Your work in the Connec should help. Grandfather really wants the good old days back. He couldn't even get himself out of that hole where you found him that time. When he still thought he was Lord of the Silent Kingdom."

While they talked Cloven Februaren sparked around the vast chamber, looking over the shoulders of people working on the Construct. He restrained his urge to startle.

Principatè Delari did the same, using ladders and catwalks.

Heris said, "If the wells come back strong, you and me, we should be able to do what the old man does. If we study hard enough and want it bad enough."

Heris wanted it badly enough. But her motives might not be pure.

"What?" Heris asked. "I didn't hear the joke."

"Thinking of motivation and purity. In this city. In this palace."

"That would be a joke, wouldn't it?"

Six weeks more passed before Boniface gave the order that sent Patriarchal forces into the field. Piper Hecht spent five hours each day beneath the Chiaro Palace. He did not believe he was doing any learning. Delari and Februaren disagreed. "You're becoming attuned," Februaren insisted. "Eventually, we'll be able to communicate from afar. I can watch you from afar already. I won't have to tag along quite so much. So. Go on out to the wild country, where the people talk funny, and kill some gods. I need the power they're sucking up."

Four days before leaving for the wild country Hecht received a request that he visit the Penital, a direct appeal from the Imperial legate himself. With assurances that no misdirection was involved.

Rumors that the Imperial nuptials had grown shaky abounded. Hecht supposed the legate wanted to set the record straight.

He supposed right.

The legate told him, "The wedding has been postponed again. Because of complications with King Jaime's recovery from his wounds. He was less ready to travel than he believed. He collapsed as his party neared Khaurene."

"Is he trying to elude the commitment?"

"Not at all. He's too eager. Her Majesty will contact you as soon as we set a new date." The legate smiled at some private joke.

"My appreciation, My Lord." Hecht left the Penital bemused yet again by the Empress's evident interest. Why?

The legate had shrugged and shaken his head when asked the question direct.

The Patriarchal army approached the Dechear River with twenty-four hundred men, all Boniface VII would approve for the campaign. The Patriarch believed a larger force might spark a Connecten resistance while fewer soldiers would not be enough to handle the anticipated supernatural chaos. The Captain-General had no Principatès underfoot. Members of the Collegium were sticking close to Brothe. The next Patriarchal election would be a critical one. It would be fought to the bitter end. There would be no antique compromise to fill the slot while younger men maneuvered. Hecht hoped there would be no election for years. He liked Hugo Mongoz as Patriarch. He hoped Principatè Delari and Cloven Februaren would use the power of the Construct to assure his longevity.

"Rider coming in," Clej Sedlakova announced. "I'd guess down from Viscesment."

Hecht spotted the man. He wore Braunsknecht dress. "Good guess." Despite Empress Katrin's rapprochement with the Brothen Church, a small band of Braunsknechts still guarded Bellicose.

The man drew closer. He picked up shadows from among the outriders. Hecht observed, "We've seen this one before." He urged his mount farther from the road, where the troops were heading down to the Dechear in no particular hurry. Sedlakova, Smolens, Consent, and several others stayed with Hecht.

"Algres Drear," Consent said. "That's what he called himself when he came to borrow Drago Prosek."

Drear approached carefully, though his caution was of no value. "Captain-General. I bring dispatches."

"Captain Drear. I thought you attended to Princess Helspeth's safety."

"Once upon a time. In another life. Before I let her get away with going into the field against the Remayne Pass monster. Where the chit embarrassed the heroes of the Empire by actually slaying the dragon. I got rusticated. I'm being rehabilitated, now. Allowed to work my way back. As commander of the six-man company protecting someone the Empress would rather not protect. But we have to observe Imperial tradition."

"I see. Dispatches?"

Drear produced a fat, wheat-colored leather courier's case. "Long-winded, I'm sure. But the gist will be, Bellicose and Boniface have a deal. Bellicose will end the Viscesment Patriarchy. He'll succeed Boniface in Brothe. Once he's gone, there'll be just one Patriarchy."

