"KRALJICA?"

         "When I'm eighteen, I'll be Kraljiki just like you became Kraljica," Justi said, smiling at her as she held him. She laughed.

    "Is that what you want, Justi? That means I only have twelve more years to live." She pouted dramatically, and Justi's eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. The courtiers gathered around them laughed.

    "Oh, no, Matarh," Justi said, the words tumbling out all in a rush. "I want you to live forever and ever!"

    "Kraljica?"

    The Throne Room smelled of oils. When Renard's voice came, Marguerite found herself startled—she'd nearly fallen into a trance as the painter ci'Recroix first sketched her likeness on the canvas and began applying the underpainting. She was startled to see darkness outside the windows of the West Reception Chamber, and to find the room lit by a dozen candelabra and the eternal glow of the Sun Throne.

    Several of the courtiers were standing well to the back of the room—banished there because ci'Recroix had said that he could not work with gawkers looking over his shoulder—and talking softly among themselves while servants bustled about. How long had she been sitting there? Had she ordered the candles lit? It seemed bare minutes ago that Third Call had sounded.

    "Yes?" she asked Renard, blinking at him standing before her with hands on forehead—here, in public, always the correct image of an aide. Renard glanced over at the painter. Ci'Recroix straightened by the canvas set at the foot of Marguerite's dais, stirring his brush in a jar of turpentine. Pale colors swirled around the fine sable hairs. The strange, dark box of a mechanism he'd used to sketch her initial likeness, the device he'd called a "miroire a'scéne," was draped in black cloth on the floor nearby.

    "Kraljica, the Commandant ca'Rudka is here with his report."

    "Ah!" Marguerite blinked. She felt somnolent and lethargic, and shook her head to clear it. She wondered whether she'd been sleeping, and if anyone had noticed. "Send him up. Vajiki ci'Recroix, I'm afraid that our session is over for today."

    The painter bowed and pressed his paint-stained hands to his forehead, leaving behind a smudge of vermilion. "As you wish, Kraljica. When should I return? Tomorrow afternoon, perhaps? The lighting I want to capture on your face is that of the late day—the light looks so dramatic on your face, coupled with the Sun Throne behind you. . . ."

    "That will be fine—Renard, make certain there are a few turns of the glass in my schedule for Vajiki ci'Recroix before Third Call. And please clear the room so that the commandant and I have some privacy; I will meet with the court afterward in the Red Hall for supper." As Renard bowed and went to the courtiers, as the painter began to gather up his oils and brushes, Marguerite rose from the crystalline seat. The light in the Sun Throne dimmed and faded, making the room seem dark as the courtiers noisily filed out of the room. "I would like to see what you've done," she told the artist.

    Ci'Recroix was visibly startled by the request. He dropped the brushes he was holding on the small table next to the easel and quickly draped a white sheet over the canvas. "You cannot, Kraljica."

    "I cannot?" Her head tilted slightly to one side with the word, and an eyebrow lifted.

    "Well . . . I would strongly prefer that you do not, Kraljica," ci'Recroix quickly amended, with another pressing of hands to forehead. He picked up the brushes again and began to place them in a case. "I've only just made my sketch and began to place the undertones on the canvas. You would be more pleased if you could wait until I have something substantial to show you. It's the way I work with my subjects; I want to surprise them with an image of themselves, as if they were looking into a mirror, but this . . ." He waved his hand at the hidden canvas. "This would only disappoint you at the moment, I'm afraid. So if it would please the Kraljica, I beg you not to look. In fact, perhaps it would be best if I took it with me. . . ."

    His face seemed so comically distressed that she nearly laughed. "I'll manage to contain my curiosity for the time being, Vajiki," she told him, then did laugh at the relief that softened the hard lines of his thin face. "Leave your canvas here; no one will disturb it."

    A knock came on the doors at the far end of the room. "Enter," Marguerite said; the door opened and Commandant ca'Rudka strode into the room, walking quickly toward them, his bootsteps loud on the tiled floor. His sharp eyes flickered over to ci'Recroix even as he quickly touched hands to forehead yet again; the painter stared openly at the man's silver nose.

    "Kraljica," the commandant said. "You'd do well to open your windows. The stench of the oils . . ." He strode to the windows nearest the dais and pushed them open. Fresh, cold air wafted in and the Kraljica shivered, but the breeze did seem to clear her head.

    "Thank you, Sergei," she said. "Vajiki ci'Recroix, if you have everything . . ."

    The man nearly jumped, still watching ca'Rudka. He grabbed the case of brushes under his left arm and took up the valise that held the jars of mixed paints in the same hand, then picked up the miroire a'scéne by a handle; it seemed rather heavy, judging by the way ci'Recroix leaned to one side while holding it. "Forgive me, Kraljica. I'll see . . . uh . . ." He hesitated.

    "Renard cu'Bellona. My aide," she reminded him.

    "Renard cu'Bellona. Yes. That was the name. Remember, Kraljica, you shouldn't look. Umm . . . tomorrow, then." He started to bring hands to forehead, remembered that he was holding something in each hand, and set them down again to salute her. Then he picked up case, valise, and miroire a'scéne and lurched toward the doors, grunting with the effort. He knocked on one of the doors with a foot; the hall garda opened them and he went out. The garda saluted the Kraljica and closed them again.

    "That is a very strange man," ca'Rudka said. He was staring after the painter.

    "But a talented one, from what I've seen." She glanced at the draped painting on its easel. "You've questioned the assassin, Sergei?"

    Ca'Rudka nodded. He looked at his hands as if making certain that they were clean. "Yes." He told her, briefly, what had happened during the interrogation at the Bastida—leaving out, Marguerite suspected, some of the more brutal details. She did not press him for them.

    "So this ce'Coeni was a rogue," she said when he'd finished. "Nothing more. He may have been in the Numetodo faction, but you're satisfied he was acting on his own, not on their orders?"

    "That's my conclusion, Kraljica. Yes."

    "I assume you have a signed confession."

    He smiled at that. "Indeed. One that you may . . ." He paused. ". . . use as you wish."

    "Did he name Envoy ci'Vliomani as the instigator?"

    Sergei shrugged. "Only if you wish it to be so."

    Marguerite sniffed. Her fingers trailed along the hem of the cloth over her painting. "At this point, I don't know what would be to our best advantage," Marguerite answered. "The confession can remain blank for now, until we know better. Envoy ci'Vliomani has sent over an urgent request to meet with me, along with an official statement denying any connection with the attempt on the Archigos' life."

    "That's not surprising. He's no doubt shaking in his Paetian boots at this, knowing that it's only going to inflame the anti-Numetodo sentiments in the city. You've refused, just to make him worry some more?"

    A smile: Sergei knew her well. Sometimes too well. "Yes. I thought perhaps you should talk with him first. Then, if you think I should, I can meet with the man. He's been very patient thus far."

    "Indeed he has. I'll make the arrangements. You heard how the Archigos was saved?"

    "Yes. An acolyte's spell: a girl from the cu'Seranta family. I also understand that the Archigos will giving her a Marque in gratitude."

    "He already has," Sergei told her. "The Archigos made the girl an o'téni and placed her on his private staff." Marguerite glanced again at the windows and the darkness beyond, seeing the bright lights shimmering along the Avi a'Parete. How long had she been sitting there, half-asleep? That was unlike her. "Kraljica, my contacts among the téni tell me that she reacted more like an experienced téni than a raw acolyte; in fact, some of them think what she did may have been against the Divolonté. There are some . . . rumors among the téni also—that the girl's mother was suffering from Southern Fever and that after years in a weak dream-state, she's suddenly recovered completely. The talk is that a healing might have been performed."

    Marguerite's eyebrows sought her forehead with that. "Then I'll need to meet her and the Archigos, won't I? But that can wait until tomorrow, surely."

    "As the Kraljica wishes. Do you want me to brief the A'Kralj?"

    Marguerite shrugged. "If you can find him at this time of night. My son is often . . . out." She didn't need to say more; it had, after all, been Sergei who alerted her to Justi's nocturnal wanderings and what they implied. For the moment, her son's dalliances could be tolerated, but Marguerite knew that she would have to do something to disengage him, and soon.

    She had done it several times before, after all.

    "If that's the case, then I will see the A'Kralj in the morning. If the Kraljica will excuse me . . . ?"

