Table of Contents

Title Page

Books by Lois McMaster Bujold

Frontnote

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Epilogue

Author’s Note: A Bujold Reading-Order Guide

About the Author

Copyright 2021 © by Lois McMaster Bujold

Cover art and design by Ron Miller, 2021

Books by Lois McMaster Bujold

The Vorkosigan Series

Falling Free

Shards of Honor

Barrayar

The Warrior’s Apprentice

The Vor Game

Cetaganda

Ethan of Athos

Borders of Infinity

Brothers in Arms

Mirror Dance

Memory

Komarr

A Civil Campaign

Diplomatic Immunity

Captain Vorpatril’s Alliance

CryoBurn

Gentleman Jole and the Red Queen

The Chalion Series

The Hallowed Hunt

The Curse of Chalion

Paladin of Souls

Penric & Desdemona

“Penric’s Demon”

“Penric and the Shaman”

“Penric’s Fox”

“Masquerade in Lodi”

“Penric’s Mission”

“Mira’s Last Dance”

“The Prisoner of Limnos”

“The Orphans of Raspay”

“The Physicians of Vilnoc”

The Assassins of Thasalon

The Sharing Knife Tetralogy

Volume One: Beguilement

Volume Two: Legacy

Volume Three: Passage

Volume Four: Horizon

“Knife Children"

Other Fantasy

The Spirit Ring

Short Stories

Proto Zoa

Nonfiction

Sidelines: Talks and Essays

Frontnote: This novel-length story takes place two years after the events of “The Physicians of Vilnoc”.

The internal chronological order of the Penric & Desdemona tales is presently:

“Penric’s Demon”

“Penric and the Shaman”

“Penric’s Fox”

“Masquerade in Lodi”

“Penric’s Mission”

“Mira’s Last Dance”

“The Prisoner of Limnos”

“The Orphans of Raspay”

“The Physicians of Vilnoc”

The Assassins of Thasalon

“Demon”, “Shaman”, and “Fox” are collected in the paper volume Penric’s Progress, and “Mission”, “Mira” and “Limnos” are collected in the paper volume Penric’s Travels.

Chapter 1

As he paced the sun-drenched streets of Vilnoc, Penric once more studied the note in his brother-in-law’s scrawling handwriting. It had been brought to his house this morning by a military courier, who’d had no enlightenment to add to the typically General-Arisaydia-curt message: Meet me in an hour at the duke’s palace. I need your ear.

Ear, as attentive judgment, his demon, Desdemona, pointed out in their silent speech. Not ears, as a grisly Rusylli tribal war trophy.

Pen’s lips twitched in amusement. I can’t think of anything I’ve done lately that would peeve Adelis that much. He tucked the note back into the sash of his summer vestments.

As he—or they, always a little challenge how to describe two persons sharing one body—turned onto the palace square, Pen glanced down the busy main avenue toward the slice of blue harbor revealed at its far end. A better vantage could be gained from Duke Jurgo’s roof: merchants’ quays, the customs buildings, the naval shipyard, the enclosing sweeps of headlands to the south and north that protected the river’s ever-silting mouth running down from the rugged hills of Orbas behind.

Oh, but here was Adelis himself, just dismounting from his cavalry nag at the base of the wide marble steps that were the latest addition to the ducal seat. Palace was something of a misnomer for what was originally three old merchants’ mansions knocked together. In his five years of residence here, Pen had never seen the place not undergoing some renovation or another at Jurgo’s direction.

Adelis had not ridden in alone from his fort at Tyno that guarded the landward approaches to Vilnoc. A groom in military kit was taking charge of the horses, helped by a servant in the duke’s tabard. Dismounting also were two men new to Pen’s eyes. A fit-looking fellow of perhaps forty was flanked by an even more robust attendant, both sharing the regional coloration of black hair, brown eyes, and skin the hue of some rich reddish wood, very similar to Adelis. Despite their modest civilian riding dress, suitable for well-to-do merchants traveling rough, Pen fancied he was looking at a high-ranking officer and an aide—though not from the legions of Orbas. Curious.

“Oh, good, you’re here,” said Adelis to Pen in turn. Despite the heat, he wore his boiled leather cuirass and the red cloak of his rank, thrown back over his shoulders. The cloak might be a formality to honor the duke; the uncomfortable armor was less explicable.

Pen nodded greeting. “Though I was somewhat delayed by your niece. Rina’s latest trick was to wedge her plump little knee through the atrium gallery balustrade, and get it thoroughly stuck. Screamed her head off, though I think more in anger than sorrow. We had to ease it out with kitchen oil. I believe she was trying to climb over. On the third floor! Five gods, I’ve never been so terrified by architecture before. How do children here survive?”

Adelis snickered. “I don’t remember being aged two, but I do remember Nikys and me devising a rope ladder off the gallery of one of our houses when we were a bit older. I believe we were scaling an imaginary fortress wall, though we mainly fought over whose turn it was to be left defender. Our mothers objected, when they discovered us, which we thought poor-spirited of them.”

“Hah. I can picture Idrene’s harassed look.” Having just witnessed her grandmotherly version this morning.

Adelis’s brief humor faded as he wheeled back to his… guests? “Gentlemen, may I introduce Learned Penric kin Jurald, court sorcerer to the duke of Orbas and husband to my twin sister Nikys. And as deep in my councils as any man alive.”

Pen blinked at this unexpected endorsement. The two—Pen was almost sure they were Cedonians—stared back in wary fascination, though whether at his best vestments or his person Pen was not sure. His Temple calling was signified by his sleeveless white tunic, its high collar held up at his neck by the formal silver torc, sash at his waist in the pale colors and silver cord of the fifth god. Slim tan trousers topped Orban-style summer sandals. The whole covering a lean fellow with white-blond hair wound up in a knot at his nape, eyes the blue of the harbor waters, milk-pale skin: a type common in Pen’s home mountains, but rare around here. Apart from the lacing of pink sunburn, contribution of the local climate.

“And… I think I will continue the introductions not in the street,” Adelis went on, glancing up to where the duke’s secretary, Master Stobrek, had appeared at the top of the shallow steps.

Oohh boy, Des murmured in Pen’s mind. And if that isn’t warning of someone venturing out onto deep waters. Imperial couriers, d’you think?

Or not-imperial couriers, which might be worse. Considering the recent spates of lurid news from Orbas’s uncomfortable neighboring realm. We’ll find out shortly, I expect. But this couldn’t be anything good. Or safe.

As they mounted the entry, Adelis returned the stern salutes of the door-flanking palace guards, a tap of the fist over the heart that signified the virtues of loyalty and courage sacred to the Son of Autumn. The visitors barely caught themselves from repeating the military gesture; Des muffled dry demonic amusement. Affably, Pen cast each guardsman a five-fold blessing in passing, which always seemed to reassure them a trifle.

Master Stobrek, who neither asked for nor was offered names either, nodded to Adelis and conducted them at once through the central atrium, all mosaics and marble and frescoes, and up the graceful branched staircase. Passing onto the gallery of a courtyard, he rapped on the carved door of the duke’s writing cabinet. “Come,” the familiar voice sounded through the wood.

Duke Jurgo, clad informally for the weather in a long unbelted tunic and sandals, looked up from the mess of papers before him as they trooped within. The younger visitor, at a gesture from his fellow, took up a guard’s stance outside the door as it swung shut. This was to be a very private conclave, it seemed. Well, five was a theologically auspicious number, but Pen’s curiosity began to edge into alarm.

Stobrek arranged three chairs in front of the writing table, and a stool for himself discreetly off to the side. Adelis stepped forward and saluted his liege lord.

“So what’s this about, Adelis? Your note was, hm, short.” The crow’s feet at the corners of the duke’s eyes deepened, possibly in consideration of matters that one might not wish to commit to writing. Jurgo owned a pleasantly ugly face, his sturdy body thickening a trifle as he approached his fiftieth year. Two decades of holding precarious independence from the reduced Cedonian empire, which still remembered Orbas as one of its late provinces, had etched shrewdness and caution into his leathery features.

Pen shoved his chair back and a little around as he settled, that he might watch both his companions’ profiles. The visitor appeared profoundly ill-at-ease. Adelis just looked grim.

“My lord duke. May I make known to you General Gria, of the Eighth Legion of the Imperial Western Army, who has brought me a message out of the present confusion in Cedonia. Gria, please tell Jurgo all you told me last night.”

“My message was meant for your ear alone, General Arisaydia.”

“And if my answer was a flat no, it might have stayed so. It still could. Your choice.”

Gria grimaced.

Adelis added bluntly, “I have never betrayed an oath or deserted a post in my life. It was Cedonia that betrayed me.”

He touched the burn scars that marred the upper half of his face, red and white sprays framing his strange garnet eyes like owl feathers, relic of the attempt to blind him with boiling vinegar following the false treason charges. Blinding was an old Cedonian imperial shift, to get men out of the way who were too powerful or popular to execute. Pen had formed a surpassing intimacy with that injury, as without his magics Adelis would have remained sightless in truth; as Nikys had once put it, carrying his imprisonment with him.

Adelis went on, “I am not going to begin with the man who took in me and mine when we had nothing.” A terse nod to the duke, who raised his eyebrows at this avowal.

Penric had been head-down in his own scholarly work in the past months, but visits by Adelis to his sister’s household had come with unsettling news from their home country that both Nikys and her mother Idrene had followed avidly. Seventeen years of stability in the capital city of great Thasalon had ended, some eight months back, upon the death of the emperor, apparently of natural causes—a fall from a horse followed by lung fever. Rumors always swirled around such high takings-off, but Adelis, at least, had judged the tale true. Minister Methani and his cabal, the men who had betrayed Adelis to this Orban exile, would certainly not have welcomed or sped such an end to their grip on power.

Indeed, Des agreed, growing as intent as Pen. Thasalon politics were a snake-pit that Pen had considered his brother-in-law very well out of. Maybe not far enough…?

The late emperor’s reign had been a success in the field, beginning with his victory in the short civil war that had put him on his throne. But it had been a failure in the marriage bed, only two of the imperial offspring surviving: an elder daughter by the first wife, and a now nine-year-old boy by the third. The adult daughter, Princess Laris, had been passed over, and the boy Mikal declared emperor under a regency council consisting of his father’s half-brother, his mother, the husband of the princess, and, no surprise, Minister Methani and his nephew Lord Bordane.

In Cedonia’s many centuries of history, such succession-pacts had sometimes worked, sometimes failed. The current ill-assorted version was creaking badly. The uncle-regent, Prince Ragat Lafoni, had died abruptly of no visible cause, no poisons being found by the very thorough autopsy conducted by the Mother’s Order in Thasalon under the direct supervision of its archdivine and the imperial magistrate. The public verdict was stroke. Adelis had wished aloud that Penric, skilled though not practicing as a physician-sorcerer, could have been there, or at the very least, read the reports for him, but those were being closely held in Thasalon. Also no surprise.

The ill-fated Ragat’s own son Lord Ello, himself a highly plausible candidate for the throne as he was both adult and army, had met his end two months ago in an appalling military disaster that had left Adelis cursing with vicarious rage. That it was at the hands of a Rusylli tribal coalition which Adelis himself had pushed north from the Uteny River in a series of campaigns for Jurgo had to be a vicious bur under Adelis’s saddle. But no question the regency council was shrinking in Methani’s favor.

So much for the public version of events. It seemed they were about to get a look behind the curtain. Pen couldn’t quite tell if Adelis was eager or averse.

I don’t think Adelis knows either, murmured Des.

Gria sighed and steeled himself, straightening on his seat like a man about to make a military report. He might have felt more comfortable standing at parade rest, Pen suspected. “How much have you heard, my lord duke, about the disaster to the Sixth Legion at the Vytymi Valley?”

Jurgo waved a hand. “Rumor has run ahead of you, but few details. The expedition under the command of Lord Ello Lafoni was surrounded, cut off, and cut up by the Rusylli, and Ello, not well-advised, surrendered on terms. In violation of the agreement, Ello and most of his officers were executed. You can’t say his surviving men weren’t granted their lives, but they were stripped of arms, docked of their ears—six thousand men mutilated!—then and sent walking naked and barefoot back to the border. Many died on the march.”

Adelis said, through gritted teeth, “Ello’s was a punitive expedition, well into its depredations. Of course the Rusylli wouldn’t honor the terms. And the tribes are not set up to keep large numbers of prisoners. Those they can’t sell promptly as slaves, they kill. One does not surrender to the Rusylli!”

Gria rubbed his forehead. “The Western Army”—Adelis’s old comrades—“is in an uproar about it all. The city of Thasalon as well.” He looked up at Adelis and Jurgo. “The opportunity to unseat Methani and the regency council he controls is now. Princess Laris and her husband Lord Nao are willing to stand against him, but Nao, however fine a minister—not that diligence and honesty are much rewarded in Thasalon—does not command the loyalty of the military faction. They cannot move unless they have secured a man to join with them who could. They think that man is Arisaydia.”

Unspoken: that Arisaydia could very well command that loyalty on his own behalf, if he chose.

Aye, said Des. Adelis is like a threatening piece at the edge of a gameboard, that must either be conscripted or removed. And Laris and Nao can’t be the only ones to realize that.

Hence the attempt five years ago at blinding him. Methani had been beforehand, but not wrong, from a certain point of view.

“Do they think to make Laris a ruling empress?” asked Jurgo. “Or merely take control of her brother’s regency?”

Gria’s lips twisted unhappily. “That would depend upon how events play out. The empress-mother appears to be in Methani’s pocket.”

“Hard to tell,” Des observed through Penric’s mouth, “if she volunteered to lodge there, or just found it the only available refuge.”

Adelis glanced aside, familiar enough with Penric and his passenger to be unsure who’d just spoken. The others present no doubt assumed it to be Penric. That Adelis had not introduced her separately as Madame Desdemona, as he sometimes did to her gratification, suggested he’d wanted her to stay discreet, so Pen let the comment stand unglossed.

Gria went on: “So this is Princess Laris’s offer to General Arisaydia. Return with me to Cedonia, swear loyalty to her, and command of the Western Army would be restored to him.”

“It would be tantamount to a declaration of civil war in Thasalon,” said Adelis.

“It is hoped, if enough of the army were to swing to Laris, that violence might be limited to no more than a palace coup.”

“With a nine-year-old boy among my targets?” Adelis frowned in distaste. “I could stay right here in Orbas, and have nothing to do with any of it. Which is certainly what I swore when I arrived five years ago.”

“Laris and Nao do not have that choice,” Gria said heavily. “The mysterious death of Ello’s father Prince Ragat weighs hard upon them. The message you’re next could scarcely be more clear.”

“Would you release me from my oath to you?” Adelis asked Jurgo.

Jurgo pursed his lips. “Do you wish me to?”

“I’m… not yet sure.”

“I can only remark that I likely couldn’t hold you if you wished to go. Except by chaining you to a dungeon wall, which would limit your use as my officer. Not to mention offend my court sorcerer. I understand Learned Penric can make short work of such shackles.”

Of all shackles, agreed Des. Pen managed a tight smile, not sure where Jurgo was going with this.

“Making my refusal your pretext if you want to stay is the only way I see it could work,” sighed Jurgo. “Seems roundabout, for you.”

“Sir.”

Jurgo sat back with a snort. “Well, when you are sure, see me again.” His eye fell on Penric. “And where do you stand in all this?”