Hecht's staff refused to believe it. Those with deep ties to the Brotherhood indulged in some derision. Hecht read the dispatches. "The Captain is right, gentlemen. It's all right here, in Church legalese."

Colonel Smolens said, 'The whole goddamned Collegium will be shitting square turds over this."

"Probably," Hecht said. "But first, Captain, how old would Bellicose be?"

"In his fifties. And full of ambition. But he's a cripple. Polio when he was little. It's a miracle he's lived this long."

"I see. So. The Collegium might go along. If cool heads prevail and enough men want to end the multiple Patriarch problem."

Not many men accounted the Collegium collectively capable of making mature decisions. Hecht counted himself among the skeptics. Those old men all behaved like spoiled eight-year-olds.

Drear said, "A further consequence of the agreement is that Bellicose is now your ally. The bridges over the Dechear are now available. Bellicose hopes you'll make Viscesment your base for operations in that part of the Connec. That would stimulate the local economy."

Interesting. "Colonel Smolens. An opportunity to return to the scene of your crimes. Take our main force north and cross at Viscesment. That will put us right opposite the country we need to clear."

Madouc was scowling already. He knew he would not like what he was about to hear.

"I'll stay with the battalion already crossing here. We'll follow the west bank north. Madouc, I don't want to hear it. Where's my kid? Why the hell does he keep disappearing?"

"He's with Presten and Bags," Madouc replied. "He wanted to see where the worm came out of the ground."

Hecht glanced southward. There was no sign now of what had happened last year. "You lose him, you won't have to explain to me. I'll just feed you to Anna. What now?"

A rider was headed back alongside the road, as hard as he dared without trampling anyone. The soldiers had begun stopping and falling out as word spread that a change of plan was in the works.

The rider was one of Drago Prosek's falconeers. They had been first to cross the river.

"Captain-General. Sir. Some Connecten nobles want to talk. One is that Count Raymone Garete."

"Never stops raining," Hecht said. "Captain Drear, stick with me till I can deal with you more fully. Sergeant Bechter, make Captain Drear's visit pleasant. Madouc, I wasn't kidding about the boy. I had a letter from Anna yesterday. She isn't happy." She also reported that Principatè Delari and Principatè Doneto had enjoyed less than complete success at destroying the killing beast underneath Brothe. They had gone below with silver and iron and borrowed falcons. The thing had flown after one debilitating encounter. Since then it had evaded them. And had not betrayed itself by coming to the surface to practice its horrors. Now there were rumors of terrible things happening to those who lived underground. Pallid adults had dragged themselves into the hateful sunlight for the first time in their lives. The Principatès feared the killing thing was a more potent Instrumentality than originally suspected. Research was under way. Other members of the Collegium were being enlisted in the hunt.

Principatè Delari still guaranteed its extermination.

The Principatès now feared the thing was the queen of a terrible brood. They had caught and destroyed a dozen smaller, murderous evil things like it—all summoned into being by the hateful imaginings of the refugee populace.

So. Instrumentalities could be created by the pressure of the irrational fears of too many people crowded into too narrow a space.

Hecht supposed that should have been no surprise.

Madouc said, "It's not the boy we need to worry about. He's tractable enough when it comes to the wishes of his lifeguards."

"Yes. Yes. I know that psalm by heart. Let's go, gentlemen. I want to meet this paragon of Connecten nationalism, Raymone Garete."

Count  Raymone  did  not   seem   remarkable.   A reasonable man, apparently. He just wanted to be sure he understood what the Patriarchal forces meant to accomplish.

"In that case, Captain-General, I can lend you some of my own people. In particular, those who fled the counties where the Night holds sway now. I hope you go after the invaders with as much zeal as you came after us last year."

"You're welcome to join me. I can't support you financially, though. I can barely support myself, that way."

"That isn't a problem."

Hecht eyed the woman beside Count Raymone. The former prisoner, working hard to keep her mouth shut. Raymone's wife, now. Presumably, some of the Count's companions would be her brothers.