    Marguerite gestured dismissal, and Sergei saluted and strode quickly to the door. She watched him leave, standing next to the easel. She waited, her breathing slow, taking in the scent of oiled pigments and dust, looking down at the little table set next to the painting, speckled with a thousand colors. The breeze from the window touched the cloth masking the portrait and rippled the candle flames, and the swaying of cloth and light seemed to mock her.

    She lifted the covering.

THE A'KRALJ MOVED through the Oldtown night unnoticed. Or at least he hoped so.

    It was difficult to conceal his identity. The fine and expensive clothing he normally wore could be exchanged—and had been—for a plain, rough bashta that a tradesman might wear. He'd scrubbed away the scent of perfumes and ointments and let the smoke from the choked flue of a tavern hearth coil around him until he smelled of soot and ashes. He'd mussed his hair; he'd been careful not to use the cultured accents of the ca'-and-cu', but instead the broad intonation of the lower classes. Still, his voice was distinctly high-pitched, which he knew was a cause of occasional jest when people talked of him. There was no disguising the squared jaw under the band of well-trimmed beard: the jaw his vatarh and great-vatarh had possessed also, and which was prominent in portraits of them. He could stoop, but it was still difficult to disguise the way he towered over most people, or to hide the trim muscularity of his body. He kept a cowl pulled over his head, he leaned heavily on a short walking stick, and he spoke as little as possible.

    He enjoyed nights like this. He enjoyed the anonymity; he enjoyed the escape from the constricting duties of the Kraljica's court; he enjoyed being simply "Justi" and not "the A'Kralj." As A'Kralj, he was bound to his matarh's whims and her rules.

    When he was Kraljiki, all that would change. Then Nessantico would dance to his call. The empire would awaken from its long decades of slumbering under his matarh and the current Archigos and his predecessors and realize its true potential.

    Oldtown, despite the intimation of the name, wasn't the oldest settling within Nessantico. That honor went to the Isle A'Kralji, where the Kraljica's Grande Palais, the Old Temple, and A'Kralj's own estate all were situated. But the original dwellings on the Isle had long ago been razed to make room for those far more magnificent buildings and the lavish, manicured grounds on which they stood. Oldtown and the narrow, twisting streets on the north bank of the A'Sele had been the shores onto which the growing city on the Isle had spilled four centuries ago, and Oldtown had changed little in the last few hundred years. Many of the buildings dated back that far. Oldtown clasped its dark past to its bosom and refused to let it go. Mysteries lurked down claustrophobic alleyways, murder and intrigue in the shadows. Its shops contained anything the human heart might desire, if you knew where to find it and could afford it; its taverns were loud and boisterous with the alcohol-buoyed glee of the common folk; its streets swarmed with life in all its glory and all its disgust.

    If you can't find what you desire in Oldtown, it doesn't exist. It was an old maxim in Nessantico.

    Justi had found love in Oldtown, and it was toward love that he hurried, every night that he could find the time to steal away from those around him.

    "Pardon, Vajiki. Might you have a d'folia to spare for someone to buy a loaf of bread?" The voice came from the black mouth of an alley, accompanied by the scent of rotting teeth. Here in the bowels of the city near Oldtown Center, well away from the téni-lights of the Avi a'Parete, what illumination there was came mostly from the open windows of taverns and brothels, fitful and dim. Wedges of darkness shifted and Justi saw the man there. He knew him, also: the beggar known as Mad Mahri. Where foul things happen, you'll see Mad Mahri. It was another saying within the city. The man seemed to be ubiquitous, wandering everywhere through the city, and present often enough at critical events in the city that Commandant ca'Rudka himself had questioned the man. It was rumored that Mahri had acquired at least some of the scars on his body then.

    Justi rummaged in the pocket of his cloak; his fingers plucked a small coin from among the others there. He brought his hand out.

    "Here," he said to the beggar. He kept his voice deliberately low, growling the words and disguising his natural high tenor. "Buy yourself bread or a tankard. I don't care which."

    A hand flashed out and caught the coin as Justi flipped it toward the man. "Thank you, Vajiki," he said. "And in return, let me give you something."

    "I want nothing from you, Mahri." Justi took a step away from the man, his right hand straying to the knife he had hidden under his cloak.

    Mahri seemed to chuckle. "Ah, Mahri's no threat to you, Vajiki. Not tonight. But you do want something from me. You simply don't realize it. Isn't that the way it happens too often? We don't know what it is we need until it's taken from us, or until we receive it." His voice changed: it became a breath, a hoarse, urgent whisper. "I know who you are. I know what you want. I know what you're searching for, and what you've found."

    Justi exhaled mockingly, a half-laugh. "I'm supposed to listen to the wisdom of a half-wit who doesn't even have a d'folia to buy bread?"

    A hiss sounded in the darkness. "You wait for your matarh to die. You yearn for it, and you fear it at the same time. And you lie in the bed of a woman who belongs to another man, and who is her vatarh's pawn."

    Justi sucked in his breath. His eyes narrowed. He forgot to lower the pitch of his voice, and his reply was shrill. "Why are you accosting me? What is it you want? All I need to do is call for the utilino . . ."

    "What I want you'll eventually give me," Mahri answered. "I came to tell you this: I know the painted face is also a funeral mask. It will soon be your time, as it should be."

    The words sent a chill through Justi. "What does that mean? Do you offer nothing but riddles?" Justi demanded. Mahri was sinking back into the mouth of the alley, back into darkness. "Wait." He took a step toward the beggar, but faint candlelight glinted on something arcing toward him, and Justi stepped back, ducking reflexively. He felt something strike his chest, then fall to the cobbled street with a faint clink. He glanced down. The d'folia he'd given Mahri lay there, his own face in profile on the coin. "Mahri!"

    Mahri's voice called back to him, already distant. "The Concénzia believe that everything was put into the world for Cénzi's purpose, A'Kralj. Discovering what that purpose might be is the real task of life. If you abandon the path your eyes show you, you'll never know truth."

    "Mahri!" Justi called again.

    No answer came from the night. The man was gone. Justi glanced down at the coin.

    "A problem, Vajiki? Is there something I can do for you?" Sudden light made the bronze d'folia shimmer on the paving stones. Justi jerked his head back up. Where the street intersected another lane, a man in the brocaded uniform of an utilino stood holding up a spell-lit lamp with the reflector aimed toward Justi, who shielded his face from the glare. The utilino were e-téni placed in service of the Garde Kralji: their job was to patrol the streets and put down any trouble they might find, or aid any citizen who needed their help. The utilino's night-staff was still looped to his belt, but the man placed his lamp on the cobbles and held his copper whistle close to his lips. Justi thought he saw the man's free hand already moving in the shape of a spell.

    "No," Justi answered. He cleared his throat, tried to bring his voice down. "No problem at all, Utilino. I've just dropped something while on my way. I've found it now."

    The man nodded. He let the whistle drop on its chain to his chest and picked up his lamp again. "Very good." The reflector clicked and the light focused on Justi went soft and diffuse, but the utilino paused there, still watching. Justi wondered whether the téni had recognized him. He shrugged his cloak around his shoulders and pulled the cowl up so that his face was in shadow to the utilino. He stepped on the d'folia as he walked past the man, feeling the utilino's appraising stare on his back.

    Justi hurried now, turning left, then right, then left again, moving past the knots of people outside tavern doors or walking down the street, keeping the cowl close to his face as he passed the glowing lantern of another utilino on her rounds, then striding quickly down a deserted lane where the houses seemed to lean toward each other from either side of the street as if weary. He went to a door painted a light blue that seemed pale gray in the night. He pushed it open; inside, a young woman turned from stirring the fire in a shabby but clean room. "Ah, Vajiki," the woman said, though Justi knew that she knew well who he was and his true title. "We wondered . . . My lady's upstairs, waiting for you . . ."

    She took the cloak he handed her silently and placed it on a hook next to another. He went up the stairs and knocked on the door at the landing before pushing the door open. Candles glowed about the room, touching with gold the tapestries on the wall. Naked nymphs and rampant satyrs cavorted there in woven fields, entwined in dozens of inventive embraces. The only furniture in the room was a canopied bed with two night stands.

    A room such as one of the grandes horizontales he'd known kept— blatantly sexual, blatantly inviting. The similarity secretly amused him. Francesca would be appalled if he mentioned the comparison to her.