All this conspiracy. “This is as sudden to me as it is to you,” Pen temporized. “My wife and her mother—and I—would wish to support Adelis in all things, but that doesn’t necessarily mean at his side. Cedonia is their birthplace, but I do admit that my own experiences there didn’t incline me to love it.” Only starting with the broken skull, the sojourn in the bottle dungeon, and the near-drowning. And that had just been Pen’s first week.

Gria was eyeing him with new interest. He’d come to collect a general; was he now envisioning a bonus sorcerer? Evidently so, for he said, “Learned Penric, and all of General Arisaydia’s family, would be most warmly welcomed by the princess and Lord Nao.”

Leaving the duke to lose his best general and his best sorcerer at one blow? By Jurgo’s frown, this consequence did not please him.

Not that he could hold Penric against his will, either.

“Still,” said Adelis, “I must speak with my sister and her mother before I choose my course.”

Gria looked startled. “These women will not make your decision for you, surely!”

Adelis gave him a rather sour side-eye. “No, but my decision will affect them, and me in turn. Idrene has already been held hostage once against me by Methani, rescued only by great daring, and Nikys would have been, if Learned Penric hadn’t managed to smuggle her out of Cedonia along with me. Both are as deep in my affairs as he is, and for far longer. Their advice is fully informed.”

“Hm.” Gria sat back, conceding the brief debate. Really, he hadn’t much choice.

Jurgo tapped his thick fingers on his desk. “General Gria, may I offer you and your traveling companion the hospitality of a room in my palace tonight, while General Arisaydia takes his counsels. Ah, not in the dungeon, I promise you.”

Not least because this palace didn’t possess a dungeon, though Pen supposed Gria didn’t know that. But Jurgo must certainly hope for opportunity of more interrogation.

“We’ll be going nowhere today, regardless,” said Adelis. “It’s here or the fort for you, and the food is better here.”

Secrecy might be better served by the pair staying at some quiet inn matching their disguises as merchants. Diplomacy not as well, though, and interrogations ran two ways. Gria must have wished for this too, for he said, “We would be very grateful for further opportunity to talk, my lord duke. Thank you.”

Jurgo waved acknowledgement of both the spoken and unspoken. Adelis wouldn’t be the only man thinking hard tonight, Pen imagined. The fraught meeting broke up with more polite exchanges, Gria and his aide were put in the hands of Stobrek for their billeting, and Adelis and Pen made their way out.

*     *     *

As they recrossed the central atrium, Adelis murmured, “Your place next, I think.”

“Very well.”

They exited onto the sunny stairway, where the guards once more braced to salute the general. As he returned the military courtesies, a woman in a palace servant’s tabard glanced up at them, scrambled from the steps she’d been scrubbing, pulled her bucket aside, and lowered her face in a shy bow. The guards ignored her. Adelis barely glanced at her, offering only a polite nod.

Des’s full Sight burst upon Pen’s mind unasked-for: the sentries’ diligent souls, Adelis’s colorful dark complexity, and—

Pen, she’s a sorceress!

Only the slight twitch of her right hand betrayed her murderous intent. The bolus of chaos, invisible, ill-formed, but well-aimed, was only just intercepted at Adelis’s head by Des’s demonically fast reactions, dissipating in a silent boil of air while Pen was still drawing breath to shout a warning.

The young woman, her own Sight operating in turn, gaped in dismay at Penric and his passenger and cast a second desperate throw, more quickly intercepted. Des caromed it into a cobble, which heated and fractured. The erstwhile scrubwoman gasped in fright, turned, and ran, her skirts flaring around her ankles.

Starting down the steps after her, Pen was distracted back by the muffled yelp and thump of Adelis falling. He wheeled again to take a speedy survey; Adelis’s brain had been rattled by the nimbus of the near-miss, but thankfully nothing ruptured. Adelis tried to force himself to his feet, thwarted by his dizziness back to his hands and knees. His eyes and mouth widened as he fought nausea.

Pen barked to the startled guards, one of whom was starting forward with some dim intention of offering aid, “That woman was some sort of hedge sorceress! She just tried to kill General Arisaydia. One of you—” Blast it, the woman had already vanished from the square. “Go after and try to see where she went, but don’t get close to her.”

The pair exchanged horrified looks at this confusing command; what Pen took to be either the braver or more junior man gulped and complied, having witnessed which narrow street she’d bolted into. Pen turned back to Adelis, who’d managed to sit up on the steps.

“Bastard’s teeth, what was that?” He put a shaking hand to his scarred forehead.

“You’ve seen me use animals as chaos-sinks?”

Adelis nodded in memory of Penric’s more notable slaughters, then winced in regret at the motion.

“Same idea.”

“You’ve always insisted to me that sorcerers can’t kill people. Or you can’t, anyway.” Adelis glowered at him, as though he took this for a lapse on Pen’s part.

“Almost. They can only kill once, then their demon is stripped from them by the god through their victim’s death. If the sorcerer is very strong-willed, they can force their demon to its destruction that way, sacrifice it, but then they are done. It’s like a bow with only one arrow.” He added after a moment, “Not a Temple skill. Tamed Temple demons are considered much too valuable. And are potent enough to resist. A new, weak elemental, on its first rider, wouldn’t know how.”

Like casting a child onto an enemy sword, Des snarled. Pen had never felt her more upset, seething within him to the point of throwing his body into tremors. The guard and Adelis perhaps took it for Pen’s own shock, just as well.

Summoned by the sentry’s bellow through the door, a gaggle of other palace guardsmen had poured out, swords drawn, looking around wildly for the enemy and seeing no one. They were followed by the guard commander and, in a few moments, Master Stobrek, both breathless.

As Adelis was still seated clutching his head, the guard commander braced his own man: “What happened?”

The guardsman said unhappily, “There was this scrubwoman. The general fell down, and Learned Penric shouted that she was a sorceress, and had attacked him. She ran, and Ermo went after her. But we didn’t see a thing!”

“They couldn’t have,” Pen excused them to the commander. “You’d need to be a Temple sensitive, or otherwise Sighted.” As I am went unspoken.

The commander’s mouth compressed at this unenlightening account. “Did you recognize her?”

The guardsman shook his head. “She was dressed as a palace maid.” As good as a cloak of invisibility even without her magics? He described her, accurately but uselessly. The woman had been well-looking enough, ordinary for this region—dark hair and eyes, peninsular skin alloyed with islander bronze, lighter than Adelis. Mid-twenties at a guess. A common appearance would be an asset for a spy.

Pen’s flashing glimpse of her face and her soul had found determination, fear, distress, anger, but, oddly, not vengefulness. What did you make of her, Des?

A reluctant pause; Des was still fuming. Murderous enough. But no, it didn’t feel personal.

How very strange.

The scout sentry came trotting back, looking hangdog. “I’m sorry, General, Learned Sir. I lost her.”

Adelis hissed through his teeth. “Well. Perhaps she’ll be back. She still has her one arrow, right?”

“Yes, maybe,” said Pen. “But what was she?”

“Where have your wits gone begging? Cedonian assassin, of course. Probably employed by Methani’s cabal, having yet another try at me. This would be the, what, fifth, if I haven’t lost count.”

Penric only knew of three earlier ones. Adelis had been keeping his own counsel, not unusual for him. “Unless there’s someone else around here you have seriously offended.”

Adelis shrugged, unpersuaded.

“Is the duke in danger?” Master Stobrek asked anxiously. At this, Adelis flinched. The guard commander went alert. More alert.

“I… don’t know,” said Penric. “Her target was Adelis, plainly. She wouldn’t have wasted her one shot on a side-victim.”

“You’re assuming there is only one such assassin,” Adelis observed through his hands.

“Ah.” Which was why Adelis was the strategist, and Penric was not.

“If I increase the guard,” the commander began, and stopped.

“Armed men are no protection against this,” Pen agreed. “She only needs to get within sight of her target. There’s merit in keeping the duke inside, though, and all strangers away from him, until this is settled. But if I go out to search for her,” Pen said more slowly, “I wouldn’t be where I’m wanted if she circles back to the general.”

“Do we need to search for her?” said Adelis. “I am my own bait, surely. Wherever I am.”

Implying the assassin wouldn’t go to Penric’s house if Adelis wasn’t there? Pen didn’t want to count on that, and Adelis’s notion of more such assailants was horrifying. He barely quelled the impulse to dash home through the streets at once to protect his family, which was also Adelis’s family, hence the danger. And hang the duke. Dutiful Adelis might have a dilemma making that choice, but Pen had none.

There was only one of Penric, which suggested that to avoid this fork he’d better collect everyone he needed Des to guard into one place. Send for Nikys and Florina and Idrene to come here?

Tap another sorcerer for the duke, said Des impatiently.

Oh. Of course. “Adelis, where is Learned Dubro right now? At the fort, or training over at the Mother’s Order?”

Adelis looked up, blinking as if his sight was blurred, which had to alarm him profoundly. “Assisting my fort physicians in our infirmary, this past week.”

Pen turned to the guard commander. “Send a courier rider out to the fort to bring him here as swiftly as possible.”

Adelis understood immediately. “A watchdog, eh?” A flap of his hand endorsed this suggestion, and the commander, with a look of relief, hurried off to obey. Pen tried to calculate which would be faster, fetching his family to the palace or waiting for Dubro and then going home. Given the fuss entailed in lugging his daughter Florina anywhere, it seemed to be a coin-toss.

“Do you want to come inside, General?” asked Stobrek anxiously. “And lie down? I can send for the duke’s physician.”

“Redundant,” growled Adelis, with a glance at Pen. “But it might be well to get off this stage.” More than a few passersby had stopped to stare at the number of guards, wondering what show they were missing.

“Can you walk yet?” fussed Stobrek.

“Yes,” claimed Adelis, and grunted up. This proved to be a slight fib, for despite the audience Adelis flung his arm up over Pen’s shoulder and leaned heavily.

“Are you in pain?” Pen murmured to him as he escorted him back into the cooler atrium.

“Headache. Seasick.”

“Understandable. She was aiming for your brainstem. If she’d connected, you’d have dropped in convulsions and died in minutes. The miss just gave you a mild concussion.” He added after a moment, “She was no physician-sorceress, nothing like one, but she’d had instruction from someone who knew what they were about. And leaving no poison to be discovered.”

“Are you thinking of the co-regent Ragat’s untimely death?” asked Stobrek, hovering at their side for this transfer, and listening intently.

“It does suggest itself.” Had those secret autopsy reports that Adelis had so hankered after touched on these uncanny possibilities?

A pause, while porters fetched chairs for them both, and the guards stood around looking uncomfortably useless. Pen waved them back. Stobrek scurried off to report all he’d gleaned of the incident to his master, and dissuade him from coming down to check, exposing himself to his general’s zone of risk.

Adelis, settling, muttered, “I don’t like this. Knives, swords, I can see coming, and back myself against. And have.”

Pen wondered anew about that fourth attack. He doubted Adelis had lost count. Did this explain his stiff cuirass today? “This wasn’t that different from a real arrow from ambush, though.”

Adelis’s lips twisted dubiously at the comparison.

“Come, you’ve seen this once before, remember? Five years back, with Kyrato of Patos and me on that mountain pass, when we were first escaping out of Cedonia. Though in that case, it was an act of blind panic on Learned Kyrato’s part, as he was losing the fight. He had to have known better.”

“Oh. Yes. But he didn’t lose his demon, did he?”

“He didn’t manage to kill me,” Pen said dryly. “Quite.”

“It felt like this?”

Rather worse. Pen shrugged. “His demon was very young, or he couldn’t have attempted it, even powered by his terror.”

Adelis, frowning, wondered aloud, “Could you kill like that? Once? In a panic, like Kyrato?”

“I doubt it. Des is strong enough to resist me, if I wanted to. And I’m strong enough to resist her, if she wanted to. We’re very well balanced, that way.”

“…So what if you both wanted to?”

“Well,” said Pen after a long moment. “That would be the time to start praying to my god, I expect.”

“Hah.”

That wasn’t a joke, Adelis.

Chapter 2

Penric dispatched one of the duke’s pages, known to Nikys and Idrene, to instruct his household to stay inside with the doors locked until he could return and explain it all. It seemed an inadequate defense. Ordinary locks wouldn’t stop him and Des, after all. He thought back on the hedge sorceress and her untrained elemental. It appeared to have taken only scant imprinting from her, suggesting it had been not long aboard. How many skills did the pair possess? Apart from the one just demonstrated, informed but crude.

Des, what did you make of that demon? What had it come from, could you sense?

She considered. It had been in a ferret, or some like weasel. Nothing before that but the Bastard’s hell. The pool of formless chaos from which demons sprang, or leaked. All elementals entered the material world as similar blobs of unformed spirit, dependent for both their existence and their ensuing shape upon the succession of creatures or persons in whom they took up residence. Desdemona’s own chronicle had started with a wild mare and then a lioness, extending through ten successive women over two centuries, making her very shapely indeed.

Why, thank you, she preened.

Despite his tension, Pen’s lips quirked up.

The mechanics of how the sorceress had obtained the elemental held no mystery; she had only to kill the host animal, or have it die or be killed in her presence, for the demon to jump to this much more enticing human home. Given the small size of the beast, not a challenge for her. Pen had heard of one woman who’d accidentally caught such an elemental from a chicken while slaughtering it for her family’s supper. It had later been dug out of her by a dedicated saint of the Bastard, whose task it was to clean up such mishaps for the Temple.

So had this acquisition been accidental, or on purpose? If the latter, at least one other spiritual sensitive must have been involved, to identify and secure the animal carrying the elemental—not a trivial task. Pen couldn’t imagine a saint of any god lending aid to this, and there were no Wealdean shamans in this region that he knew of, so that left another sorcerer, Temple or hedge. A hedge sorcerer might get up to such unsupervised chicanery; Pen didn’t like to think of a Temple one doing so. But… Thasalon.

Given her target, it had never been likely that the murderess was working at her own inspiration. So was she mover or moved?

Pen, said Des slowly. I don’t think that was her first demon.

After her one shot, going back to be reloaded like a crossbow with a fresh bolt?

As god-gifts went, the Bastard’s demons were notably ambiguous, like most of His gifts. So Pen would hesitate to name this a sacrilegious misuse of a holy benefaction. Out loud. But the hairs wanted to go up on the back of his neck as he contemplated just how such a wasteful scheme might rivet His attention.

He’d reached this point in his ruminations, and a state of muted frenzy, when the clatter of hooves outside the palace doors heralded the return from the fort of the courier and his charge. Both Pen and Adelis looked up in impatient hope.

Pen jumped to his feet as Learned Dubro trudged within, staring around with admiration at the ducal architecture. The scraggy old man had been an Orban soldier, then a farmer, before his late-life acquisition of his own demon had thrust him unexpectedly into his new calling. Within him, his demon Maska frisked with enthusiasm at the outing, his imprinting as a loyal farm dog still lingering.

Dubro was dressed in his smock from the infirmary over ordinary tunic and trousers, hustled away from his tasks without even being allowed time to don his Bastard’s whites. Pen could only think Good, for all the rural divine might be daunted at his introduction to this high household in his low garb. Fortunately he was still fairly clean at this point in his day’s labors.

He brightened as he saw Penric. Maska, within him, shrank at the dense presence of Des, vastly older and more powerful. At least the dog-demon had got over cringing, whining, and trying to run away from her in the past two years of their sojourn in Vilnoc, where Dubro had divided his time between training at the Mother’s Order in medicine, tutorials from Penric in magic, and assisting the fort physicians with what he’d learned from both.