"I expect another hard winter," Hecht said. "We'll operate out of Viscesment." That startled Count Raymone. "Boniface and Bellicose have made peace."

The wide man, the cousin, Bernardin Amberchelle, barked malicious laughter. "Open season on the Society, brothers! Open season."

"Indeed," Hecht said. "The new Patriarch has a fixed loathing for the Society. But I don't think we'll find many of those where we'll be campaigning. They lack the nerve to operate under the nose of the Night."

"I like this guy," Amberchelle said. "Even if it wasn't all that comfortable being his prisoner."

"Enough!" the woman said.

Hecht said, "I trust you found your captivity less taxing, Countess."

The woman loosed a jackass bray of laughter. "Stupidest thing I ever did was run away. I was warm and I got fed regular. After I escaped I froze for weeks and almost starved to death. But, by damn! I was a free Connecten."

"I've been there. Count Raymone, I want to make it plain that I haven't been sent here to recover your lost territories for you. I'm here to get rid of rogue things of the Night. I will, however, keep those things away from you while you deal with squatters. I'm told a previous attempt bogged down because there are so many Night things up there."

"There was that. And the fact that I only sent a few men."

"I'll have no trouble working with you that way. I look forward to everything but winter. Which looks like it's going to come even earlier this year."

It did. And it was fierce.

Campaigning out of Viscesment made for some comfort. The Captain-General and Count Raymone moved from strongpoint to strongpoint, eliminating their respective targets, seldom spending much time in the cold. Neither the squatters nor the Night offered any challenge. Both fought in furious despair, to little effect. Arnhander knights in captured castles were more difficult at first, but faced with a choice between instant surrender or certain extermination, they abandoned resistance and began migrating northward before Nemesis overtook them.

Drago Prosek and his henchmen had a wonderful time with the stinks and bangs. "But this isn't much harder than butchering chickens," Prosek averred. "Big or little, these Night things suffer from an abiding plague of stupid."

Months based in the onetime seat of the Anti-Patriarchs allowed the Captain-General to become familiar with the local offshoot of the Chaldarean faith. And to meet and grow partial to the man Rocklin Glas, a man much like Hugo Mongoz. Hecht made a point of reminding Cloven Februaren, who turned up randomly, that Bellicose was a good man. He wrote Boniface and the Collegium to report the same thing. Never failing to remind the latter that Bellicose could not possibly survive Boniface by long.

Come spring Titus brought word: "King Jaime is on the move. His advance riders just arrived. He'll use the Viscesment bridges. If you want to attend the wedding you can join up with him here."

Hecht had Boniface's permission to attend. Indeed, he would stand in for the Patriarch, Boniface being too frail to cross the Jagos.

Colonel Smolens overheard. "Go ahead. Sir, you'll never enjoy a grander honor. Sedlakova, Brokke, Consent, and I can keep the outfit from falling apart."

King Jaime of Castauriga was just tall enough not to be accounted a dwarf—in Piper Hecht's opinion. He disliked the Direcian at first sight. The man had a dramatically inflated notion of his own worth. So much so that Cloven Februaren proved incapable of restraining his inclination to deflate swelled heads.

After just two days of sharing the road with the future Imperial consort, Madouc observed, "They say the Empress is mad about Jaime. She'd have to be."

Pella cackled like an old woman. Hecht said, "We'll reach Alten Weinberg a week before the wedding. That should give Katrin time to see through the dusky little bastard."

He knew that was wishful thinking, though. Katrin had her mind made up and her heart set. Her Council Advisory were not, supposedly, even a little thrilled. Especially not those members who had seen Jaime at Los Naves de los Fantas.

Piper Hecht did not worry about Katrin. He could not drag his thoughts away from Helspeth. In just days he would see her again. How much had his imagination run away from reality?

He felt like a callow youngster. And wondered what the Princess might be thinking. Might be anticipating.

And never stopped worrying about the soldiers he had left behind, tasked to tame the Connecten Night.

How could they possibly manage without him?