    The draperies of the bed were moved aside by a delicate hand as Justi entered. He could glimpse the woman laying there, her hair unbound and spread over the pillow. "I'm sorry to be late, Francesca. I . . ." The memory of Mahri's strange admonitions made him shiver. "I had an encounter on the way here."

    She frowned, her face at once concerned. She tossed aside the blankets; through the gauze of her gown he saw the hint of darkness at the joining of her legs and the shadows of her breasts. "Dearest, you look as if you just walked through a ghost." Her eyes were large with pupils the color of newly-turned, rich soil.

    Justi forced himself to smile. "It's nothing," he told her. "Nothing. Not when I'm here with you again."

    He closed the door as she came to him in a miasma of perfume. He embraced her, she pulled his head down to her, pressing soft and gentle lips to his, and he would forget everything else for a few hours. . . .

THE SUN WAS DANCING on her eyelids.

      Ana blinked and raised her hand to shade herself from the glare. She glimpsed lacy cuffs and felt the warmth of a thick blanket over her. She raised her head: she was in a room she'd never seen before, large and richly decorated with a single door. On the wall opposite the foot of her bed was an ornate fireplace within whose hearth Ana could have easily stood upright, and to her left white curtains billowed inward with a breeze from a balcony. The night robe she wore was not one of hers. The door opened and a head peered in: a young woman, the white, loose cap of a house servant futilely attempting to contain her red curls. "Oh," she said. "You're awake, O'Téni."

    The door closed, only to open again before Ana could move from the bed. Two more servants entered: a middle-aged, stout woman and a younger woman who from their shared features must have been the older woman's daughter. The daughter bore a tray with a silver teapot and plates of fruit and bread; the matarh hurried over to the bed. "Stay there, O'Téni. Here, let me put this tray up over you. Now, a few pillows behind your head . . ." A moment later, the tray was placed before Ana as she sat up against the headboard. A sumptuous breakfast steamed in front of her, fragrant, and she realized that she was famished.

    "Where am I?" Ana asked, and the servants chuckled in unison. They had the same laugh, also.

    "The Archigos said you'd probably be confused when you woke," the older woman said. "You're in your own apartments, across the plaza from the temple." The daughter went to a chest across the room and pulled underclothing and a green robe from the drawers, placing them gently over the foot of the bed. The older woman fluffed the pillows around her, then went to the balcony doors, pulling back the curtains. Ana could glimpse the domes of the Archigos' Temple behind her. "Are you feeling better, O'Téni? Go on, eat the toast before it gets cold, and here, let me pour you some of this wonderful tea; it comes all the way from Quibela in the province of Namarro. The Archigos, he said that Cénzi touched you after your appointment and that's why you were so exhausted, and we were to let him know when you woke. I've already sent Beida to tell him."

    Ana half-listened to the woman's prattling as she sipped the tea (which was indeed wonderful, flavored with spices that flirted coyly with her tongue) and ate the bread and fruit before her. She learned that the woman was Sunna and the other one, who was indeed her daughter, was Watha, and that Watha was betrothed to a minor sergeant of the Garde Kralji, "but he's on the Commandant ca'Rudka's staff, and very visible to the commandant;" that they came from Sesemora and their family name was Hathiga, currently without any prefix of rank though the Archigos had promised them that they would become ce'Hathiga in the Rolls next year; that they'd been in the Archigos' employ for the last six years and were now attached to Ana's apartments.

    By the time she'd learned all this, she'd eaten her breakfast, performed her morning ablutions, and allowed the servants to help her dress. Beida knocked on the door as she finished. "The Archigos is in the reception room, O'Téni," she said with a quick pressing of hands to forehead. "He said to come in as soon as you're ready."

    The reception room was, like the bedroom, lavish and large, with its own balcony and fireplace, set with a desk, leather sofa, and plush matching chairs. The Archigos was standing out on the balcony, so small that for a moment Ana thought he might be a child. Then he turned and she saw the ancient face, the stunted arms, the bowed legs and bent spine. "Good morning to you, O'Teni Ana," he said. "Please, come out here. . . ."

    She came to stand alongside him. The morning was cool, a breeze ruffling the folds of the soft, grass-colored robes she wore and bringing them the scent of wood fire from the breakfast hearths of the city. She was looking down to the courtyard of the temple from four stories up— the top floor. Directly across, seemingly nearly at eye level, the golden domes of the temple itself reflected sunlight back to the sky. As she looked, watching the people below scurrying about their business, the wind-horns sounded First Call. Automatically, Ana went to a knee and bowed her head; she felt the Archigos do the same alongside her. She silently mouthed the morning prayers: as the wind-horns continued to call, the strident sound carrying the burden of the city's prayers skyward to Cénzi and the other gods. As the last notes died, Ana rose again. The Archigos held out his small hand toward her. "If you would . . ." She helped him rise, the dwarf groaning as his knee cracked once in protest. "Old joints," he said. "I wonder if you could cure them."

    With the words, the events of the evening before came back to Ana: Matarh, the spell of healing, the darkness closing around her . . . "My matarh . . ."

    He smiled up at her, his lips caught in folds. "She is doing quite well, from what I understand. I sent Kenne to your family's house this morning to inquire after her, knowing you'd ask. He was told that she slept easily last night, that her cough had vanished, and she is conversing with your vatarh and the house servants as if nothing had ever happened. It would appear that a minor miracle has occurred, eh?" One eyebrow raised as he glanced at Ana. "She also doesn't remember what happened in the temple last night—which is just as well. I would suggest that you don't remember it, either."

    "Archigos, what I did . . ." She wasn't certain what she wanted to say.

    "Is something that will remain between the two of us, because it must," he answered for her. "Let's go inside; the air is holding a bit of the old winter this morning."

    He held aside the balcony's sheer curtains for her. Inside the apartment, Watha had started a small fire in the hearth. She smiled at them, then left the room, closing the doors behind her. "Your servants are all three excellent people," the Archigos said. "Discreet. Prudent. Close mouthed about what they see and hear. They will do whatever you ask of them." His mouth twisted and his gaze wandered to the flames in the hearth. "As long as what you ask doesn't conflict with my instructions to them, of course," he added. She could sense the layers of meaning underneath his words. She felt her stomach twist.

    "Archigos, what happened to me last night?"

    His gaze returned to her and he smiled again. He took a seat on one of the sofas and motioned to her to sit across from him. "What happened was what I expected to happen. You can't touch Cénzi that closely and not have consequences. You know that."

    "I've felt weariness before; all of us did while U'Téni cu'Dosteau was teaching us the chants. But not like that. Never anything so . . . exhausting."

    "You'd never gone that deep before," the Archigos answered. " 'The greater the Gift, the greater the cost.' I've already said that once to you. It's an old cliché, but there is often truth buried in platitudes. The warténi know that weariness; their spells have that same kind of power. You could easily be a war-téni, if that's what you wanted."

    "My spell . . ." She bit her lip for a moment, wondering what to say. "My spell was wrong. It violated the Divolonté. I thwarted Cénzi's Will."

    "Did you? Do you believe Cénzi is so weak that you could bend His will to your whim? Do you think He couldn't stop you if He wished? There's nothing wrong with what you did. You have a rare skill; it would be thwarting Cénzi's will for you not to use it."

    Ana's eyes widened: what the Archigos said was heretical; it went against all the railing of the téni in their Admonitions. "Archigos, the precepts of the Toustour and the Divolonté teach us that the Gift is never to be used that way." It was what U'Téni cu'Dosteau had taught her, it was what she had always been told.

    "Sometimes what the Faith teaches is wrong."

    The statement snapped Ana's mouth shut. The Archigos smiled, as if the expression he saw on her face amused him. "Oh, I'd deny it if you ever said that I spoke those words, Ana," he told her. "And I'd never say them in public. Not even the Archigos can spout heresy without consequences; some of the a'téni are waiting for just that opportunity. A'Téni ca'Cellibrecca especially would love an excuse to wrest the title away from me. Nor can you perform such feats without consequences; that's why you must be very careful henceforth with what you do."