Almost seventy, Dubro had never anticipated taking up a third and demanding profession at this stage of his life, but the god of chance and mischance had a way of upending all plans. Two chaos demons in the same space was seldom a good idea, and not just for the discomfort it engendered in them; still, it was Dubro’s, Pen’s, and Vilnoc’s good fortune that they’d been thrown together as mentor and student. Pen, too, had entered his calling backwards, demon first, training second, which was not the way the Temple preferred to arrange things, but it had made the two mages a good match.

By sheer ingrained habit the former soldier started to salute the seated Adelis, gradually recovering as he rested, but grinned at his own lapse and converted it to a five-fold blessing. “Sir. Glad to find you’re alive.” Adelis waved a muzzy agreement. Dubro turned to his fellow sorcerer-divine. “What’s this all about, Pen? The courier fellow couldn’t tell me much, for all he was in a sweating hurry. Something about some woman attacking the general?”

Pen ran through a compressed account of the events on the steps, leaving out the secret meeting in Jurgo’s writing cabinet. Dubro’s gray eyebrows climbed, and he stared more carefully at Adelis. So had he seen, or heard rumors of, the mysterious visitors to the fort last night? Pen grabbed the chance to have Dubro give Adelis a medicinal dose of uphill magic against what must still be a throbbing migraine, as he’d now had time to absorb most of the one Pen had given him when he’d first rigidly not-collapsed onto the chair.

Then Pen drew Dubro to the side of the atrium for the fastest tutorial in defensive chaos-interception he could devise. The guards edged away. To his relief, Dubro quickly picked up the skill, less subtle if far more forceful than the medical magics he’d been learning lately.

Dubro’s lined face creased in amusement at Pen’s praise. “I’ve been a guardsman before, y’know,” he pointed out. “Maska too, in his own way.”

“Exactly what we’d hoped.”

Adelis had been engaged in some low-voiced consultation with the guard commander. Master Stobrek came scuffing back down the marble staircase, to escort this new protector to the duke and to impart news.

“One of the palace maids was found concealed in a straw pile in the mews. Or found herself there, I gather, when she’d regained her wits. Stripped of her outer garments, with a bad knock on the head, but otherwise not violated.”

“How long ago was she attacked?” asked Pen, as Adelis’s brows drew down.

“Not that long. Probably during your audience with the duke.”

Implying… what? The assassin seizing a belated opportunity, maybe, else she might have abstracted her disguise much earlier and less violently. How long had she been trying to ambush Adelis? Or had she just come in on Gria’s trail from Cedonia? Whatever the case, she was still out there.

Adelis was rising determinedly to his feet, and Pen was even more anxious to decamp. “Bring the maid to Dubro to examine for traces of magic,” he told Stobrek. And turning to Dubro, “Send me a page with a report if you find anything.” The other mage nodded understanding. Although given the knock, an uncanny attack might have seemed redundant. Or the assailant had been saving her demon’s resources for her real target. Or, or…

Finally they were able to depart the palace, escorted by what both Pen and Des thought a perfectly pointless squad of guardsmen. Adelis refused the offer of a sedan chair and bearers. He must be feeling somewhat better; even if not, he’d still have wanted to put on a show of vigor in front of the duke’s men to scotch any rumors of his disablement. Or, given the nature of rumor, sudden death.

Though there might be ways to turn such a tale to good account, Des murmured, given the context.

We don’t know enough yet.

The party turned out of the bright noon of the square into a shadier street. Practiced, Des’s senses sifted silently through the buildings and their occupants to either side like an advancing twilight, closing up again as they passed, finding nothing out of the ordinary. Pen wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or sorry. “What were you saying to Jurgo’s man?” he asked Adelis.

“Working out a search for the sorceress. If she hasn’t made it to the city gates and gone already.”

“I… hm. Good question if his guardsmen would be in any more danger than from any other lone woman, if she’s saving her one shot for you.”

The pacing guard sergeant kept a properly blank face, but Pen thought he was listening closely. And worriedly.

“Even without another sorcerer, she may not be working alone,” said Adelis. “She could still have some assistant or escort, maybe a superior, maybe more. Her spare shot might not be demonic. As you observed, arrows work too.”

“Oh. Ouch. That wouldn’t pass as a natural death, though.” Did Adelis’s shoulder blades itch, under that cuirass?

“On the bright side, it’s harder for a group to go to ground and hide than a person alone, in a city this size.”

Veteran of Thasalon, Adelis tended to see Vilnoc as little more than a minor provincial capital. Which, to be fair, it had once been.

“They’re to send a runner for you if they spot her,” Adelis went on. “And hang back till you arrive.”

Pen could scarcely object. His duties for the duke had never been only literary, and Jurgo’s support had never been stingy. He nodded acknowledgment.

As they approached Pen’s town house, in the middle of a whitewashed row of similar domiciles along its cobbled street, the sergeant detailed two men to stand sentry at the front and sent two around to the back. Pen supposed this could do no harm, apart from alarming the neighbors. He and Adelis had no more than set foot on the stoop when the red-painted door slapped open and Nikys and Idrene darted out to seize and draw them inside. The women must have been on the watch.

In the central and sole atrium, Nikys grasped Pen’s hands; Idrene embraced Adelis hard and searchingly, not the sort of salute he was used to, but accepted with a sheepish smile nonetheless. “I’m all right, Mother. Just a little dizzy.”

“What in the world is going on?” Nikys demanded.

Neither woman seemed panicked, army widows after all. But both wildly anxious—army widows, after all.

“Where’s Rina?” were the first words out of Pen’s mouth.

“Upstairs napping with the cat,” Nikys told him, turning back from shooting the door bolt tight again, “though probably not for long. I have Lin watching over her.” Their trusted maid-of-all-tasks.

As good as they could do for now, likely. Pen nodded. “Adelis has taken the equivalent to a nasty knock on the head. He should sit or lie down in a quiet room, and drink some cold tea or lemon water.”

“I don’t need to—” Adelis began to demur, before he realized he was standing in front of the three people in the world least likely to attend to the manly posturing that worked so well on his troops. “That would be good,” he finished in a smaller voice.

“To your bedroom,” Idrene began, together with Nikys’s “Equivalent to?” and Pen’s “We need to talk, right now. All of us.”

“Yes and yes,” said Nikys, cutting through the debate. “Get him into bed, you two, and I’ll bring the drink.”

If not into his bed in the upstairs chamber that was Adelis’s when he visited, Pen and Idrene at least managed to get him settled on it, banked up by pillows, by the time Nikys arrived with a pitcher and four beakers on a tray. Covertly, Pen called up his Sight to check her continuing health. Which was just as robust as when he’d left her three hours ago.

She’s fine, Pen, said Des. You don’t really need to check her ten times a day, unless you’re admiring your work.

There was much to admire in his wife. The five years since he’d first met her back in Patos had only deepened her Cedonian-style beauty, he fancied. Curling hair shining like the best black ink; eyes the rich brown that Adelis’s had probably been before they were destroyed and then resurrected into garnet coals; skin less sun-reddened brick than her brother’s, more a lighter copper. Her innate vitality only augmented by the new pregnancy, not yet showing on her generous form.

With much less throwing up this round, Des approved.

Stay on watch, Des.

No hedge sorceresses yet within a hundred paces of this house.

Which of you will sense the other first?

Hard to say. But she won’t spot us before we spot her. Content you, there will not be a second surprise like the one on Jurgo’s steps.

Nikys disposed herself on a chair with another set out for Pen. Idrene took the end of the bed. She was a slightly taller, less plump, and more silvered version of her daughter, in her mid-fifties still straight-backed and energetic, if not, she complained, as supple as she’d used to be.

Pen made sure Adelis drank a full beaker of lemon water and part of another before letting him speak. He opened his mouth, then paused, mustering what had to be an army of thoughts jostling behind his eyes.

“One of Minister Methani’s assassins caught up with me again, as I was coming out of the ducal palace,” he began bluntly.

Idrene’s lips thinned in distress, though her voice remained even. “I thought you’d finally shed that, here in Orbas.”

“For most of the last five years, I thought so too. Although Methani may have just been hoping the Rusylli, or plague, or some other hazard would do the job for him. Until the death of the emperor and the disaster at Vytymi moved me again to the forefront of his thoughts. Six weeks back, a small squad infiltrated the fort.”

“You didn’t tell us!” said Nikys.

“I told the duke. There seemed no immediate need to trouble you, since none of them survived to report back to Thasalon. Nor to us, so we didn’t learn as much as I’d have liked.”

“You should have at least told me,” reproved Pen.

“You would not—” Adelis began, then backed up. “Apparently so.”

“I take it from the page’s message,” said Idrene, still in her careful tone, “that your sweep this morning was not so complete.”

“Methani tried something different this time. I should tell you, General Gria of the Eighth arrived in secret at the fort last night.”

She merely nodded. So Gria had to be an officer known to Idrene when she had been old General Arisaydia’s legal concubine—second wife in all but name, Adelis’s mother in all but blood.

“Someone wants to call you back to Cedonia?” Nikys guessed instantly. “Not Methani, obviously.”

Adelis snorted. “No. Princess Laris and Lord Nao.”

“Makes sense, if they mean to oppose Methani. Although there’s a troubling dilemma with respect to young emperor Mikal.” Idrene touched her mouth in dismay. “Wait, it was never Gria who tried to kill you?”

“One is never completely sure, but he would have had a couple of good chances last night if so. He might have been followed here, though. Or merely have crossed lines with Methani’s agent due to the timing, which the disaster at Vytymi Valley seems to have sped.”

“Tried something different…?” said Nikys, circling back to that key phrase.

“Very different. Penric and Madame Desdemona had better tell it. They saw things I didn’t. Couldn’t.” He sat back and swallowed more lemon water, eyeing Pen. And Des.

Succinctly but as clearly as he could, Pen detailed what both his sight and his second sight had seen on Jurgo’s steps, and what he and Des had done. It took more time to describe than it had to take place. Nikys caught her lower lip between her teeth. Adelis’s eyes were lidded in his concentration.

“Best guess is,” Pen concluded, “they’d meant Adelis’s death to pass as a natural stroke, not a murder at all. It wouldn’t just have looked like an aneurism on autopsy, it would have been one. Creating no diplomatic fuss with Orbas, or none anyone could come to grips with. In its favor, such a scheme may well have recently succeeded with Prince Ragat.”

“Ragat was twenty years older than Adelis!” said Idrene indignantly.

“Such a sudden taking-off is not impossible in a man of thirty-five, especially one who’s lived as hard as Adelis. Nor is an apoplexy of the heart. Actually,” Des put in atop Penric, “they should have targeted his heart, considering the old general. It would have added verisimilitude.”

By the way his lips twitched up, Adelis recognized the source of this brisk critique. Really, Des’s bloody-mindedness was equal to his own, once leading him to dub her rather fondly as my demon-in-law.

“Our father was fifty years older than us!” said Nikys.

And had died of a seizure of the heart when Nikys and Adelis were in their late teens, leaving two widows and their promising offspring. Pen thought the more lethal risk in Adelis’s bloodline came through his noble mother Lady Florina’s connection to the prior imperial house, and was political rather than physiological.

“So are you going back to Cedonia with Gria?” asked Idrene. Her tone achieved a good simulation of neutrality. Even Pen couldn’t guess her true wish.

Adelis scraped his hand through his short military haircut. “When I stepped out of Jurgo’s cabinet, I was thinking not. When I stepped out his front door… my mind was changed for me. I don’t care to be driven, especially into a ditch. But if I must, I’m going to hold the bit in my own bloody teeth.”

Nikys looked down speculatively at the beaker of lemon water cradled in her hands. “And are you thinking of Lady Tanar?”

Adelis’s mouth compressed, as if chewing on that bit already. “She wasn’t a factor I chose to mention to Jurgo. Or to Gria. As far as I know, our letters have never yet been intercepted.”

Nikys choked a laugh. “And you such a verbose correspondent.”

He rolled his eyes. “You know it endangers her. Almost, I wish she’d give me up.”

“Oh? Look me in the face and say that, brother dear.”

Adelis looked away, and Nikys smirked, for a moment echoing him in one of his more sardonic moods. “Thought so.”

Lady Tanar Xarre was the one member of this meeting more invisible than Des, present only in the shadows of Adelis’s expression and his selective silences. He had first courted the young heiress six years ago, before his last and too-successful campaign against the Rusylli for the Cedonian emperor. The prospective couple had been well-matched in looks and wealth, until Adelis’s demotion to Patos, then his blinding and flight, had stripped him of both.

Penric, having met the young woman during their rescue of Idrene from her Cedonian arrest, thought Tanar’s emotions toward her exiled suitor might be more complicated than true love, but he was entirely willing to attribute true loyalty. By any count, six years was a long time to wait for one’s bridal bed, yet she had. And so had Adelis.

“I had gauged the border of Orbas to be a protection for us all,” said Adelis. “As it seemed, for a time. If this is not to be the case anymore… best I move swiftly.”

Always the general’s tactical preference.

Pen sighed, and pointed out, “If you really had given up ever returning to Cedonia, you’d have come with me across the sea to Adria, as I tried to persuade you back then, instead of plunking yourself down right over the border in Orbas. Don’t try to tell me you haven’t been waiting for just this chance.”

Adelis shrugged. “One can’t anticipate the details that far out. But… some such chance, yes.”

Neither his mother nor his sister seemed the least surprised by this admission. Idrene said, “How soon?”

“I’d prefer to leave tomorrow. No later than tomorrow night, for whatever cover darkness might lend. But there is this new sorceress-problem.” He blew out his breath. “Penric. Would you ride with me?”

Nikys did flinch at this.

“As uncanny bodyguard?” Five gods, they’d be like two escaping prisoners chained together. It would be the flight from Patos all over again.

“The duke might let your family lodge temporarily in the palace, and share Learned Dubro’s protection. Until this is settled.”

An empire tilting ought to give more sign, something massive like an earthquake. Not something to be settled like a dog fight in the street. And this seemed an undefined term covering a vast array of possible consequences, covering an unpredictable amount of time. More than six months? Pen exchanged glances with Nikys, who had to be doing parallel gestational arithmetic.

“Des? Opinions?” Des always had opinions. Pen prepared to briefly cede his mouth to her.

Even after all this time, his family stared in fascination at the subtle shift in ownership of his expression. Des did not immediately speak, and then slowly.

“The snag is indeed this hedge sorceress and her poor little weasel. Capture her here, now, in Vilnoc, and Adelis would be as free to move as he ever was. And we might be able to gain useful intelligence from her.”

“I doubt she’ll give it up willingly,” said Adelis, frowning. In consideration, not in disapproval.

“I doubt that would be an insurmountable problem. For me,” Des said dryly. “And Penric is not without persuasive arts. Uncanny and otherwise.”

Pen could guarantee his Wealdean shamanic skills would be unknown to the woman, though he was uncertain how well they’d work on another sorcerer, hedge or no. “Maybe…”

“So for this stew,” said Idrene, following this, “first you need to catch your rabbit.”

“Assassin,” said Pen. “Not so easy or safe a prey as a rabbit. But… it’s a task no one else in Vilnoc dare take on without me.”

Nobody else in the room seemed to think this an alarming pronouncement. All were gazing at him with interested confidence, as if he were a marketplace performer about to pull that rabbit out of the air. Nonetheless, if his choices were, Pen! Ride to Cedonia yoked to Adelis! versus Pen! Go hunt around in the dark for a murderess! he knew which he’d pick first.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he sighed.