    The smile vanished, and there was something in his face that made Ana sit back hard against the seat of her chair. "After all," he continued, "if I told ca'Cellibrecca what you did last night, why, he'd have no choice but to send you to the Bastida. An acolyte made an o'téni by the Archigos . . . why, they'd wonder if you hadn't used your skills to place a charm on me, and if you hadn't arranged the attempted assassination for your own purposes. And believe me, in the Bastida you would tell them whatever they wanted to hear." The smile returned then, but utterly failed to comfort her. "You see, O'Téni Ana, we must trust each other not to reveal the secrets we know."

    The Archigos pushed himself forward on the sofa, then let his short legs slip to the ground and stood. He walked over to Ana and put his hand on her knee as she sat, stunned. She could feel the heat of his skin through the cloth of her robe.

    It felt the way her vatarh's hand felt. She shuddered. She clasped her legs tightly together under her robes.

    "We are coming on dangerous times," he said. "The general populace, they don't realize it yet. The people only see the prosperity and the celebrations for the Kraljica's fiftieth. They fail to notice the storm clouds gathering on the horizon or hear the grumbling underneath the cheers. Dangerous times. I didn't realize, until almost too late."

    The Archigos' hand lifted from her knee. She pulled back quickly; she saw the Archigos' lips tighten as his hand dropped back to his side. His ancient lips parted softly and he sighed.

    "Ah. So that's the way it was. I wondered, when I saw how your vatarh was with you. I'm sorry."

    Ana felt the heat of embarrassment on her face. "Archigos . . ."

    He shook his head. "No. Say nothing. We all have demons in the night that we must struggle with. I have mine, too. I didn't intend to make you think that I . . ." His hand brushed hers, but he shook his head and brought his hand back. He took a breath and stepped away from her. "You'll have to trust me, Ana, because in the days to come you'll have to choose sides," he said. His voice was carefully neutral. "In the trials that I suspect are on us, those with strength and influence must take their stand. I hope you can choose wisely." Then the smile came again, and all the reserve was gone from his voice. "As I chose you. Ana, I have been asleep. Since . . . I don't know when, but for years now. While I've been sleeping, those who don't think of Concénzia as I do have risen, slow step by slow step, until I find they are all around me. A'Téni ca'Cellibrecca, yes, but he has several allies among the a'téni. A few months ago, I think I awoke again. . . ."

    He took a breath. Ana remained silent, sitting motionless, not knowing what to say or how to react. She felt lost, as if she'd wandered away from everything familiar to her in the world. The Archigos went to the hearth and held his hands out, warming them. Without a word, Beida came in with an overcloak and helped the Archigos put it on; Ana realized she must have been watching and listening the whole time. Shrugging the cloak around his shoulders, the Archigos turned and smiled back at Ana. "You should rest and finish recovering, O'Téni," he said. "I'll send someone to fetch you just before Second Call; you'll walk in the procession today with the rest of my staff. After the blessing at Old Temple, you and I will go to see the Kraljica. She sent word that she would like to meet you. Beida, if you'll be so kind as to show me out . . ."

    With that, he left. As the door closed behind him, Ana touched the hand the Archigos had touched. Her own fingers felt cold on her skin.

THE LAST NOTES of First Call drifted away. Karl watched ca'Rudka lift his head and rise from his bended knee, his clasped hands dropping from his forehead. "No prayer at all, Envoy ci'Vliomani?" ca'Rudka asked. Karl thought the man's smile seemed more a mocking leer, and the gleaming metallic nose was impossible to ignore. "I thought the Numetodo were still believers in something, even if they've abandoned the Concénzia Faith."

    "We do believe, Commandant," Karl answered. "We believe in logic, in proofs that we can see and touch and feel. We believe that if the gods do exist, then the way to understand them is through the abilities they've given us: reason and logic. What better way to worship them than to use all the qualities we have?"

    " '. . . if the gods do exist.' " Ca'Rudka inclined his head, looking upward as if tasting the words on his tongue. "I have no doubt as to Cénzi's existence, Envoy ci'Vliomani, nor do I need anything but my faith to understand Him." The commandant smiled at Karl. "But we're not here to discuss theology, are we?"

    The response to Karl's request to meet with the Kraljica had come not long after the Lighting of the Avi: not from the Kraljica herself, but from her aide Renard cu'Bellona. The Kraljica would regrettably be unable to meet with Envoy ci'Vliomani, but Commandant ca'Rudka would be available to address his concerns. It was, honestly, more than Karl had expected. He'd arrived at the Grande Palais before First Call, as the note had requested, and been ushered into one of the lower reception rooms in the East Wing, where tea and breakfast had been laid out on a small table with two servants standing patiently behind it, and where Commandant ca'Rudka entered a few marks of the glass later, just as the wind-horns announced First Call.

    Ca'Rudka went to the table. One of the several attendants hovering around the edges of the room poured the commandant's tea, stirring a bit of honey into the fragrant brew. He took one of the pastries and bit into it, seeming to savor the taste with closed eyes before taking a sip of the tea. "Something for you, Envoy? The pastry chef the Kraljica retains is truly excellent. You really must have one of the tarts. Here . . ." He pointed to the tarts, and another attendant quickly placed one on a plate.

    Ca'Rudka passed Karl the small plate with the inlaid Kraljica's crest obscured by the pastry. "We'll eat on the patio," ca'Rudka told the servants. "Bring the envoy his tea, give us an assortment of the pastries, and leave us."

    As the servants scurried about the table, ca'Rudka escorted Karl from the room out to a raised stone patio that emptied into the palace's formal gardens. Several workers moved through the grounds, trimming the bushes and pruning the flowers. "Take a seat, please, Envoy," ca'Rudka said, gesturing to two chairs facing the garden with a small, cloisonné-topped table placed between them. Karl sat; the commandant took the other chair; the servants came in with tea and pastries, and vanished again. "I enjoy watching the gardens this time of day," ca'Rudka said.

    "They're quite beautiful, I would agree, Commandant."

    "Indeed. But what I enjoy seeing are the gardeners at their work. You see, Envoy, all the order and loveliness you see there in front of you has a cost. Did you know that the Kraljica employs over a hundred workers for the palais grounds alone, just here on the Isle? If you take into account all the rest of the property she owns, her chateaux and houses throughout the Holdings, then there are a thousand and more. They maintain the beauty you and I see, and to do that, they must ruthlessly rid the garden of anything that is rotting or diseased, or that threatens the setting."

    Karl allowed himself a small smile, glancing at the commandant, who was looking not at the garden but at Karl. The commandant's eyes flicked over the stone-shell necklace around his neck, then back up to his face. "So you see yourself as a simple grounds worker, Commandant?" Karl asked him. "And we Numetodo are weeds threatening the flower of Nessantico? I suppose you believe that A'Téni ca' Cellibrecca is but the Gardener of Brezno."

    Ca'Rudka chuckled; Karl found the sound to be sinister. "I knew my crude analogy wouldn't escape you, Envoy. Yes, in fact, I do sometimes think of myself as in charge of the garden that is this city, as the Kraljica is in charge of the much greater garden that is the Holdings, as the a'téni and the Archigos are responsible for the flowering of the faithful. As to the Numetodo . . ." Ca'Rudka set his tea down on the stand; the cup chattered on the plate. "You're the Envoy. You're the one sent here to speak to the Kraljica on their behalf."

    "Commandant, the attack on the Archigos yesterday was not part of some Numetodo plot. It was the act of a single madman, who unfortunately does seem to have had Numetodo connections but whom I've never personally met. My credentials from the government of the Isle of Paeti . . ."

    Ca'Rudka waved him silent. "Your credentials are in order. I know; I checked them myself, months ago. If they weren't, we wouldn't be talking; well, at least not in this manner." He rose from his chair and Karl stood with him. "Come, Envoy, let's walk while we discuss this."

    He led Karl from the patio into the gardens. As they strolled the graveled walkways, the commandant pointed out some of the blooms and arrangements. The commandant seemed to have a wide knowledge of horticulture, certainly more than Karl, who could name only the most common of the flowers here in Nessantico. The conversation, to Karl's frustration, never seemed to come back to the Numetodo and the attempted assassination of the Archigos, but he forced himself to patience. Ca'Rudka, Karl had learned in his few months here, was—like the Kraljica herself—a person who did things in his own time. Like a handsome but dangerous beast of prey, he had to be watched carefully. They'd been walking for some time when ca'Rudka stopped. He crouched down near the path's manicured edge. He pointed to a small plant there, its saw-toothed and purplish leaves just overhanging the edge of the walkway. "Weed or flower?" he asked Karl.