He hoped that guard runner might come soon.

*     *     *

The afternoon passed quietly, with Adelis lying up in his bedchamber but certainly not sleeping. At dinnertime, he felt well enough to come down and join the family, where the table talk, in front of Pen’s few servants, did not include politics of any flavor. Afterward the general retreated again to his bed-bastion, this time armed with a lap board, paper, and ink.

Soon after dark, a discreet knock at the back door heralded not the guard runner Penric hoped for, but Master Stobrek conducting General Gria, the growing shadows and their cloak-hoods lending them a thin anonymity. Pen took them upstairs.

Adelis’s rumbling voice floated out of his chamber door: “No, no, honeycomb, we eat the secret messages after we read them. Next year, likely, at the rate you’re going.”

They entered to find the general’s bastion had been surrendered to the invasion of his niece and her attendant cat. The spoils of war included his red cloak, on which Rina was sitting in triumphant possession. He’d fended her off from his work with a bribe of scrap papers and a fortunately dry quill, nib now squashed and feather molting in her firm fist for pretend-writing in earnest imitation of her uncle.

He held up one of her efforts and studied the pattern of holes punched through it. “Really, Penric, I don’t know if your daughter is going to grow up to be a scribe or a spy. This could make nice secret code.”

Pen grinned and collected her from her cloth nest, the cloak dragging along in one grabby hand, quill still clutched in the other. The cat, upended from the warm spot, made a peeved noise. On the high side of two, Rina was growing leggier with a speed almost as alarming as the explosion of her word-hoard. She had her mother’s eyes, and fine hair of an indeterminate color that Idrene predicted would eventually settle on a rich brown with, perhaps, amber highlights. Trying to imagine her at twelve made Pen’s mind boggle a bit. Or twenty-two, five gods permit. I look forward to meeting you, future Rina.

“Unk Dels!” Rina protested her removal. She could actually pronounce Adelis Arisaydia now, with prompting, but her earlier effort looked fair to sticking as a permanent nickname.

“How the ladies do love a uniform,” Adelis murmured to Penric. “She can keep the cloak.” His head bent, the visitors could not see the surprisingly soft smile that accompanied the words.

“Seducer,” Pen returned under his breath. “Get your own daughter.”

“I mean to.”

Gria spoke anxiously: “Have you recovered, sir?”

Adelis straightened. “Much improved, under my brother-in-law’s care. Although it might be well to put it about that I’m expected to be laid up here for, oh, another week.”

Spoken like a man who meant to ride tomorrow?

“I hope to hear your thinking,” said Gria. The scatter of papers hinting there’d been much.

“The duke does as well,” added Stobrek.

“Yes,” said Adelis simply, and jerked his head at Pen, who nodded back and withdrew, the cat following in historical hopes of tidbits dribbling down from its mistress.

He closed the door quietly behind himself and Rina, who was still clutching the cloak, and only then realized that Adelis had meant it not for a temporary sop but as a permanent gift. He wouldn’t be wearing an Orban uniform in Cedonia, after all. Pen blew out his breath and went off to find Nikys and Idrene.

*     *     *

His visitors remained closeted with Adelis for almost two hours, emerging abstracted and silent, each holding his own ration of sealed notes. They didn’t linger. Pen politely did not ply them with questions. After escorting them out his back door, Pen took himself up to get the report from Adelis.

In the low lamplight, Adelis was leaning back against his headboard with his eyes closed, weariness shadowing his face. Ready for one more dose of uphill magic, Pen guessed. He closed the door behind himself and said quietly, “So you mean to head for Cedonia?”

Adelis’s eyes flicked open, the shadow at once masked by his intensity. “Tomorrow, if I can. Find that hedge sorceress, Pen.” He sat up to wrap his arms around his raised knees. “I may go whether you find her or not. And wish her the Bastard’s own luck trying to keep up with me. Any word from those guardsmen?”

“Not so far. What did Stobrek have to say about the duke?”

Adelis shrugged. “Jurgo’s feelings and thinking are both naturally mixed. He’s offended by the attack on his own doorstep, but it’s not an option to take on a realm a dozen times the size of Orbas with anything more than a strongly worded diplomatic note. He’s offered me a purse, and full use of his courier remounts to speed us to the border, or a navy sloop to take us around the peninsula and land us secretly on the coast outside of Thasalon.”

“Sounds like a pretty strongly worded note to me. Which do you favor?”

“Ship,” said Adelis firmly. “It wasn’t an offer I—or Gria—was expecting, but it only took a moment to see the advantages. Horseback might be faster, but the sloop would be less expected and watched-for. And harder to follow.”

“This was never intended to even be recognized as an assassination. Until someone reports back to Thasalon that you’re alive, they won’t guess you’re coming, whatever route.”

“So I hope, but would never count upon.”

“Once you’re clear of the coast, you’d be safe for a time,” Pen allowed. “Might sleep better. Arrive fresher.”

Adelis huffed a laugh. “There’s a happy thought. How easy would it be for your sorceress to follow us at sea?”

Wait, how did your assassin become my property? “That sorceress? With a completely untrained demon leaking chaos all over the rigging? She might embark, but I doubt her ship would arrive anywhere its crew intended. I’d trust she’d have the sense not to try, but if she doesn’t, she’d become a problem that solves itself.”

“Hm, yes, I remember those poor pirates. I expect they remember you, too.”

“I wasn’t an untrained demon,” Des put in, snootily.

Pen’s grin flickered. “Better still, I’d only have to escort you as far as the harbor. Once your ship left, I could hunt for the sorceress without having to simultaneously keep watch over you. I like that choice. A lot. Very generous, for a duke who’s losing your services.”

“But gaining future friends in Thasalon.”

“Only if the princess’s party comes out on top. He might be gaining future enemies.”

“Scarcely more than he has now.”

“True,” conceded Pen. “But the moment you arrive, you should urge Laris to obtain her own trusted sorcerer. Or more than one, if she can lay hands on them. To share.”

“Already figured that out.”

“Good.”

“Did she love her uncle Prince Ragat?”

“I have no idea. He was allied with Nao on the regency council against Methani, but Ragat may have had ambitions for his own son Ello. Or for himself. Moot now.”

Pen’s wave granted that. “You now know everything about Jurgo’s military dispositions in Orbas. Has the duke any, shall we say, concerns about you sharing them should Cedonia again turn its eyes on its former province? Willingly, if in the princess’s party, unwillingly if, gods forbid, you should fall into Methani’s hands?”

Adelis’s wintry smile was the one without much amusement behind it. “You’re not thinking it through, Penric. You’re planning to stay here in Orbas, right?”

“Yes, the white god and Jurgo allowing…?”

“With your family. Which is my family.”

“I’d think you’d be glad to keep them far away from Thasalon.”

“Oh, I am. And under your protection, even better.”

“And Jurgo’s, as long as I serve him.”

“Just as long as that, yes.”

Pen’s brows climbed. “Protected, or hostage?”

“I would never say that. Out loud. You shouldn’t either. Word to the wise.”

“I… see. You don’t leave any holes in your strategic thinking, do you.”

“Not if I can help it.”

On that sober note, Pen offered one more treatment against the fading concussion, accepted with awkward thanks, and withdrew to leave Adelis to whatever sleep he could obtain.

Chapter 3

At noon the next day, Adelis’s aide brought his personal gear from the fort at Tyno. Pen thanked him and fended him off saying that the general was dozing after a bad night, but Pen as his physician expected him to be on his feet as good as ever in a week. Which was true, if misleading. From his upstairs room Adelis glumly watched the man go, and charged Nikys with all the private farewells he would be unable to make himself.

Pen escorted the general to the navy docks in the cloaking dusk. They both wore unassuming street clothes. Des spread her senses wide along the route. Pen was sure that the sorceress, if she was still lurking, did not spy Adelis, because Des did not spot her in turn, but that said nothing about any unknown supporters blending in with the thousands of ordinary folk in Vilnoc. Unsettling notion, but one could count on Adelis that way—if it was something horrific, he’d think of it.

The sloop was a small swift ship with a crew of twenty, that had spent the day provisioning. None aboard would know where they were going or why till they put out and the captain opened the sealed orders setting him at Adelis’s disposal. That a ship had left, as such ducal courier vessels did from time to time, would be witnessed; all else would be conflicting speculation.

Gria and his aide were already aboard. At the foot of the gangplank, Adelis gripped Pen’s arm in the gesture of military brotherhood. Pen returned him a heartfelt five-fold blessing.

“Don’t waste my work,” Pen murmured.

Adelis touched the burn scars by his eyes and smiled grimly. “I’ll try not.”

The ship, without lights, rigging barely creaking, slipped away on the reliable land breeze that funneled down the valley at this time of evening. Pen tilted his head back to study the emerging stars, then sighed and walked home through the balmy night. A gods-speed-you wish would be worth a detour to the temple, praying on his face in the attitude of deepest supplication, but Pen’s task was only beginning. He made the extra double tap of the back of his thumb to his lips for his own god’s luck, instead.

Is this plan going to work, Des?

If the woman is gone, she’s gone. If she’s not, she’ll be back. Because there is no other reason for her to linger.

Pen paused in the shadows at the end of his block to consult with the guard on duty who was dressed like a workman, making sure he understood to lie low until the right time. Pen would have preferred to set his trap at any other place in Vilnoc than his own home, but this was where the bait was believed to be, so. Everything about his household could carry on just as if its beloved relative was still recuperating in that upstairs chamber, even to the sturdy sentries at both doors.

He did send Nikys, Rina, Idrene and Lin to spend the night with their most sociable neighbor down the block, feigning that one of Pen’s experiments gone wrong had filled the house with a stink that made it temporarily uninhabitable, and they refused to return till he’d cleaned up after himself.

There was a certain convenience to this ambush; he was able to while away the later evening ensconced in his own study. He might have put more of a dent in the scattered piles of his scholarly efforts if he’d not been so utterly distracted. As the peace of midnight settled in, he went down to the atrium floor and made himself moderately comfortable on a couple of cushions tucked discreetly below the first gallery. And waited.

Des couldn’t make them disappear from second sight, but she could make herself relaxed and diffuse as if they were sleeping. Pen could wish the effect was not so soporific upon himself. Guard duty, he reflected, was not as easy a task as it looked.

Two hours into this, convinced he was going to be up all night for nothing and nodding off in truth, he came abruptly alert as Des murmured, Right. She’s here.

Alone?

One fellow with her. To hold the rope, I suppose.

He called up his night-sight to resolve the moving shadow occluding the stars at the lip of the atrium, the only aperture left unguarded. The woman had changed out her stolen maid’s garb for some close-fitting tunic and trousers in a dark dye, more suited for scrambling up and down knotted ropes. Whatever intelligence she had gathered had put her on the correct side of the atrium, toward the front and at the right level for Adelis’s bedchamber. He could tell when she realized the bait-pan was empty when she emitted a muffled curse and started back up the rope.

Des clipped it through just above her straining hand.

She fell with a startled yelp; Pen caught her with a grunt. Happily her remaining distance to the stone-tiled floor had been short, so he was only knocked to his knees. Within her, the weasel-demon squealed in terror, struggling but unable to flee, wildly shedding unformed chaos that Des ably absorbed. Pen managed to clap his spread hand to the back of the woman’s head, which was just the range he’d wanted for this most delicate trick.

Her wail, right before she lost consciousness, was neither fear nor pain nor rage, but heartrending despair.

Pen blinked, a little nonplussed. Above, he could hear footsteps pelting away across the roofs. He trusted the guards who had watched the pair ascend up the end of the house row would be ready to intercept her associate coming back down. He laid the sleeping woman on his cushions and went to call in the door sentries.

*     *     *

Finding a bottle dungeon in Vilnoc had been a challenge. None of the municipal prisons boasted such an archaic feature, and the palace had no dungeons at all. Stobrek had helped locate the only ones remaining, in an Old Cedonian shore fortress that, after some centuries, was no longer at the shoreline, which had advanced eastward with the city following, but nearer the western walls. After a stint as provincial offices and then a ducal prison, it was ending its life as a crumbling private warehouse.

Two of Pen’s sentries had been pressed into service as stretcher bearers, the sergeant leading with the lantern. Pen, needing no light, brought up the rear, keeping a close eye lest his prisoner begin to awaken prematurely. At this dead hour they encountered no one in the streets, which grew narrower and more winding on this side of town. Two more men with lanterns awaited them at the old building’s heavy doors, dragging them open for the little procession. The cellar corridors were dank, and Pen had to hunch or bang his head.

They came to a halt by a circular hole in the paving. The men set down their burden and shuffled awkwardly around each other in the narrow space, readying the rope ladder to drop down. The line of pits had been used as trash dumps for a long time, and some unfortunate army squad had spent the whole afternoon clearing one out. It was, if possible, even less pleasant than the one Pen remembered so unfondly from Patos. But it was the only kind of cell Pen was sure could hold a sorcerer.

“I’ll go in first,” he said, and climbed down the twisting ladder. This chiseled-out space was only six feet in its roughly circular diameter, but almost ten feet deep. Climbing out or jumping for the opening would be impossible even for a tall canton mountaineer—ex-mountaineer—and there were no door locks for a demon to defeat. It was drier than Pen had feared, but smellier than he’d hoped—vermin had been nesting and apparently dying in the trash heap, and though the trash was gone, their aroma haunted the walls like a small-scale ghostly curse.

There was a decent straw-stuffed mattress, though, a chamber pot, a covered bucket of clean water and a wooden cup, and a lamp, because he wasn’t sure if this woman had mastered dark-sight.

“You sure about that lamp, Learned Sir?” a guard called down. “She could set her straw on fire.”

Pen refrained from pointing out that no sorcerer needed a light to start a fire, even one with the most rudimentary skills. “And then what?”

“Force us to pull her out. If you want her alive, that is.”

“I do. But I’m getting you some help to take care of any problems.”

More shuffling, and Pen reached up to receive the descending woman for the second time that night. He laid her out on the straw tick and straightened her as comfortably as he could, squatting to study her more closely with both sight and second sight.

Of modest height and slender build, she seemed healthy, and, as he’d seen, fit enough to sprint, climb a rope, and probably ride. The spine of the ridge between Orbas and the next Cedonian province north was a barrier to armies, wagons, and most pack animals, but determined spies on foot could slip over it unseen; he could imagine her doing so. She carried no gear tonight—that must have been her assistant’s job—but a linen coin belt, still half filled, circled her waist under her dark shirt. She hadn’t borne her demon long enough for its leaking chaos to start generating tumors in her body, thankfully.

Not a virgin; she was young but no maiden. By the tell-tale traces in her bones, she’d had at least one child. That was… less expected.

The weasel-demon was presently coiled up within her, in part prisoned by her sleep, more in terror much like Des in the presence of a god, and far more bewildered. He couldn’t exactly pet it to comfort it, and wasn’t sure how to ease it past its hysteria. The dog-demon Maska did all right these days, but it had started in an animal already domesticated and tame, and had absorbed several years of imprinting from its steadfast human. This elemental had plainly been taken straight from the wild, and no one had bothered to pacify or nurture it before its animal host had been sacrificed. Disposable. Pen grimaced.

Pen sat contemplating his human-demon puzzle for a time in the faint flickering lamplight, till a stir and voices above heralded the welcome form of Learned Dubro climbing down the rope ladder. Sometime in the interim he’d retrieved his everyday vestments, pale in the shadows. Pen stood to help him dismount in the constricted space without stepping on the prisoner. He found his balance with a huff implying a poor opinion of aging.