    "I don't know, Commandant."

    "It's difficult to tell, isn't it? Right now there's no sign of a bloom, yet it could burst into triumphant color a week from now, or spread out to infest the entire area." The commandant plunged his fingers into the soft earth around the plant, pulling it out of the ground with its roots intact. "You, my man!" he called to the nearest of the garden workers, who came running over at the summons. "Take this and put it in a small pot for me." The man took the plant in cupped hands and hurried off.

    "Dhaspi ce'Coeni has been executed," ca'Rudka said without preamble as he wiped dirt from his hands. His dark eyes seemed to probe Karl's face.

    He forced himself to show nothing. "That's as I expected, Commandant. Nessantico is well known throughout the Holdings for its . . ." He allowed himself the slightest of hesitations. ". . . quick justice," he finished.

    Muscles pulled at the corners of ca'Rudka's mouth. "It was justice, Envoy," he answered. "And more. For attacking the Archigos, ce'Coeni's life was forfeit, even if he'd tried to use a sword or arrow. But worse, his weapon was the Ilmodo, which is Cénzi's Gift alone and which is forbidden by both Holdings law and the Concénzia Divolonté to anyone but the téni."

    "It wasn't the Ilmodo, Commandant," Karl said. "It was what we call the Scáth Cumhacht."

    "Call it whatever you like," ca'Rudka answered. "That's only semantics." Ca'Rudka continued to stare, unblinking even in the bright sun. Karl found the man's gaze disconcerting, but he couldn't look away. "I should tell you that ce'Coeni signed a full confession before he died."

    "And that was of his own free will, no doubt."

    "I understand your skepticism, Envoy, but it happens often enough. Some criminals wish to ease their souls by admitting their guilt before they go to meet Cénzi's soul-weigher. I find it difficult to believe that ce'Coe was acting entirely alone, Envoy. I suspect there were other Numetodo involved."

    "Am I to be arrested, then, Commandant? Did his confession name me as an accomplice? If so, I appreciate that you brought me here before taking me to the Bastida so I could sign my own confession for you."

    The gardener approached, and the commandant turned away for a moment to take the small clay pot from him. "Here," ca'Rudka said to Karl, handing him the pot. Karl accepted the plant, and ca'Rudka reached toward him to stroke the leaves with a forefinger. "A garden can accept many plants: if they prove their own beauty, if they provide the right accents for the gardener's taste, and if they can safely coexist with all the other plants. So—weed or flower, Envoy? Which is it, I wonder? Take care of that plant, water it and give it sun, and you'll learn."

    "But you already know which it is, do you not, Commandant?"

    Ca'Rudka's eyes glittered. He smiled again, with a flash of teeth. "I do indeed, Envoy. But you don't, and that's what you need to decide, isn't it?"

WHEN THEY WERE USHERED into the Kraljica's presence by Renard, the Kraljica was seated on the Sun Throne. There were perhaps three or four dozen other people in the long Hall of the Throne, gathered near the doors: chevarittai, cousins, diplomats, supplicants, courtiers; all waiting for their tightly scheduled moments with the Kraljica, to be seen in her company, to ask for favors or promote their pet causes. Their various conversations—Ana overheard a circle of young women talking about what they would wear to the Gschnas, the False World Ball that would take place in the coming week—died momentarily as she followed the Archigos into the hall and they all turned to look. The Kraljica herself was separated from the ca'-and-cu' by several strides, with a painter daubing his brush on a canvas before her, though none of the courtiers were close enough to see the painting well. There was an odd black box on a table next to the painter.

    "That will be all for now, Vajiki ci'Recroix," the Kraljica said, her voice sounding sleepy and tired as Renard closed the doors behind Ana and the Archigos. Everyone stared at the newcomers. Ana felt herself being examined, weighed and measured in their gazes. "If you would leave us . . ." the Kraljica said to the room, and the courtiers bowed and murmured and left the room in a fluttering of bright finery. "Archigos Dhosti," they said, nodding politely to the dwarf as they passed. "Good evening, O'Téni. So pleased to meet you, O'Téni," they said to Ana, and they also smiled to her. She could see annoyance behind some of the expressions despite the careful social masks—irritation at the schedule and routine being disrupted, at their own appointments being set back or perhaps lost entirely. But Ana smiled back, as was expected, and her smile meant as much as theirs.

    The painter had spread a linen sheet over the canvas so that the work was hidden. Then he, too, turned, and his gaze went to the Archigos and then to Ana. He held Ana too long in his regard for her comfort, as if she were a scene he was considering sketching, before he began bustling about cleaning up his pigments and brushes. As he did so, the Kraljica pushed herself up from the chair and gestured to them as she walked to the balcony of the room. She moved like an ancient, Ana noticed, with her back bowed much like the Archigos'. She took small, careful, shuffling steps.

    "You're not feeling well, Kraljica?" the Archigos asked with obvious concern in his voice as they went out into the sunshine. Below them, in the courtyard, the gardens were bright with colors set in orderly squares and rows.

    "My joints are all a bother today, Dhosti; I suspect it will be raining tomorrow, the way they're aching. And I've been sitting too long and talking to too many sycophants." She grimaced, taking a cushioned seat on the balcony. Inside, they could hear the painter gathering up his case and leaving, the sound of his boot soles loud on the tile. "Please, Dhosti, I know your aches and pains are easily as bad as mine. Please sit."

    She gestured to another chair, and the Archigos sat. The Kraljica made no such offer to Ana. She remained standing, trying to appear composed and calm as the Kraljica gazed openly at her, with lips pressed together into an appraising moue. Ana kept her eyes properly lowered but glanced at the Kraljica's face through her lashes, a face she'd glimpsed only from a great distance on those occasions when the Kraljica appeared in public. She wore a gown of dark blue silk liberally embroidered with pearls, an emerald set at the center of the high bodice; her hands, arthritic in appearance and pale, lay unmoving in her lap. Her throat was covered by lace, but underneath the thin fabric Ana could see loose skin hanging under the chin. Her pure white hair was trapped in a comb inlaid with abalone and more pearls. Her mouth, puckered in reflection, was set in a spiderweb of wrinkles, but the eyes—a thin, watery, and delicate blue—were gentler than Ana had expected, lending mute credence to the Kraljica's popular title as "Généra a'Pace." For the last three decades the delicate fabric of alliances she'd spun had kept the various provinces and factions within the Holdings from erupting into open hostilities. There'd been the inevitable skirmishes and attacks, but open warfare had been avoided. To Ana, the Kraljica seemed impossibly regal, and Ana kept her hands clasped together in front of her to stop their nervous trembling at being in her presence.

    "How has your sleep been, Dhosti?"

    "As it is always, Kraljica. I'm too often . . . visited during the night. That hasn't changed. The herbs from the healer you sent me helped for a bit, but lately . . ." He shrugged.

    "I'm sorry to hear that." Then the Kraljica's gaze was on Ana again. "She's so young, Dhosti."

    Ana saw the Archigos shrug in the corner of her vision. "We forget, Kraljica. They all look too young to us now. But when I was her age, I was also already a téni. When you were her age, you took the throne and married. She's adept with Ilmodo, that's what matters. A natural talent, as strong as I was at her age."

    "I understand her matarh was . . ." The Kraljica hesitated, and she lifted her chin, still staring at Ana. ". . . blessed by Cénzi when you anointed her."

    The Archigos smiled at that. "Your sources are very good, Kraljica."

    "They're also concerned."

    "I know which of the a'téni to watch, Kraljica."

    A nod. "You know, of course, that the Archigos' life was never in real danger, not from that fool Numetodo."

    Ana started, realizing belatedly that the Kraljica was addressing her, not the Archigos. She cleared her throat, bringing her hands to her forehead. "I didn't think about it at all, Kraljica," she said. "There wasn't time to think."

    "The Archigos has given you a great honor, making you an o'téni. I hope you prove worthy of it."

    The Archigos shifted in his seat and Ana glanced quickly over to him. She could still feel the way he'd touched her knee this morning, as if she were a piece of art or a bottle of fine wine he'd purchased—in that sense, it had been different than when her vatarh touched her. The Archigos hadn't touched her since, but the memory clung to her and colored the smile she gave the Kraljica. "I will try, Kraljica. Whatever Cénzi wills, will be." The aphorism from the Toustour was all she could think to say. She felt as if she were drowning here, lost in innuendo and hidden meanings.