“Thank you so much for coming, and I apologize for drawing you out on such an unpleasant duty at such an ungodly hour. What time is it, by the way?”

“Sky was just graying up as I walked over from the palace. So you caught her, eh? Your first note didn’t sound sure you could.” He frowned down at the sleeping form.

Pen nodded. “Des—well, Ruchia, her prior rider, who served the Order as an agent for years—not for this sort of task, of course—thought properly trained assassins should have withdrawn at the miss, gone to ground, fled, and let a second plan and person take their place, but I think this pair was too far from home for that. Or if there have been any more of these abominable agents created, maybe they’ve been sent off to murder someone else, who knows. In any case, she came back for another try at Adelis, and here we are.”

Dubro’s seamed mouth pursed. “Something funny about that. If it was meant to pass as a sudden stroke. Second time around wouldn’t.”

“Yes. I’m anxious to question her. There was another man with her, not a sorcerer—I haven’t heard if the guards caught him yet.”

“Not as anyone’s said to me.”

Pen didn’t like that loose end. Might he return to try to rescue his colleague?

Or to silence her, Des put in.

A very Adelis-thought, but Pen suspected this was pure Des. Not while she bears her demon. Or, well, it would be a dicey task. If he carries any such orders, they would have to be for after she’s shot her arrow, disarming herself. Or had the man simply fled? It would be a long way to run to report back to his masters in Thasalon; even-odds whether he could arrive before Adelis. Still, Pen would remind the guards to be alert for him. Capturing a second source of information would be a boon.

“Anyway. Now we have her bottled up, first I must stop at the chapterhouse to send an urgent message about this to the Bastard’s Order at Dogrita.” Jurgo’s winter capital, sheltered two ridges and valleys south of Vilnoc, and the archdivine of Orbas’s principal seat. Though its curial bureaucracy was not exactly Pen’s concern today. “I’d likely better report in at the palace as well. We’ll need to discuss jurisdiction, though Jurgo may be just as happy to leave her to the Order. Well, he’ll have to, happy or not.” And Penric might have to tell him so, urgh. “I’ll bring back breakfast.”

Dubro ran an experienced eye over him. “If you need to grab a nap, I’m good for a longer watch.”

“That would be a blessing,” Pen said sincerely. “Though I’m not sure I could sleep right now. Howsoever, we’re going to have to work out our watch rota, because it will be you and me taking turn-about. Even if she can’t climb out, we can’t have the regular guards going near her without one of us present.”

“How long, d’you figure?”

“Depends on how long it takes to hear back from Dogrita. Three days at the least estimate.”

“Then you do have time for that nap.”

“We’ll see. Oh. Speaking of naps.” Pen knelt to the woman’s head to renew, with even greater care, what he named with medical precision induced narcolepsy, and everyone else in his household dubbed, that weird thing you do to those poor rats. He’d had very few chances to practice it on people, so far. It was more than a little terrifying, since if he missed locating the exact spot in the brain that yielded the effect when touched with controlled chaos, he risked doing by accident something very like what the woman had been trying to do to Adelis, much more crudely, on purpose.

Dubro watched with keen professional interest, and not just with his eyes. “Is that that weird thing you do to those poor rats?”

Pen cleared his throat. “Yes.”

“Tricky.”

“Very. I’d first hoped it might make a non-lethal defensive skill to stop an attacker with less, um, pain and screaming than roughing up peripheral nerves. But a fight’s too frantic for it to be safe. Thinking it through, though, it’s occurred to me that it might be a way to put patients to sleep for amputations or other surgery, more effective than getting them blind drunk and safer than those big doses of syrup of poppies.”

Dubro’s gray brows rose. “That’s an interesting idea. I had to help hold fellows down for amputations a few times back when I was a young man in the army. It wasn’t much fun for any of us.”

“When I get time, I mean to go and present the idea to Learned Master Ravana at the Mother’s Order in Dogrita. It’s not something I’d want anyone but an experienced sorcerer-physician attempting. Too finicky. Probably too finicky to count on for defense.”

“You just did,” Dubro pointed out.

“I’d had all evening to think about it first. I was mentally prepared, not taken by surprise. Bit of a calculated risk, but quieter than my old nerve tricks. I didn’t want my neighbors woken up in the bat-hours by a woman shrieking like she’s being dipped in boiling oil. Too hard to explain.”

Also, you were irate, observed Des. Not that I don’t like that in a man, but… maybe not a risk to take often. A more amused pause. Plus you were itching to try it out.

Embarrassed, Pen did not reply. After checking over their sleeping prisoner one more time, he followed Dubro up the rope ladder, and they pulled it up after themselves.

Chapter 4

Pen did not return to the warehouse-prison until the morning was well advanced. Sadly, his string of tasks had not included that nap. In the dark cellar corridor, he found Dubro sitting against the wall on the cushion he’d sensibly brought along.

Pen lowered himself cross-legged beside him and unpacked the spare lantern from the basket carried from home. A touch, and its brighter light pushed back the shadows. “All quiet here?”

“It is now. She woke up a while back. Spent some time banging around in her cell yelling and trying to climb the walls, till she realized it wasn’t going to help. Then she flopped down on her mattress and just cried. Even more troubling to listen to, somehow. Finally wore herself out and stopped. Which should have been a relief, but, mm, isn’t.”

“I imagine she expects to be hanged.”

“There’s that.” Dubro accepted a roll from Pen’s basket. “Thankee. No, that’ll do, I’ll get more from the palace kitchen when I report over to Master Stobrek. An old soldier knows where to make friends.”

“And an old dog?”

“Aye, Maska too.” Dubro’s lips tweaked up. “He used to make himself popular with my wife hunting rats out of the pantry even before his new advantages. We turned the cooks up sweet in no time.”

Eyeing the dark hole in the floor, Pen pushed himself again to his feet. Dubro helped him drop the rope ladder, handing on the lantern when he was partway down. Pen kept a wary lookout, but the woman attempted no attack either physical or magical, instead spasming off her mattress and hunching up in a defensive ball against the wall, gasping. Pen set the lantern on the stone floor and went back for the lowered basket. Dubro prudently pulled the ladder up before settling again on his cushion, out of sight though not second sight, and in earshot.

Pen had changed back into his everyday vestments, to clarify his status. He underscored this now with a five-fold blessing, plus that tap to his lips for the god’s-luck he’d surely need. He studied the shuddering clutch of human and demonic despair, and, with a sigh, took a seat on the far side of the cell from her. Which wasn’t very far, the tick between the two of them no wider than a table and less a barrier.

You just tried to kill my brother-in-law! Twice! did not seem a fruitful way to begin this conversation, and a soothing, There, there, young woman, you’ve no need to be afraid of me was patently untrue. While he puzzled, Penric spread the cloth across the flattened mattress as if it were a table in truth and began laying out the contents of his basket: a jug of tepid tea sweetened with honey and another of watered wine, new-baked rolls, soft white cheese, hard-boiled eggs, fresh grapes and figs, fat olives; no dried fish planks, though, because Pen drew the line at those, traditional Cedonian snack or not.

The ball did not uncurl at these temptations. Maybe she was too sick-hearted to be hungry. Pen poured himself a beaker of tea and set a second toward her, and began peeling an egg. “Breakfast,” he announced. “My wife made it. She’s a very good cook.”

Surprised eyes, lantern light gleaming off them, rose above the barrier of her arms at this remark. But she growled, “I won’t tell you anything.”

“In the main, we already know. Minister Methani in Thasalon had his tame sorcerer prime you with an elemental taken from a weasel, train you in one lone skill, and send you in secret to murder General Arisaydia by feigning a brain aneurysm. And this wasn’t your first time.”

It wasn’t exactly a shot in the dark, but it won a sharp indrawn breath as it hit. “Did you catch Rach?”

So her associate had a name; it was a start. Pen saw no need to admit Not yet. “Anything he knew, there’s no point in you struggling to conceal,” he said instead. “But I’m not that interested in Methani’s plot, which is old news to the man he once tried to have unjustly blinded. It’s his method this time that’s arrested my attention. It has theological implications, d’you see.”

Plainly, she did not, for her head rose a little more as she stared at him in confusion.

“No one is going to be sent to your rescue after your failure, by the way. Your employers’ notions of loyalty only run one way.”

“I know that,” she snapped. Riled, but whatever thought this trailed made her shudder and draw in again. “But maybe if,” she began. She gulped the rest as if it choked her, then just shook her head, burying her face in her arms again.

Penric salted his egg and ate it while he reflected. “There is nothing essential we don’t already know, but I confess to a burning personal curiosity as to the details.”

Her very voice was a scowl. “Why should I ease it? No one is going to ease me into anything but my grave.”

And wasn’t that a summation of despair. Which was counted as a sin, Pen was reminded, and he began to see why. “Not as eased as all that. They can’t hang you. As I demonstrated last night, no rope will hold a sorcerer. A pyre makes an ugly death. Poison isn’t as painless as it’s advertised to be. There’s always the Roknari method, taking a sorcerer far out to sea and leaving him to drown and his demon no place to jump. Vilnoc does have a sea handy. You don’t seem to be taking any thought for your elemental, though someone would have to. Probably me. This would be the first time a demon survived you.” He went on at a hazard, “Rather like taking thought for one’s surviving child.”

Woah, said Des, as covertly attentive as Penric. That got a reaction.

Showing not on her body, which only hunched a little harder, but within her churning soul, thrown into a vortex of dismay. Tears began to leak between her tight-shut eyelids.

“If you drink and eat something,” Pen pointed out in his most clinical tone, “it’ll help you get control of your breathing.”

A headshake.

“Our demons are supported by our bodies just as our souls are. It’s not quite eating for two, but they do draw on our nourishment to sustain themselves.” He decided not to point out that starving was another way to dispose of a sorcerer. If his prison-keepers back in Patos had chosen that slower method, they might well have succeeded. “I know you’re hungry after last night’s commotions, because I am.” He pulled a soft fragment from a roll, folded it around a cube of cheese, and consumed it.

As gingerly as he would reach a hand into a fire, he added, “You have a child.” At least one, he knew from his earlier medical survey of her, though not whether alive or dead or possessed of siblings. It was speculation, but Pen figured it might have more effect as a statement: “Methani holds it hostage against you.” Because how else could one control a sorcerer at a distance?

Or at all, said Des.

Affection works better. Love. Loyalty. Awe. All those sorts of intangible cords. Though a braid of both love and threat might be the least breakable of all. Pen began to feel a little sick, and it wasn’t from Nikys’s good food.

By her swallowed sobs, the woman seemed as near to asphyxiating herself as an asthma patient. Pen watched in concern. He tried interrupting this inward spiral with, “What is your name, anyway? I can’t keep thinking of you as Methani’s Assassin.”

Her gaze flickered up. She regained enough breath to say, “Didn’t Rach tell you?”

“It wasn’t me who questioned him,” Pen said truthfully.

She looked away. As reluctantly as though her interrogator was extracting troop movements along with her fingernails, she said, “Alixtra.”

She didn’t offer a surname, and, really, it likely didn’t matter. It wasn’t just her demon that was disposable to her masters. “Thank you, that helps.” And because this net seemed to be drawing up at least some catch, added, “And your child’s name?”

“Kittio.”

“About five, is he?”

“How do you even know these things?” She sounded almost indignant. “Even Rach didn’t know about Kittio. I made sure he didn’t.”

“Were you apprised of everything your employers told him?”

A breath, a pause. If she imagined such a betrayal, it didn’t surprise her that much, for she subsided again.

Pen ventured on. “Have you and your demon achieved dark-sight yet?”

A nonplussed look. “What’s that?”

Oh… dear, said Des.

“Seeing ghosts?”

“Only in my dreams.”

“Huh. Didn’t your employers give you even basic instructions in demon-keeping?”

“They taught me how to kill. What more did I need?” A surly hunch.

“Education for a sorcerer-candidate is generally six years in seminary, then passing the examination for learned divine. Oaths to the Order. And more specialized training beyond that before they even receive their demon. So, quite a lot.” He cleared his throat. “Although there are alternate routes into the calling. But theology always turns up sooner or later. One way or another. Preferably not the practical sort.”

Bafflement leaked into her stare. A better state of mind for her than the anguish? Yet he was starting to draw her out of herself, confirmed when she at last reached for the beaker.

She raised it to her lips. “Maybe it’s poisoned. That would be good.” Defiantly, she gulped it down. Then looked surprised. It was their best tea; Pen was drinking it himself, after all.

“Oh,” said Penric. “I didn’t introduce ourselves, did I. I’m Penric and my demon Desdemona. Say something, Des.”

“Idiot child,” said Des dispassionately. “Could you be a more witless tool?”

“Uh, not sure that’s helpful, Des.”

“She tried to kill my favorite Cedonian general. You can’t expect me to like her.”

Firmly, Penric took back control of his mouth. But couldn’t help asking, You have a second-favorite?

Chadro, of course.

Ha. He wasn’t revisiting those memories here.

Alixtra’s eyes had widened at this. It didn’t take deep knowledge of Pen for her to realize who was speaking; she could perceive it directly. “It talks? Learned—the other sorcerer didn’t let his demon do so. I didn’t know they could.”

“Your Thasalon man?” Oh, crap, crap, Temple not hedge. A hedge sorcerer might plead ignorance; a templeman had to be dangerously corrupt. “It wasn’t a Learned Kyrato, was it?”

No recognition in her; she shook her head.

Pen breathed relief.

What, said Des, just because you once read poor Kyrato a stern sermon doesn’t make you responsible for his actions ever after. …Though I grant you it was a memorable speech. Even I was impressed.

Pen ignored this, because if he followed Des down every rabbit hole her quips invited, they’d never get through this interrogation. Also, he would sound demented.

“Mine doesn’t speak,” said Alixtra. “None of them did. Just screamed or cried or snarled. I didn’t see how sorcerers could stand it.”

“Speech is a gift each demon must take by imprint from its rider. Your new elemental could only bring you weasel-speech, which I don’t imagine is very articulate, and the emotions and memories of being an animal. Deep down in Des, in her very first layers, are a wild mare and a lioness. I still get dream fragments from them sometimes, but not much else. If you carried your demon long enough, it would start to grow into something more humanized, and begin to talk. Rather like a little twin sister.”

This parallel did not appear to soothe her.

He offered after a moment, “Persons who contract an animal-elemental by accident, unknowing, often think they have gone mad, and even act so. You, at least, knew what was happening to you. In control from the start.” And he really wanted to know more about her start, only beginning with How many elementals?

Which was tantamount to asking How many people have you murdered? Not likely to induce more confidences. He angled away for now. The other question he couldn’t ask straight out, since he’d implied the fellow had already been captured, was Where do you think your partner went? “Was Rach your commander or your courier?”

“Escort… I suppose? He’s been one of Methani’s errand-men for a while.”

“A bravo?”

“You could call him that. He’d been a soldier once.”

No hint of others in her party. Methani had already tried with six men; an even larger assassination squad would be harder to hide and travel more slowly. Two could slip in and out like smoke. “When the task was over, or if you failed or were captured, or if you tried to run, was Rach supposed to kill you?” In other words, would he circle back, or flee?

This seemed to be neither a new thought nor a great fear, for she merely shrugged. “I don’t think so. Before, he’d be afraid of my demon; after, there’d be no need. It was Kittio—”

But Pen didn’t find out what was Kittio, because she’d regained enough presence of mind to change the subject.