    "You'll need to do better than rely on clichés," the Kraljica said sharply, then grimaced. "Forgive me, O'Téni; I forget how new you are to your station, and that you don't realize what is expected of you. When in private, I prefer directness and blunt honesty from my advisers. In private, I expect you to tell me what you truly think and believe. You can save polite evasions for when other ears can hear them."

    The criticism reminded her of what U'Téni cu'Dosteau had told her, back when she'd been accepted as an acolyte. "You have no idea what you've put yourself into. If you did, you wouldn't be standing in front of me with that meaningless smile pasted to your lips. I know who you are and what you are, Vajica cu'Seranta. Unless you're more than I believe you to be, you'll be broken and gone in a few months. You'll go sniveling back to your family . . ." But her resolve hadn't broken and she hadn't left; now, years later, she was here.

    "You shouldn't apologize, Kraljica," Ana said. "You're right to criticize me. I realize that I know far too little. But I also know that I can learn what I need to understand, and I can learn it quickly. This is what I wanted—this is more than I'd dared to want—for me and for my family. I intend to do all I must to prove myself worthy of the great honor that's been given me."

    The Kraljica gave a quick laugh that ended in a cough. "Nicely said, at least." She patted her mouth with a linen kerchief. "You trust her, Dhosti?" the Kraljica asked the Archigos.

    "She knows where her loyalty needs to be," the Archigos answered. "Don't you, O'Téni cu'Seranta?"

    Ana forced herself to smile. The Kraljica might indicate that she wanted directness, but Ana wasn't yet prepared to leave herself that vulnerable. The events of yesterday had swept her up into a whirlwind, and until she found solid ground again, she was going to continue to act as society had always told her she should. She knew from her vatarh, from her matarh, from her great-vatarh and -matarh, from her peers: the cu' lived always on the precipice of society, looking for a path upward to the ca' but always aware that it was easier to slide downward than to climb. She also understood the fist concealed in the velvet glove of the Archigos' words. "I do, Archigos," she answered. "I serve Cénzi, and I serve Nessantico."

    That, at least, seemed to mollify the Kraljica. "So what type of téni are you?" she asked. "Did the Archigos save you from having to light the Avi a'Parete every night for the rest of your life, or from stopping the city from burning down, or from driving one of his carriages, or— Cénzi forbid—from purifying the sewage or some other téni task? Are you fire, water, air, earth?"

    "She could do any of them," the Archigos said. "She could easily be a war-téni or more."

    The Kraljica sniffed. "Impress me, then," she said. She waved an indulgent hand toward Ana.

    Ana resisted the impulse to scowl angrily at the Archigos for putting her in this position. She thought madly, trying to decide what to do or what the Kraljica might consider "impressive." You'll need to help me, Cénzi . . . She closed her eyes with the prayer, and the words evoked the Ilmodo. She felt it swirling around her, the path to the Second World yawning open, snarled energy caught in strands of violent orange and soothing blues, waiting for her to shape them, to use them. . . .

    She didn't know what birthed the decision. Perhaps it was the draped canvas she could glimpse through the balcony doors. There had been other paintings all along the corridors down which she and the Archigos had just walked: the Kraljica as a girl, as a young woman, as a newlywed, as a mother, as a mature woman. Ana had been most struck by a painting of the Kraljica on her coronation. The expression on the new Kraljica's face had struck Ana as perfect: she could see both resolve and uncertainty fighting there, as Ana imagined she might have felt herself on being handed such awesome responsibilities at a young age.

    She heard the chant change, felt her hands moving, as if Cénzi Himself had taken them. She sculpted the Ilmodo. . . .

    The Kraljica gasped audibly, and Ana opened her eyes.

    Standing at the edge of the balcony, leaning against the polished stone railing a few strides from Ana as if she were gazing out into the gardens, was the Kraljica—young, wearing her coronation robes, the signet ring of the Kralji heavy on the index finger of her right hand. She turned to the three of them and smiled. "Fifty years," she said, and it was the Kraljica's voice, soft with youth. "I would never have imagined it." She smiled again . . .

. . . and the strands fell apart in Ana's mind, too difficult to hold in

their complexity. The weariness of the Ilmodo came over her then, and she put her hand on the railing to keep her balance.

    The Kraljica was still staring at where the image of her earlier self had stood. "I'd forgotten: how I looked, how I sounded . . ." Her voice trembled, then she pressed her lips together momentarily. "I've never seen a téni do this. Dhosti? Could you?"

    The Archigos was also staring, but at Ana. She could feel his appraisal. "No," he said. "I couldn't. At least not easily. The girl makes up spells rather than using ones taught to her."

    "No wonder A'Téni ca'Cellibrecca is muttering about the Divolonté and the Numetodo with her," the Kraljica said.

    Ana shook her head. "It's Cénzi's Gift," she insisted. "It's not against what He wants. It can't be."

    The Kraljica seemed to chuckle, nearly silently. "What you think might not matter, O'Téni, if ca'Cellibrecca gains any more power in the Concord A'Téni. But it's obvious that you'd be utterly wasted as a lightténi." She exhaled deeply, looking again at the spot where the illusion had stood. "Let's talk," she said, "because I find that I'm growing concerned at what I hear from both outside and inside our borders. . . ."

    Jan had sustained his own first battle wounds there, protecting the lamented Starkkapitän ca'Gradki of the Lancers. With that battle, he'd demonstrated to his vatarh the Hïrzg that his second child—the one who was hardly the favorite, the one that he invariably denigrated and mocked and derided—was a far braver and more decisive leader than his first son Ludwig, who the Hïrzg had named as heir. Jan had taken more territory from Tennshah than his vatarh could have hoped—before Kraljica Marguerite insisted that the borders be restored to what they'd been before the war, and given another one of her seemingly endless grandnieces to the T'Sha to seal the vile treaty that wasted what had been gained through the lives of hundreds of Firenzcian troops.

    That memory of that treachery galled, still, two full decades later, bringing stinging bile to Jan's throat. The Kraljica had stolen Jan's victory, his victory over both Tennshah and over his brother Ludwig. She had squandered the proof that Jan was more fit to be the next Hïrzg than the simpering, vain fool Vatarh obviously preferred. Had both Ludwig and Hïrzg Karin not succumbed to the Southern Fever within a few months of each other—five years ago now—Jan would never have taken the throne of Brezno.

    Yes, the memory still galled. But Jan ignored it and saluted the troops from his seat open to the air, nodding now and then to those with the star of Tennshah pinned to their uniforms.

    Several large tents had been set at one end of the field, and the carriage pulled up there. Servants rushed forward: to take the reins of the horses, to open the door of the carriage, to set a stool on the ground, to take his hand as he dismounted, to relieve him of his sword and his military overcoat, to hand him his walking stick, and to offer refreshments and drinks which he waved aside.

    Markell, his aide, was there directing the staff. "Your Hïrzgin and daughter are within, my Hïrzg."

    Jan followed Markell between the twin rows of bowing servants and court followers and into the welcome shade of the tents. The tents had been arranged so as to mimic the Palais a'Brezno, the "rooms" curtained off, carpets laid over the grass and furniture set along the "walls" as if they had sat there for years. He allowed himself to be escorted down canvaslined corridors to where another servant held aside a flap painted to resemble a wooden door. Inside the room—a separate tent—he could see his eleven-year-old daughter Allesandra playing with a set of toy soldiers on a table, while the Hïrzgin Greta, grandniece of the Kraljica, rose with her ladies-in-waiting from the circle of seats where they'd been chatting. Greta was heavily pregnant with their third child—Jan had performed his duties as husband every month or so, grudgingly, but Greta had remained stubbornly barren since Allesandra's birth until this unexpected, late pregnancy. Greta was helped to her feet by Mara cu'Paile, one of her attendants; as Jan nodded to their courtesies, he caught Mara's eye and her smile in return.

    "Please, sit and take up your conversation, Hïrzgin, Vajica," he said. Greta had lowered her own gaze, as if afraid to look to see where the Hïrzg had put his true attention. The relationship between Vajica cu'Paile and the Hïrzg was something that any close observer of the court could see but that no one—not Greta, not Mara's own husband, nor any of the inner circle of the court—would dare to mention aloud.