“I knew who you were,” Alixtra said. “Duke Jurgo’s second court sorcerer that he keeps in his summer capital. Married to the general’s sister. But you weren’t supposed to be like this.”

Like what? “You weren’t sent off to Orbas completely ignorant, then. What did they tell you about me?”

“Not enough.” She brooded, but the urge to complain about one’s job was too universal to withstand. Complaints might easily be led into confessions, Pen hoped. “They said I should avoid you. I thought I had. A sorcerer was still in the fort when the general rode out of it and we followed on from Tyno. They didn’t tell me there were two in Vilnoc.”

“You sensed Learned Dubro, I gather?”

She glanced up at the aperture, as dark as the cell. “Is that his name? A sorcerer, visiting the fort infirmary, as you were supposed to do sometimes. I checked. Not that we managed to get into the fort.”

“Glad to hear Adelis’s guards did their job.” They had to have been on high alert since the prior attack, and no wonder. If they’d killed the half-a-dozen intruders that night, they couldn’t have gone unscathed themselves.

“I was told you were an Adriac agent who helped the general and his sister escape Patos five years ago. You took false credit for healing his eyes after the application of the boiling vinegar was botched.”

“I never took credit,” Pen began indignantly, before he remembered, “though we started that rumor about the vinegar ourselves. The blinding was thorough.”

“Learned—the sorcerer said such a healing was impossible.”

“He is welcome to believe so. What is the horrible son-of-a-bitch’s name, anyway? We can’t keep calling him Methani’s Pet Sorcerer. Or Learned Choke. It’s awkward.”

Startled by his words, she looked down, buying herself time by starting to nibble on a roll. Pen let her. Though he pointed out, “It won’t be that hard to discover on our own. A hedge sorcerer might stay secret—in fact, he’d have to. A templeman in the retinue of a major minister and imperial regent could not.”

She chewed, swallowed. Finally admitted: “Learned Tronio.”

Not a name Pen recognized, but there were many Temple sorcerers in great Thasalon, which drew all men of ambition to it, whether like flies to honey or to manure a matter of opinion. The sorcerer’s name alone was a prize worth this painful breakfast, a key Pen had wanted in his hand even if he didn’t yet know what door it would open.

If Learned Tronio was visible around Methani’s court, not kept secret and out of sight… “How old is the man?”

“I don’t know. Fifty, maybe?”

“Close to Methani’s age, then. Are they long-time associates?”

“I thought so?”

Not at all anonymous, then. Was this vile scheme something they’d been perpetrating for long? If so, it seemed more of Methani’s rivals ought to have dropped dead by now. Or was Alixtra their first such uncanny agent?

“…How does one become an assassin, anyway?” Pen asked, overcome by his growing curiosity. “It doesn’t seem a position likely to be posted on the board in the marketplace. Not even in Thasalon.”

A glower across at him for what was anything but levity to her.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound as if I made light of this,” Pen quickly apologized. “My demon has a reprehensible sense of humor, and sometimes it rubs off.”

Oh, yes, blame it on the demon, scoffed Des. But she was as intent as he was.

“I thought you already knew everything.”

“Knowledge is not the same thing as understanding. I have a profound need to understand. Everything.”

Now there’s a downright godly ambition. Scholar’s hubris, Pen?

Alixtra was quiet for a little, but perhaps she had as profound a hunger to be understood, for she took a breath and began: “I was a maid in Methani’s palace. I was paid the same, but the other unmarried woman had a dormitory provided, and food. Because of Kittio, I lived out, in a rented room. We had more expenses, including paying a housemate to watch him while I worked. I lost days whether I was sick or he was, and I fell farther behind. It was time for him to start at a Lady-school—I’d taught him his letters and numbers already, he’s so very bright—”

So she possessed at least a rudimentary literacy herself?

“But I couldn’t afford the fees. I began to pilfer around the palace, just little things that I thought wouldn’t be missed.”

“Explicable, but dangerous,” Pen said, careful to sound encouraging and not judging.

“I’d no idea how dangerous. One day I found a purse full of silver left in a drawer. It was much more than I’d ever dared take before, but it would have kept us for a year. It was a trap. Methani’s guardsmen found it on me within an hour. I was terrified I’d be taken before the magistrate to have my hand cut off.”

“Not before your fifth offense,” Pen observed. “Did you know that?”

“I suppose so, but I was frantic. It hardly mattered. I was going to lose my post, and then what?”

I could spell it out for you, Des offered Pen from her two hundred years of immensely varied female experiences.

Not necessary. But it was clear Alixtra had been given a push down her slippery slope, and after shrewd study. “I take it you weren’t dragged to the magistrate.”

“The guards took me to the minister himself, and left me. It was the first time I’d ever spoken to him, or rather, him to me. A magistrate would have been less frightening. Learned Tronio was there, listening. They told me I could redeem myself if I would do a special task for them, and if I did it well, Kittio and I would be given our own room in the palace, and Kittio could go to the palace Lady-school with the upper servants’ and retainers’ children.”

“And you agreed, not knowing the task?”

“Instantly.”

“Go on.”

“The first elemental was a bird, a wild pheasant. I was taken to a room alone and instructed to wring its neck just like a chicken. It felt so very strange when the demon poured into me. I can see how it would be mistaken for madness.”

“How long ago was this?”

“About seven months?”

After the death of the old emperor had thrown high Thasalon politics into a tangle, but before Vytymi Valley had plunged them into greater disarray, hm.

Her voice fell further. Outside it was noon, but in this stone bottle midnight reigned, apt for secrets told in the dark. “They gave me a week to become accustomed, then Learned Tronio took me aside and instructed me how to cast chaos in a chosen direction. He said it was all I’d ever need to learn. I was relieved.”

“Of all their lies, that may be the greatest, but continue.”

“Then one night Learned Tronio took me to the imperial prison. I don’t know what he did about the guards, but we saw none. He conducted me to a cell where a prisoner lay sleeping, and told me he was due to be executed in the morning in the frightful manner for treason. He said the prisoner was an old acquaintance he wished to die more gently, and I was to deliver the mercy cut like a soldier dispatching wounded comrades on a battlefield. He’d be found dead on his cot in the morning with no one the wiser.”

“And you believed this?”

“I wanted to believe it.” She bit her lip. “And… I wanted to know if I was that powerful. Tronio drew back, I focused the chaos tightly as taught, the man shuddered and died without a sound, and, and…”

Pen waited.

“The elemental was ripped out of me like a bandage stuck to a wound. Into a vast darkness, more frightening than Tronio and Methani and the old emperor put together. I fainted. When I woke, Tronio was carrying me out of the prison in his arms, and praising me. Methani too, when we returned to the palace. He gave me back that bag of silver coins, to keep this time.” She stared down at her hands. “I can’t wish I’d thrown it into the fire and run, because I had nowhere to go and no way to take Kittio along.”

“You could have gone for help within the city.”

“Where?”

Pen started to say, the archdivine of Thasalon, then thought better of it. “A saint of my Order would have been the best bet.” Though it would still have been a gamble for her.

She looked taken aback. “Your Order has saints?”

Ow, ow. “Never mind. Moot now. Go on.”

“For a month, we lived well in the palace. I didn’t have to do maid’s work anymore. I could spend more time with Kittio, and when he started at the Lady-school, Methani let me begin training in his scriptorium as a scribe. I thought it meant I was being groomed for higher tasks. I hadn’t been that hopeful since… But then there was the second elemental, and the second man.”

“Of course.”

“Yes, even I began to realize that. The elemental was a meat rabbit, raised somewhere in Thasalon. It was tamer than the pheasant. The man… was another minister, a rival of Methani’s. There was no tale this time about a mercy cut, but I was told he was a traitor in correspondence with our enemies—the Roknari, and Adria.” Her gaze darted to Pen, the alleged—well, actual—Adriac agent. Former, he did not protest. She was well into the flow of her story now, and he dared not risk diverting it. “Tronio conducted me at night to the rival’s mansion. I don’t know if he used magic or money or both, but we slipped in without impediment. And out again. I didn’t faint that time, but it took me hours to stop shuddering. And not from the murder.”

“That wasn’t Prince Ragat, was it?”

“No. Not yet. Ragat was harder to reach, because he was much better guarded. No way to get near him sleeping, even for the sorcerer. It was the first time in daylight. We stood in the crowd, dressed like poor townsfolk, when his procession passed. The strike proved the easiest yet. His bearers and guards were far down the street before he fell from his sedan chair and anyone noticed. We were already walking the other way.” She added rather abstractedly, “That had been a swan. They had to truss its wings.”

“Which makes me wonder where in the world Tronio was getting his supply of elementals,” said Pen. “They don’t exactly grow on trees, you know.” Nor in them. For whatever reason, the rare proto-demons were only found in higher animals. Pen posited that some necessary minimum of active life was required to sustain them. Maybe the ones that manifested in trees just evaporated away immediately, never witnessed? How would one—

And you accuse me of distracting you, Des grumped.

“I believe people turn them in to the Bastard’s Order, from time to time,” said Alixtra. “Learned Tronio said, to be destroyed, so I wasn’t doing anything to them that wouldn’t have happened already. Tronio just brought them to me instead.”

“The man was embezzling demons?”

She blinked. “Was he? I mean… I thought he had the right to them.”

“Not for that,” Pen said fervently. He almost added, Trust me, but look where trusting the other learned Temple sorcerer had landed her. Tronio’s selection from this uncanny larder would have been limited to elementals in animals small enough for his assassin to kill herself, no horses or cows or bears… He frowned, waylaid by another thought. “I don’t want to distress you with a question that, um, no one in my Order would deem embarrassing, but where was Kittio’s father in all this?”

She looked away, and said bitterly, “At the bottom of the sea.” Sighing, she expanded: “We were sweethearts back in our home village. When Kavi received a promotion to third mate on his merchant vessel, he returned for me, and we married and moved to Thasalon to be near his work. Kittio was born the next year. I was busy, but happy. Until his ship never came back. Sunk in a storm, they think, because the vessel was never traced to pirates, nor any goods or people found. Sometimes there’s a survivor, an escaped slave or even a pirate, who testifies if a ship’s been taken. Eventually.”

“So I’ve heard. Three years…”

“Should have been enough for that,” said Alixtra. “My hope died of starvation long ago.”

“So… did Methani set you on any other targets after Ragat and before Adelis?”

She shook her head. “But the general was to be the first one outside of Thasalon, by myself. By the way they praised me, I thought they’d come to trust me. A soldier of Cedonia, they called me, and I was proud to be one. They didn’t have to threaten—” That asthmatic closing of her throat again. But she was doing it entirely to herself, no shamanic geas for example. Which might be a way to keep a captured spy from talking, come to think. Next time Pen wrote to Shaman Inglis, he could ask—

Attend, Pen. You’ve carved all the way to her heart in this premature autopsy. We’re nearly done.

He made his voice as gentle as he could, as if he were trying to talk Rina to sleep. “What did they threaten? It must have been cruel.”

She’d balled up again, talking to her knees. But still talking, good. “If I failed. Or if I tried to run away. Kittio would be cut and sold as a slave.”

Emasculated, made a eunuch. Some highborn men chose that for themselves, to gain the most trusted positions in the imperial bureaucracy, that they would never put their children before their loyalty to the emperor. Or their families chose it for them, that they might favor other relatives, and so it all circled back to where it had started despite all. Methani himself was such a man. Pen had met another. The lowborn were not so richly rewarded. Slaves, especially beautiful boy slaves… Pen could fill in the rest. So could Alixtra.

He ventured, “Is that also why you circled back for a second try at Adelis? Figuring if you brought his metaphorical head to lay at your masters’ feet despite all, they would forgive you for the better plan going awry?”

“And spare Kittio. Yes.” It came out in gulps: “So not failed. Or at least—I thought at first. That if it were known I did not confess before I died. That they would have mercy. But why would they. Too late now anyway.”

“A threat only works if its recipient is alive. If you were actually executed, they’d have no reason to carry it out.” That shouldn’t have been a heartening thought, but she uncurled a little.

“Do you think so?” she asked uncertainly.

Pen softened his honest Bastard’s teeth, I have no idea, to a “Maybe.”

She rocked a little. “How will Orbas kill me?”

“I don’t know. Not my decision, I’m not a judge. Wrong god. Thankfully.” Though, Bastard help him, there was no doubt he’d be nailed to advise.

He gathered up his basket, but left the lantern and the uneaten food, and called for Dubro to lower the ladder. Before he climbed it, he offered Alixtra another five-fold blessing, more carefully this time. It felt like fleeing a shambles.

“Well. That was an education,” Dubro observed in an under-voice as Pen clambered out and found his feet. “Things gen’rally are, around you.”

Pen jerked his head. “Let’s go outside to talk.”

“Aye.”

Pen led Dubro around to the sunny side of the old building, and leaned his head back against the hot stones. Never had the light on his face felt more like a blessing. Companionably, Dubro leaned with him.

“That was remarkably exhausting. Even apart from the night of no sleep.”

“Daresay.”

“I think it will be safe to leave her alone with just the guards posted at the top of the cellar stairs, on the other side of the doors, outside her range. Des’s magics can work at a long bowshot, but the weasel’s is much less. Though she could still do ill-controlled damage to someone close.” As Adelis had been. “So one of us does need to be at hand whenever they bring her food and take away her slops.”

“That merchant was pretty unhappy to be locked out of his warehouse. Can we let his people back in?”

“Yes, though only for the most necessary tasks. I’ll make sure the guards know to keep everyone well away from the cellar, regardless. You going back to Jurgo’s palace now?”

“Aye.”

“Give Stobrek the gist of it.”

“Suspect he might get more from you.”

“I’m at his disposal when he wants me. I’ve a lot to think about, and too tired a brain to do it with. Oh, never forget there’s a Thasalon bravo still loose out there somewhere.”

“I wouldn’t mind if he knocked on my door. Maska could give him a warm welcome.”

Pen smirked, and echoed back, “Daresay.”

With a wave, Dubro trudged off. Yawning, Pen went back inside to brief the guards.

Chapter 5

It was noon three days later when Pen was interrupted by a furtive knock on his upstairs study doorjamb. Pen swallowed a rude word in Wealdean and set down his quill halfway through his sentence. He looked up to see one of his front door guards, leaning in but not setting foot over the threshold. After the night they’d caught the assassin, Jurgo’s fellows had endured a dull time of it in their faithful watches. The fiction they helped maintain that Adelis was still in his sister’s house had to be fraying, but the assassin’s bravo-escort had neither sprung their trap here nor been caught elsewhere, so Pen could only be grateful for their continued presence. “Yes, guardsman?”

The sentry ducked his head, curious eyes flitting over the disappointingly mundane clutter spread across the sorcerer’s lair. “Learned sir. There’s a fellow at the door we don’t recognize, says he wants to see you.”

“Did he say why?”

“No, sir. Alls he said was that the paint’s the right color.”

A quick check by Sight; Nikys, Rina, Idrene and Lin were gathered upstairs in Nikys’s workroom, engaged in setting her loom, though he wasn’t sure if Rina was being much more help than her cat. “I’m expecting a message from my Order at Dogrita. This might be it.” And if so, early—good.

“He’s dressed like a villager, not a Temple courier, though.”