    But Jan's interest was focused now on the blonde-haired child standing with her maidservant, who had survived the outbreak of Southern Fever that had taken her older brother six months ago. Jan had wept bitterly at Toma's funeral, but if Cénzi must take one of his two children, it was better that it was Toma. He had been too much his matarh's child, or perhaps too much like Jan's brother Ludwig: weak both physically and mentally. His daughter, however, was molded from the true ca'Belgradin line, the line of the Hïrzgs. . . .

    It was the second child of the ca'Belgradin line that was always the strongest. His vatarh should have realized that.

    "How is my Allesandra today?" Jan asked. He crouched down and opened his arms. Allesandra smiled and rushed toward him to be gathered up, giggling and kissing his stubbled cheeks.

    "I received your present, Vatarh," she said.

    "And do you like it?"

    She nodded solemnly. "I do, very much. Would you like to see?" She took Jan's hand and led him to the table (the maidservant stepping shyly aside), where tiny golden figures of soldiers were arrayed over a varnished field. "Look, Vatarh, I had Meghan tie beetles to the supply wagons to pull them, but they don't do a very good job of going where I want them to go. I have to keep them in place with this." Allesandra plucked a knitting needle from the table and used it to nudge the glossy green carapace of an insect laced by the hindmost legs to its silken traces.

    "You've done nicely. I'm certain you'll train your beetles well, and they will bring the supplies safely to your army," Jan told her. He took one of the figures from the table: no larger than the top of his little finger, the figure was delicately carved and cast. "I'll have to send the artisan a small sum in appreciation since you like the soldiers so much, won't I? See, this is one of the Red Lancers—down to the lacing on his boots." He placed the figure down again. "But you should move your archers back behind your war-téni, Allesandra. They're too near the front ranks, where they can be easily overrun by the enemy chevarittai."

    Allesandra frowned. "That's what Georgi said, too, the offizier you sent."

    "Then he knows what he's doing. Did you like him?"

    Allesandra nodded. "He was nice. And very patient."

    "I'll tell him you said so, and I'll make sure he gives you more lessons."

    "Hïrzg, she is only a child," Greta chided him softly from her chair. Jan looked over; Mara was standing just behind the Hïrzgin, her green eyes on his. "I don't know why you told that o'offizier to teach her battle tactics. She doesn't need to know this."

    Jan looked away from Mara to the far-less pleasant face of Greta. "If she is to be Hïrzgin after me, she does," Jan answered firmly. "Firenzcia always needs leaders who can also be starkkapitän at need."

    "Firenzcia is part of the Holdings, and the Holdings are at peace," Greta said placidly. "Firenzcia needs a leader, yes, but not another starkkapitän. The threat to us isn't from soldiers, but from dangerous beliefs that pull the people away from the correct path Cénzi has given us." Her hands, folded over the mound of her stomach, now made the sign of Cénzi on her forehead. She was plain and unhandsome, her straight hair an unremarkable brown, her jaw slightly too square and protruding: that damned family trait. Jan could see that in another few decades, if she survived her pregnancies, she would look much like the Kraljica or, worse, like the A'Kralj. She already, for Jan's taste, sounded too much like the old hag Marguerite. "We should not be practicing war; we should be preparing for the Kraljica's Jubilee in Nessantico."

    "There will be time for that after the maneuvers."

    "Yes," Greta said, her voice just shy of mockery. "You have to play with your own toy soldiers."

    "Nessantico is a doddering old woman, just like the Kraljica, Hïrzgin, and it is only the army of Firenzcia that keeps her safe," he told Greta. "And only stupid and useless people think otherwise." The ladies-in-waiting, all but Mara, sucked in their breath and pretended to be engaged in their own whispered conversations. Jan gestured toward Allesandra's table. "If Firenzcia weren't the strong right arm of Nessantico, then Nessantico would be nothing. Unless you think the effete chevarittai of the Garde Civile can protect you."

    "The Kraljica is the Genera a'Pace. She has brought peace to the Holdings. You talk like a Numetodo railing against Concénzia." The rebuke was gently spoken, almost an apology, and she brought her hands to her forehead at the mention of the Faith. But the chiding tone was still there, and it would be there again, and again, and again, until the constant touch of it burned like witchfire. That was her way.

    He hated the woman. He hated that his vatarh had been so cowed as to agree to the Kraljica's "wish" that the two of them marry.

    "The Kraljica has put the Holdings to sleep," Jan retorted, "and I talk

like a realist, Hïrzgin. That's all. A good general—a good leader—must make certain his sword is sharp and his skills well-practiced for when the need is there. And it will be there. War always comes. Inevitably."

    "There is such a thing as Truth, my dear husband, and Truth comes from faith—faith in Concénzia and faith in the Kraljica." Greta shook her head, a disagreement so slight as to be nearly invisible. "Truth does not change. It remains the same. Eternal."

    "Much like our argument, dear wife," Jan answered, with no warmth in his voice at all. Greta's hands pressed together hard enough to pull the color from them, and he thought he saw the faintest glimpse of annoyance in her eyes. He smiled, but the smile was for Mara, whose eyes glittered in silent amusement behind Greta.

    "Look, Vatarh," Allesandra interrupted before Greta could gather herself for another rejoinder. "See, I moved the archers . . ."

    Jan looked down at the table. Allesandra had altered the ranks of soldiers. They were set now as he might have set them himself before a battle. He noticed especially the lancers set to either flank, where they could wait for the right moment to enter the battle, and a vanguard was set well ahead of the main force to draw the enemy's attack and force them to show their hand. He grinned and patted Allesandra's soft curls. "Well done, my dearest one. Perfect. Each piece has its own part to play in the whole. Just remember, a good Hïrzgin would never move without knowing what is set against her. You must know when to bow, and when to take up arms. Knowing which battles you can win and which you cannot is what separates the great leader from a mediocre one."

    "Then you must be a great leader, Vatarh," Allesandra answered. He heard Mara's soft, encouraging laughter (but not Greta's) as his daughter spoke, though he kept his attention on his daughter's large, earnest eyes.

    "I try, darling one. But history will be the one to judge that, I'm afraid." He patted her head again. "I find that I'm more tired than I expected from my journey," he announced. "I will retire to my own chamber and take supper there shortly."

    "I will join you, then," Greta said, but Jan was already shaking his head.

    "No, my dear wife. I think tonight I prefer to dine in private." Above and behind Greta, Mara gave him the slightest of nods. "After I've eaten and rested for a time, I will come and see what entertainments you've arranged for the evening. If you'll excuse me . . ."

    Greta and her ladies rose once more, and the servants hurried to open the canvas panel that served as a door. Markell was waiting just outside, and Jan clapped his arm around the man's shoulder. Markell had been Jan's companion since childhood, raised with him to become his aide, his bodyguard, and most trusted confidant. "A certain lady will be coming to my apartments in an hour," Jan said quietly. If any of the servants nearby could hear, they knew enough to not indicate it. "See that she's escorted there discreetly."

    "Certainly, my Hïrzg." Markell inclined his head. "I'll attend to it personally."

    "Good. Tomorrow we will watch the maneuvers and begin our other preparations. Make certain that the Hïrzgin understands that Allesandra is also to attend, despite the protests she'll undoubtedly make." As Markell nodded again, Jan stretched. "It feels good to finally be doing something," he said. "Our message was sent?"

    "It was, Hïrzg, and should have been received by now."

    "Excellent." Jan allowed himself a smile. Then you must be a great leader, Vatarh. He would know. Soon enough. "Markell, I have the sense that this will be a good year for Firenzcia. A very good year indeed."

"THE FAMILY IS BURDENED with debt. Vajiki cu'Seranta has borrowed heavily, not only from his wife's family, but from his own cu'Barith relatives. The family would almost certainly have been named ci' in the next Roll, except that the giving of a Marque to the daughter saved them. At least that's what my contacts in the Gardes a'Liste tell me. Now, though . . ."

    "The Archigos saved them." Orlandi snorted derisively. The Dwarf Mockery . . . He should never have been Archigos. . . . "Five thousand solas will keep them safely cu' as well as pay back the family's debts. And I'm certain the new o'téni has quite an adequate salary herself. She will keep the family cu'. She might even make them ca' one day."

    Carlo cu'Belli's eyebrows sought to join his receding hairline. "It's true that the Archigos gave them five thousand solas for this new o'téni's Marque?"

    "Indeed." Orlandi—A'Teni of the city of Brezno, Téte of the Guardians of the Faith, and nearly elected Archigos himself during the concordance that had instead chosen Dhosti ca'Millac—let the heavy curtain drop, cutting off his view of the village of Ile Verte across the river. He was staying in the Chateau a'Ile Verte, on its island at the confluence of the Rivers Clario and A'Sele, a day's journey upriver from Nessantico. The chateau was owned by the Kraljica herself, but she had given Orlandi use of the estate while he was in Nessantico for the Jubilee celebrations.

    He found that arrangement far more satisfactory than taking an apartment within the Old Temple complex; he had his eyes and ears within the Faith's vast bureaucracy in the city, and the air was bet ter here: close enough to reach Nessantico at need, far enough away that he himself could not be easily observed, though he was certain that both the Archigos and the Kraljica had a spy or two on the house staff reporting back to them—in fact, he was certain that was why the Kraljica had offered the chateau to him even when he knew that she was displeased with his purge of the Numetodo in Brezno. Perhaps, when he became Archigos, he would take the Chateau a'Ile Verte as a small part of his spoils; it would make an excellent summer residence to escape the stifling air of the Nessantico summers

    But for the moment, there was only cu'Belli in the room with him: Carlo, who had been for several years now Orlandi's eyes and ears in Nessantico, an importer/exporter with his own network of informers within the business community of Nessantico. Carlo was seated at a table with a platter of venison and potatoes and a flagon of good red Brezno Temple wine, his plate and glass full for the third time now.

    "Five thousand solas to the family . . ." cu'Belli repeated, his eyes lifted to the frescoed ceiling as if totting up invisible figures there. He waved a fork whose silver tines held a chunk of dripping meat. If Orlandi knew the man at all, he was trying to figure out how he might acquire some of Vajiki cu'Seranta's newfound wealth. "She must be truly unusual. What did the téni in charge of the acolytes say?" He placed the meat in his mouth and chewed contentedly and loudly.

    "Very little of any help," Orlandi answered brusquely. Especially since U'Téni cu'Dosteau is the Archigos' friend, and hardly sympathetic with our cause. That damned dwarf . . . Orlandi cleared his throat. One of cu'Belli's faults was his tendency to ask questions as if he and Orlandi were somehow, impossibly, peers. "And this is not what I brought you here to discuss, in any case."

    Cu'Belli accepted the rebuke with a shrug, swallowing and taking a sip of the wine. "My apologies, of course, A'Téni. I just wonder if perhaps Vajiki cu'Seranta will be pleased with his payment from the Archigos. The family's debts, from what I understand, are substantial, and there will be far less than five thousand solas remaining after they're paid. Along with that, the family servants who have been dismissed over the last few years tell me that Vajiki cu'Seranta was in his daughter's bedchamber at . . . odd times. We may be able to exploit that and his greed, and make him pliable to our needs."

    Orlandi's lips curled into a near-snarl at cu'Belli's use of the plural possessive. "My needs," he said, "go well beyond the cu'Seranta family. You're a crude man, Carlo, and you think crudely. You'd use a hammer when a pinprick would do. It may be that I'll look to Vajiki cu'Seranta later, but for now, I'm far more interested in what you have to tell me about your trip to Firenzcia. I expected a packet . . ."

    "Ah, that . . ." Cu'Belli put the fork down on the plate with a clatter that made Orlandi's eyes narrow. The man rummaged in a large leather pouch hanging from his chair. "While I was in Brezno arranging for a shipment of snowstout hides—and I must say, A'Teni, that they are beautiful hides and wonderfully soft and thick. Three of them would make a most attractive overcloak for you, and I would of course give you a generous discount—a messenger gave this to me for you." He held up a small bundle wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with twine. "I couldn't help but feel that there was a large seal on the envelope underneath." He favored Orlandi with a conspiratorial smile. "While I was there, I heard that Hïrzg ca'Vörl has been making overtures to the Numetodo provinces against the Hïrzgin's strong advice. It would seem that the Hïrzg has stronger ambitions than simply being related by marriage to the Kraljica. Maybe the Faith has something more substantial to offer him than a few Numetodo gibbeted in Brezno?"

    Orlandi snatched the packet from cu'Belli, who snickered. "Have you been sufficiently refreshed, Carlo? If so, then I'll direct my aide to give you payment for three snowstout hides, and to make arrangements for you to broker the sale of this season's Brezno Temple wines."

    Cu'Belli took a sip of the wine on the table. "If all the bottles are as excellent as this one, I will secure you the best prices in the Holdings. You anticipate a good harvest?"

    "We pray for it," Orlandi answered. "As you should pray for continued good fortune, Vajiki."

    "Always, A'Téni. You know that I'm a devout follower of Concén zia." He ostentatiously pressed clasped hands to forehead before pushing his chair back from the table. "A pleasure doing business with you, A'Téni, as always. May Cénzi keep you well, my friend."

    Business is indeed all it is. Orlandi smiled at cu'Belli as he left the room, but it was only a practiced and meaningless movement of his lips. And perhaps it's time I look for a better, more grateful, and less talkative partner.

    As the door closed, Orlandi placed the packet on the table. With the knife cu'Belli had been using to cut the meat, he sliced the twine, then pulled apart the paper wrapper. He had little doubt that cu'Belli had already done the same, but the seal on the thick white envelope below seemed intact, the Hïrzg's monogram—a "V" composed of twin inclined swords wrapped in garlands of ivy—pressed deeply into the red wax. Orlandi doubted that cu'Belli had the courage or the skill to have taken off and reattached the seal, but it hardly mattered. The letter inside the envelope was written in a fair hand, but the words were unintelligible: coded.

    Orlandi seated himself at the table, pushing aside cu'Belli's plate and goblet, and spread out the paper. From a drawer under the table, he took a bottle of ink and a stylus; from a pocket in his vestments, he withdrew a disk composed of two dials of thin board, one slightly smaller than the other, both inscribed along their edges with the letters of the alphabet, though the sequence of the inner dial was scrambled. He looked again at the Hïrzg's message—the number of letters in the first word told him how many steps to advance the inner dial, as well as the number to advance it for each succeeding word in the actual message. Hïrzg ca'Vörl had an identical disk.

    Laboriously, Orlandi decoded the message, turning the inner dial with each word and writing down the decoded snippets. By the time he finished, he was smiling.

    Taking the letter, he rose from the table and went to the fireplace on the far wall, where he fed the missive to the flames one sheet at a time. After the last sheet curled into ash, he returned to the window, gazing out beyond the rooftops of Ile Verte to where—a hundred and more miles beyond—the Hïrzg arrayed his army in Firenzcia.

    The pieces were all in place, and Orlandi was seated on both sides of the board moving them. It didn't matter who won this game: Justi ca'Mazzak might become Kraljiki (and perhaps he would even be Justi ca'Cellibrecca at that point . . .), or perhaps Hïrzg Jan might sit on the Sun Throne on the Isle A'Kralji with the Ring of the Kralji on his finger. Orlandi didn't care—either way, he would depose the dwarf and the Concord A'Téni would name him Archigos even if the dwarf had named a successor. He would have the title that should have been his all along. The dwarf was of weak faith and had far too much sympathy for those whose beliefs differed from the correct interpretation of the Toustour, and for those who would bend the laws of the Divolonté. Orlandi was furious at how ca'Millac could tolerate an "envoy" from the Numetodo in his own city; Orlandi had shown in Brezno what a genuine Archigos' response should have been to those who mocked Cénzi and Concénzia. The Numetodo disgusted him. They believed in no gods. Worse, they believed that they could do what was forbidden in the Divolonté and use the Ilmodo without the Faith, without training from Concénzia, without the blessing of the Archigos. They believed that it was not faith that was necessary, but only reason. They were the true enemies. They would destroy Concénzia, and in doing that they would also destroy Nessantico and the Holdings. Their use of the Second World's power mocked Cénzi. Their souls were already doomed; Orlandi would also doom their bodies.

    Cénzi was on Orlandi's side. He could feel the strength Cénzi lent him, stronger each day.

    He lifted his clasped hands to his forehead. He prayed, and he thought, and he imagined.

    When I'm the Archigos. . . .