“I’ll come down.” Regretfully, Pen abandoned his letter in progress. Despite what ought to be known, that he was the duke’s personal retainer and blast it not practicing medicine, random supplicants for his services still turned up on his steps. Lin, Nikys, and Idrene had become adept at hearing their plaints and directing them on to their next best hope. Or, once in a great while, upstairs. The guards were not so experienced, but their mere presence had fended off most would-be callers.

Pen scuffed down the atrium stairs and put his head out to find the other guard suspiciously regarding the fellow who stood on the front steps, his broad-brimmed hat in his hand, looking genially up. His plain sleeveless tunic, trousers, and sandals could belong to any workman, village or town. Dark, tousled hair; the lighter, more bronze version of Cedonian skin; clean-shaved; skinny, vaguely weedy; his only striking feature was his eyes, a clear greenish hazel. He might be around thirty.

Only Des’s reaction, cringing much the way Maska cringed before her, gave anything away. Pen had never seen the man before in his life, but given what he was, the name followed at once. “Oh! You must be Blessed Iroki. I wasn’t expecting you to come in person, sir. Please, come in.”

With only a faint smile, the saint sailed in past the disconcerted guards, whom Pen waved hastily back to their posts. “Lin! Nikys!” Pen bellowed up as they entered the atrium. “I need you!”

Pen turned back to his visitor. “Did the chapterhouse at Dogrita pass on my letter?”

For answer, the man pulled Pen’s missive from his sash, the stained cream and white cloth the only hint to his allegiance, and twiddled it between thin fingers. “Two nights ago.”

“The same day I sent it—the couriers made excellent time.” Pen’s brows drew in. “So did you.” The aroma of horse and summer sweat that hung about the man testified to a recent fast ride.

“Ayup. Most of it yesterday, the rest this morning.”

“Have you no attendant?” Who should also be receiving Pen’s hospitality?

“Dogrita gave me a Temple courier for groom, who’s proved right handy. He’s just took the horses on to the Vilnoc chapterhouse. They’ll settle both, I daresay. I stopped straight here. It was the door, y’see. Nice paint, that orangey red. Easy to pick out.”

Nikys and Lin came down, both inquisitive. Idrene peeked over the balcony, one firm hand restraining Rina from trying to climb for a better view; the child bent and squeezed her face to the uprights instead. Pen trusted her head was too large to get stuck like her knee.

“Nikys, Lin, may I introduce Blessed Iroki, saint of the white god’s Order come from Dogrita. My wife, Nikys Arisaydia kin Jurald, and our most excellent retainer Lin.” Iroki offered a friendly wave; Nikys and Lin both curtsied, Lin looking daunted. Pen didn’t think saints had come her way before.

“I think we had better take this conversation to my study. Lin, please bring up a hand basin and something to drink. The saint is road-parched. Nikys, join us.”

“Are you sure? Isn’t this confidential Temple business?”

“Adelis’s business as well, and you’re his best representative.” Also her brother’s legal executor, among her array of responsibilities for him outside his military chains-of-command. She nodded.

“Isn’t that general fellow here?” Iroki asked, as they followed Pen up the gallery stairs.

“Not anymore,” said Nikys, “but I’m glad to hear you thought so. We’re pretending he still is, just in case we’re being spied on by unfriendly eyes. So if anyone asks, you’ll have to make up some tale. Maybe before you leave, so we all can tell the same one.”

Iroki’s brows rose at these deep doings. Impressed? Or just unfamiliar? Saints, as Pen had learned, could come from any walk of life, and the people to whom it was sometimes given to channel a god came embedded in their own upbringings like anyone else. The Blessed were held by the Temple to be in a class by themselves, outside all hierarchies religious or secular; the gods were notably indifferent to such human fixations as ranks, a queen and her chambermaid being all the same to Them. Over time that attitude tended to rub off on Their profoundest servants, so perhaps Iroki had only come into his calling recently.

By the time Pen had excavated the two good chairs from his filing system, Lin, breathless, arrived with the basin and pitchers of cold lemon water and tea, and a plate of what snacks the kitchen might immediately yield. The saint seemed grateful to wash the road dirt from his hands, thanking her nicely. Nikys poured out drinks, and Lin, with obvious regret, withdrew and closed the door quietly behind her.

Iroki extracted the crumpled letter again from his sash. “This gave the main of it—sounded pretty wild, must say—but Learned Master Ravana said you could be trusted to fill in the rest all right when I got here.”

“Ah, you’ve met her? Does she continue well?”

“Oh aye.” Iroki’s Cedonian speech held much the same cadence and accent as Dubro’s; Pen wondered if they shared a home locality. “Seemed to think highly of you, too.” His interested gaze at Pen was only with his eyes, barely tinged with some lingering deeper perception. If the god had been immanent within him at this moment, Des would have known, and Pen would have known by her conniptions.

Be nice, said Des tartly. You have your own terrors.

More every day, he agreed by way of apology.

Pen took a swallow of tea, and a breath. Not leaving out, this time, the preamble of the palace conclave that had brought him to Adelis’s side, because otherwise this whole escapade would seem to be hanging in air, Pen gave an account of events from the encounter with the sorceress-scrubwoman on the steps through to her capture and incarceration in the bottle dungeon. He wasn’t sure if his bald synopsis of her subsequent story really brought out the subtle horror it had engendered in him, but Iroki was very sober when he wound up.

Listening today for the second time to Pen’s account, after he’d vented it to her in a much less organized fashion that first afternoon, Nikys’s initial outrage over the uncanny assassination attempt had muted. She remarked, “I still can’t muster much sympathy for a thief who tried to murder my brother, but if there is any god Methani has left unoffended by this, I can’t think which.”

“The Bastard, obviously, for misuse of His gift of demons,” said Pen. “How do you figure the others?”

She counted them off on the correct fingers, folding each one in as she progressed. “The Mother of Summer, for this hideous abuse of a mother’s love. The Son of Autumn, for helpless Kittio. The Father of Winter, for the perversion of justice in every way. The Daughter of Spring, for Alixtra herself, because one does not stop being a daughter after one becomes a mother. The goddess still cares for us even when we move from Her house, the way Her Lady-school teachers care about their old pupils grown up, and hope for their well-being.” She turned her remaining thumb down. “And the Bastard as you say.”

“Whew. That’s a fair complete list, all right,” allowed Iroki, sounding much struck.

They were all silent for a moment as Nikys returned her hands to her ample lap. Pen was inescapably reminded of his own Order’s motto that appeared on its seal: No Hands But Ours. It was taken from a larger quote which fewer knew, its source lost: ‘The gods have no hands in this world but ours. If we fail Them, where then can They turn?’ When Pen had first encountered it as a young seminary student, it had seemed quite inspiring.

His further study of humanity had revealed just how much people could convince themselves that their own needs were those of the gods, and not the other way around. He now thought the dictum double-edged and dangerous and thus most surely the property of the Bastard, so, well-placed on His escutcheon. Did Methani and Tronio imagine they were doing some great patriotic service by this heinous method?

What’s good for Minister Methani is good for Cedonia? Des said dryly. Undoubtedly.

“And what’s to happen to the woman after the god takes back this stolen demon?” Iroki asked.

“That will be up to Duke Jurgo’s judges,” said Pen. “And Jurgo, because this is as much political as it is criminal. She’ll be off our Order’s hands and into theirs, and the Father of Winter’s. At least she can be kept in an ordinary prison after that, out of that dire hole.” The new cell might have a window, if barred, and a bit of sun, and a slice of the blue summer sky, the same celestial riches shared alike by dukes and scrubwomen.

“I confess,” he added, “I thought my response from Dogrita would be instructions to bring the hedge sorceress to you, and I’d been puzzling over how to safely accomplish it. I’m relieved you’ve spared me trying. Even apart from the chaos her ill-controlled magics might spew along the way, on purpose or by accident, I’ve a feeling she might be suicidal.”

“Hnh.” Iroki took in this last as seriously as Pen thought it deserved. “Aye, there’s a poser. It does explain… or maybe it don’t.”

“Explain…?”

“I don’t travel much. Never cared to. I thought she’d be brought to me, too. All my other elementals have been, even the one in the bear. D’y’see, I’ve never set foot in Vilnoc, but I saw your nice front door once before. Night I got your letter. In a dream. Gave me a bit of a turn to see it again, right there on the street.”

Pen was silent for a fraught moment. “I don’t suppose,” he sighed at last, “there was anything more informative said?” He would ask Were there any messages for me? but the last time he’d prayed in bitter earnest to his god for guidance, the answer had come in the form of a plague-carrying fly bite. The Bastard’s Order was a fine one to serve, but its god a hazardous one to bother, and Pen tried to do so as seldom as possible.

“Pack light for a long journey.” Iroki delivered this with the air of a direct quote. “Didn’t sleep much after that. I was at the chapterhouse doors with my saddlebags over my shoulder, asking for a horse, at dawn yesterday. Hence the good time we made.”

“I see.” He wondered if the distance from Dogrita to Vilnoc counted as a long journey to country-man Iroki. Pen blew out his breath, and rose. “I suppose we’d best be about this.” Once the saint had been brought face-to-face with the assassin, the removal of her demon would be the work of a moment.

“Aye,” said Iroki, putting down his beaker and following Pen up with a near-equal lack of enthusiasm, but a similar air of wanting to get it over with.

Nikys saw them to the front steps. With searching look, she reached up to grip Pen’s shoulders. “Pen. Be careful.”

“There’s nothing here to worry you, Madame Owl. It’s a deeply unpleasant task, but easy.”

The saint, as they paced away together down the street, murmured, “Speak for yourself, Learned Sir.”

“I’ve seen this done before. Desdemona, several times. Des says it’s like watching a hanging, for a demon.”

“I daresay. None of the creatures I’ve freed from their demonic possessors have had words to tell about it, though.”

“Is this your first time removing an elemental from a person?”

“Aye.”

“Are you going to be, um, all right with it?”

Iroki shrugged. “It’s not a task done by me, but through me. Ask the god if He can do His job, eh?”

“No, thanks,” said Pen fervently. His curiosity lured him on. “So I take it you’ve not been in this trade long?”

“Three or four years. I was a fisherman in the village of Pef, upriver from Dogrita. Still am. Do you fish?”

“I did as a boy, back in the cantons where I’m from. In the winter, we’d chop a hole in the lake ice and set up a leather tent around it, and fish through it.”

“That’s hard to imagine,” said Iroki in a voice of sincere amazement. “I’ve never even seen a puddle frozen over, though they tell me there are tarns up in the mountains that do that in winter. The ridges around Pef aren’t high enough to show snow.”

“In the deep winter, we could drive a horse and sledge over the canton lakes.”

“Now that is a tale,” said Iroki, in a voice of much less sincere wonder.

“S’true. If they tried it too late or too early in the season, though, the whole rig could fall through. You couldn’t help thinking the idiot driver earned it, but I always felt sorry for the horses.”

Pen gestured, and they turned the indicated corner to pass through a busy day-market. Iroki eyed its abundance in approval. At the next turning, into a narrower alley, Pen offered, “I liked pole fishing. People would leave me alone to think.”

Iroki grinned. “Ayup. Though for me, less to think than to just be, there in the shade by the river. Sometimes, to save interruption, I wouldn’t bait the hook. When fish took it anyways, I tried weighting my line with a pebble. When they started swallowing it down pebble, line, and all, I tried no line. When the fish started jumping out onto the bank at my feet, it got a little disturbin’. But I never went hungry.”

Revenge for Pen’s unlikely fish story? It would be proper fishermen’s etiquette, to be sure. But Pen had an unnerving feeling the saint’s tale might be as true as his own. “How did you come to”—Pen made a vague encompassing gesture—“your calling?”

Iroki’s smile was oddly secret. “There was this sick fawn I stumbled across, lying in the sedges. I went over to try to help it, somehow. When I petted it… this… thing happened. When it scrambled up and trotted away, I thought for a moment it’d been a miracle of healing, except that sure hadn’t felt like any mother I could imagine, of summer or anything else. Almost made me throw up. I didn’t tell anyone about it, because it just seemed too crazy. And I’d had maybe a bit too much to drink that afternoon, and I didn’t want folks getting on me about that, either.”

“Understandable…”

“Next time, months later, it was my neighbor’s sick heifer, stumbling around clumsy and not eating. They were afraid they’d have to put her down. I went over, just wondering, y’know, if I could do that thing again. Sober. When the calf got up, my neighbors took it for a miracle outright, though I didn’t think it was, precisely. Not the way they were thinking. That one was not so secret, and about a week later, some Temple sensitives arrived from Dogrita to see me. Cat was out of the bag then, though I wasn’t sorry to finally get an explanation. In words that I could give to other people, that is. There wasn’t… there wasn’t any doubt in the doing.

“The Dogrita folks near kidnapped me, and hauled me off to the city, and tried to make me learn theology, till I rebelled and walked home to my riverbank. We worked out an understanding after that. I’d come when called, and they’d leave me alone betimes. Oh, and the stipend. That was right handy. I was finally able to move out of my parents’ house, and not be nagged to do something ’cause they were tired of their son being called the laziest man in Pef. I got my own little shack up the river apiece, and went back to fishing.”

“Or not…?” Pen suggested.

Iroki grinned. “That, too. Bare-pole days, I always hope He’ll stop by just to sit a spell, and pass the time quiet. He’s a pretty busy fellow, I daresay. It’s got to make a nice change.”

And so the bare pole was a prayer that asked for nothing, not even a fish? That had to be a novelty for the Recipient. “Fishing for a god? I’d be petrified.” And catching One, it sounded like. Time to time, as he suspected Iroki would put it. So, this was what a true mystic looked like…

“Well, Miss Big Demon would be upset, sure,” Iroki allowed, with a nod in Pen’s direction that wasn’t, actually, at Pen. “That couldn’t be so restful.”

“Ah, likely not.” In the saint’s presence, Des was doing a good job at managing terse and reserved, not hiding under the bed screaming.

The god has not yet arrived, she pointed out grimly.

At the fortress-cum-warehouse doors, Pen borrowed a lantern from the guard, who reported all quiet. Dubro had come around earlier so that they could carry down the prisoner’s lunch, and then left again. Riverman Iroki frowned at the brooding dark walls closing in as they descended to the cellar corridor.

“I thought the ghosts here’d be more distinct. This being an old fort and all. But there’s just these sundered smudges left.” He brushed at one fog-like tendril trying to wind around his face. Others seeped out of the walls as the saint passed, gathering like a pack of anxious hounds swirling around their master, far more than Pen had noticed on his prior visits.

“It’s not been a fort for centuries, but it was a prison, later. I expect these are mostly left over from that period.”

“That’d account for it,” Iroki agreed amiably.

The hole in the floor was left open to the air as he’d ordered, Pen was pleased to see, the stone cap someone had unearthed for it still propped against the wall. The faint orange glow from the lamp that reflected up through it was less bright to Pen’s eyes than Iroki’s retinue, glowing like moonlight on mist eddying in a ditch.

“Shoo. Shoo, go along with you,” he told the smudges, waving his hand not unkindly. “Too late to help you now.” They only drew back a little.

Penric dropped the rope ladder. Below, a rustle, as of someone retreating to a wall, as if an arm’s length of distance could be any protection. Penric went first, setting his lantern on the floor opposite Alixtra’s huddled ball, then turned to hold the ladder for Iroki, who clambered down easily. One sweeping glance was enough to take in all that human eyes could see in this bare space. Pen didn’t think that was all he saw.

“Don’t seem quite fair,” Iroki remarked over his shoulder to Pen as he found his feet, “that the person should be the criminal, but that little weasel-demon’s the one that gets destroyed.”

First, Pen did not say aloud. Only first. Des wanted to be on the opposite side of the cell, or maybe the opposite side of the city, but Pen gritted his teeth and stepped forward. It might be more prudent to act immediately and explain after, to spare them all some hopeless violent outburst from the prisoner. Prisoners. But the saint was speaking.

“You would be Miss Alixtra. I’m Iroki. I’m here to take away your demon. I’m right sorry about all this.”

“So am I,” whispered Alixtra. But she only bent her face to her knees and waited, trembling but as rigid as a queen, too proud to beg, waiting for the headsman’s ax to fall. If the terrified demon within her had owned a heart, Pen thought it would have been beating like a hummingbird’s wings.

Iroki went down on his own knees, level with her, and placed his palm atop her head as solemnly as an archdivine bestowing a blessing at a name-giving ceremony. As the Presence began to build within him, Des retreated no further than Alixtra had, holding her demonic perceptions available to Pen like a woman reaching out her hands in the teeth of a gale.

Pen grasped her back. Hold hard. Though I will protect you was an utterly empty claim in this moment, he could at least say, I will stand by you.

You always have, she agreed.

The weasel-demon shrieked like an animal dying in a night woods, then, suddenly, went still. Like a waiting queen.

In a voice not his own, as resonant in this cell as the reverberations inside a bass drum, Iroki said, “Take better care of My gift this time, child. You’re going to need it.” The sense, but not the sound, of an immense belly-laugh, tidal, oceans deep.

And then, as vast as the Presence, the somehow vaster Absence. The emptiness left was like a room stripped of its very air. One would weep for the loss, if one could only breathe.

Iroki had fallen to his haunches with his back to the wall beside Alixtra, gasping, green eyes gone wide and glimmering in the lantern light. He gulped out, “Uh. Uh. I expected it to be different this time. Didn’t expect it to be that different.”

Her demon remained within Alixtra. Frozen, quivering, but alive and whole as it had ever been. It was Pen who felt flattened, as if run over by the trundling carriage of a siege engine.

In a mouse-squeak voice, Alixtra quavered, “What… just… happened?”

Pen realized he was the only person in the chamber who had been through this before, if from a different and then more-ignorant vantage. In an upstairs room in the Martensbridge chapterhouse of the Bastard’s Order, realms and years away to a man, but maybe only on the other side of a coin to a god. The words from another saint, never forgotten, came back to him now.

“It means, Congratulations. You’re a sorceress.” He swallowed. “It’s likely the most mixed of blessings. But when the god Himself speaks like that to you, it means you’re bloody well supposed to stay blessed.”

Chapter 6

Penric wanted to sit down, but gods not in this pit of darkness. He hauled Iroki to his feet. “Come with me for a minute. We need to talk.”

“But—” Iroki gestured uncertainly at Alixtra, crouched panting and wild-eyed. “Not sure we should leave her like that.”

“I’m very sure we shouldn’t, but we need to talk. We’ll come back.” Pen bent down to Alixtra. “We’ll be back. Soon. Fairly soon. I promise.” He barely kept his mouth from adding something fatuous like Don’t go anywhere, though he made sure of that by pulling up the ladder again after them. He propelled Iroki outside and around to the sunlit side of the old fort where he’d conferred with Dubro that first morning, and sank, sat, collapsed cross-legged to the dusty pavement. The sun was still high, the sky was still blue, blue, blue, and still overhead. The ground was still under him. Good.

Iroki flopped next to him, his knees in no better order than Pen’s. Maybe worse. “Was that what was supposed to happen?” he asked plaintively.

“Supposed to? Clearly. What usually happens? No. Pulling a corrupted demon from a person is more usually like pulling an elemental from your animal hosts, except with more articulate screaming. I’ve seen something like this only once.”

“When?”

“When I was nineteen, and the white god gave Desdemona into my keeping. Chance help me, I was younger and knew less than Alixtra in there.” He reflected. “Desdemona knew vastly more, though. My demon held the learning of four great Temple divines and six other extraordinary women already in her hands. She wasn’t just my textbook, she was my library. Alixtra’s weasel-demon knows nearly nothing. Except how to be a weasel.” He added, “And how to kill. Once. Not a very useful skill. Gods what a, a, a, I don’t even know. Waste. Sacrilegious waste.”

“The god was…” Iroki paused a long moment, finally choosing, “Wroth. Huh. Now I know what that word means. I don’t think my Temple tutors in Dogrita really grasped the full of it.” And after another moment, “Not wroth with the assassin, though. Her, I think He liked.”

Both murderers and executioners fell under the Bastard’s cloak, yes. Very confusing god. “Well, He did give her a pretty big present. I’m not sure she understands that yet.”

“Do you?”

“I…” I do and I’m terrified. Pen pushed that back to, “I think we may take it that the god didn’t spare her just so she could be hanged. Therefore He means her to do something.”

Iroki gave him a long, shrewd look. “Not just her, I think.”

“Ah.” Pen bent forward and scrubbed his hands over his face. “Did you get anything more definite?”

Do we want there to have been? Des muttered uneasily.

Iroki tilted his head back and squinted into the blue. “Maybe we should ask Alixtra herself?”

“We hardly need to ask. She wants her child back safe.” The words fell out of Pen’s mouth without hesitation. Maybe out of his parental soul as well. Whichever, he was fairly sure he couldn’t snatch them up and stuff them back inside, however much he wanted to. “Oh, gods, we’re going to Thasalon after all, aren’t we.”

Iroki said cautiously, “Uh… we? You, her, your two demons?”

Pen gave the saint a side-eye. “The boy Kittio is being held prisoner in the palace of the most powerful and corrupt minister in Thasalon, under the eye of his powerful and corrupt tame Temple sorcerer, possessed of a powerful and, I have no doubt, by-now-corrupted demon. Because one couldn’t hang around inside the head of a man like that for years and not be. If there was a saint of our Order in Thasalon that the god could maneuver into place to take care of Tronio, I’d think He would have by now. So a local saint is not something I should count on picking up after I arrive, like a crossbow bought from a weapons shop.”

And oh gods why did his accursed mind insist on racing ahead like this? He pictured himself instead rolling around on the floor in front of the white god like a two-year-old having a tantrum, I doan’ wanna go to Thasalon, I doan’ wanna go to Thasalon…

Well, no, he actually did want to, someday, but his vision had always been of touring historical sites and visiting all the great temples and libraries, and attending the famous theaters and horseraces. Not… whatever this was going to entail. Seeing the insides of famous imperial prisons, for example.

It could be worse, Des said darkly. We could have gone with Adelis. Who do you imagine would be in charge of the traveling carnival then?

Des liked Adelis, but she had a point.

“You want me to go with you?” said Iroki, sounding appalled. “I’m just a poor fisherman. I’ve never been farther from Pef than Dogrita. And Vilnoc, now.”

“Our god is the same everywhere. His white hand should uphold you equally in Orbas or Cedonia or Darthaca or on the moon, for all I know.” And what would the company of a saint of the god of all chances do for the luck of a journey? Alas, Pen had read enough unfortunate history to know that saints died just the same as other men. Maybe a bad plan to count on such providence.

As Pen shoved himself to his feet, Iroki said cautiously, “So… what’s next?”

Pen gestured him up. “First, we get the woman out of that dank stone hole. Take her to…” Not a municipal prison, no. And not home, Bastard avert. “The Order’s chapterhouse. Get her settled. You stay by her while I go talk to Jurgo, and then… eh.” The possibilities tangled in front of Pen like Nikys’s threads after the cat had been at them. “Chapterhouse first, anyway.”

Back at the fort’s front door, he stopped to speak with the guard sergeant. “I’m moving the prisoner. Secretly. But continue to hold your posts as if she were still in there, at least until your own commander tells you differently. Is there a side exit?”

The sergeant looked taken aback, but it had been made clear that the duke’s sorcerer was the man in charge of the dangerous captive, so he didn’t demur. Thankfully. Pen was far too keyed up to deal with a pointless argument. “Postern’s on the south wall, barred from the inside,” the guard advised. “There’s a lot of the merchant’s rubbish piled around it, though.”

“Perfect. Thanks.”

Pen and Iroki descended the cellar stairs once more, and then the rope ladder.

Alixtra was sitting cross-legged against the wall, still looking stunned. She had stopped shuddering. Pen plopped down before her. He was nearly sure he’d stopped shuddering, too, though he couldn’t vouch for Des.

“So. Here’s where we stand. You need to go to Thasalon to rescue your son from Minister Methani. I need to go to Thasalon to bring Blessed Iroki before that fool Tronio. We’re going to combine forces.”

She jerked back in astonishment. “Am I… not to be executed?”

“The white god says not. I don’t care to argue with Him. Do you?”

Mutely, she shook her head. Her breath caught. “Wait. Kittio—you will help me save Kittio?”

“That will be my part of the bargain. Your part—if I’m to be your sponsor, teacher, and accountable for your actions—is that you must place yourself unreservedly under my authority and obey my instructions. It won’t always be clear why at first, but it will later.”

Iroki warned her a bit dryly, “Learned divine, that one. I daresay there’ll be theology lectures.”

Pen’s lips twitched. “I’ll see what I can fit in. But I’ve never been closer to Thasalon than its eastern suburbs. You know both the city and the inside of Methani’s palace, intimately. We’ll be dependent on your knowledge and good faith.”

“You want me to defect to Orbas’s side? Like General Arisaydia?”

“Right now, I’m not asking you to be on any side but Kittio’s and your own.” Pen considered. “Afterward will be another question. I’d point out that while you’ve committed three confessed murders in Cedonia, you haven’t actually committed any in Orbas.” Attempted murder was also a crime, but this wasn’t the moment to dwell on the finer points. “Other destinations may open up to you. But there is no course of events that I can foresee that will make it safe for you and your son to stay in the empire.”

She looked utterly bewildered. Pen couldn’t blame her. “You’ve received a god-given chance in the most literal fashion I’ve ever witnessed. Don’t spurn it.”

Iroki held out a hand. Falteringly, she took it, and, shaky as a new colt, clambered up.

*     *     *

They found the old postern door behind a stack of crates, boosted them out of the way, and slipped through into a shaded alley. Alixtra clapped her hands to her eyes and choked back a whimper of pain. Pen gave her a few moments to adjust. She peeked past her fingers in the dazzling afternoon light, alternating with leaking water through squeezed lids. His own escape from the endless dark of such a stone pit had been at night, to his eyes’ benefit. If likewise into a town that had been enemy territory.

A few passersby flitted past the mouth of the passage, but no one was presently watching from above. Pen wondered if he was playing to an empty reviewing stand. Des, would you recognize that bravo from your glimpse on our roof?

Maybe. His soul was a common-enough type. He’s not nearby now, anyway.

“Your escort,” Pen said to Alixtra. “Rush, Rash, whatever his name was.”

Pimple, Des suggested. Pen ignored this, but was resignedly afraid the nickname was going to stick in his memory anyway.

“Rach,” Alixtra said.

“Do you think he’s still around by this point? Or would he have run off—either home to report, or deserting?” Was Methani the sort to kill the messenger in a fit of pique when his plans went awry?

A surprised stare. “I thought you’d caught him.” A catch of breath. “Did he escape?”

“I, ah… misled you a trifle about that. My apologies. No, we’ve not found him yet.”

But it wasn’t indignation at Pen’s deception that tensed her. “Oh, gods, no. If he gets back to report my arrest, what will they do to Kittio?”

“He might wait around for news of your execution first,” Pen pointed out in reassurance, of a sort. “Or be hoping for another try at Adelis by more ordinary means, if he still thinks the general’s in Vilnoc. Would he? Like you, so as not to return empty-handed?”

“Maybe? Though he didn’t like my second try, said we should just leave. I don’t think he’d linger long.” She straightened up and rubbed at the wet trails down her cheeks. “None of this was in the plan.”

She seemed more dismayed by learning her late courier was still at large than she had been by being told he’d been netted. Was the lack of loyalty mutual? “Hnh.”

When Alixtra stopped blinking, Pen led his peculiar party out into the streets of Vilnoc. The old fort was not very far from the main Temple square. A few turns beyond this, they found the Vilnoc chapterhouse of the Bastard’s Order.

The core of the chapterhouse was, as not uncommon, a charitably bequeathed old merchant’s mansion, with new sections built on over the years for its further purposes—administration, not worship, though it did boast a private altar dedicated to its Patron for the use of its inhabitants. Entering the vestibule, Pen was reminded of his first arrival here five years ago as a stranger seeking the house’s shelter: as displaced as Alixtra, more destitute, and scarcely less bedraggled. Granted he’d carried no murders on his conscience, but he imagined he could have matched her for theft.

Or surpassed her, Des agreed. Smugly.

But Pen had also borne his Temple rank and learning, and Desdemona; treasures within that could not be riven from him, coin for any portal. These doors had certainly opened wide for them.

The porter leaped up at once to greet him. Knowing Pen well by now, he did not look askance at his grubby companions, though he gave Iroki a keen glance before dashing off to fetch the house’s mistress.

The chapterhouse’s chief arrived so swiftly, she must have been on the watch—oh, of course, the courier from Dogrita would have reported in when he’d arrived with the horses. She made no mistake of the fisherman’s identity, certainly, offering him a deep obeisance.

“Blessed Iroki. Your presence honors our house. We are wholly at your service. I’m Learned Sioann, head here.”

She didn’t quite add, For my sins. Her hair was more white now than the gray it had been five years ago, matching her summer vestments, similar to Pen’s but with its long skirt serving in place of male trousers. The plaque hanging pendant from the silver chain around her neck, enameled with the Order’s seal, marked her duties. She was as able an overseer as the head of any other order in town, and, despite or more likely because of managing the odd lots that fell into the Bastard’s bag, even more briskly organized.

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Iroki simply. Dogrita, apparently, had inured him to such attentions, and his return tally of the gods was an honest blessing that didn’t even hint I’d rather be fishing. “We’ll be happy for your help.”

She surveyed Alixtra, still in her dark men’s garments and smelling like a prison, and murmured up at Pen, “Another of your strays, Penric? They are always so interesting.”

Pen cleared his throat. “More so than usual this time. Learned Sioann, may I make known to you Madame Alixtra. She has contracted a wild demon that we have just been instructed she is to keep.”

Sioann’s eyes went to the saint; it took only a moment for the coin to drop. “Oh.” Even she swallowed. “Isn’t this backwards, rather, from the normal Temple procedures for inducting a sorcerer?”

“It happens that way more often than you’d think,” said Pen. “But it does mean Madame Alixtra has a lot of catching up to do.”

Sioann smiled at Alixtra. “Well, you couldn’t have fallen into better hands for that than Learned Penric’s, I assure you.” As Alixtra blinked at this, she added more slyly to Pen, “By chance, was it?”

“We’re thinking… not,” Pen admitted. “Parsimony perhaps.”

“Hm!”

“She’s had an extremely difficult time of it lately, and has become separated from all her belongings. She’ll need a bath, fresh clothes, whatever she wants to eat. An upstairs room with a window in which to rest. Because of the untrained elemental, best she’s given privacy, and Blessed Iroki will need to look after her till I get back.”

Sioann’s smile widened at this program. “All easily done. I look forward to furthering our acquaintance, Madame Alixtra.”

Alixtra got as far as echoing, “Thank—” before her throat choked upon her confused clot of emotions. It dawned on Pen that she was only now realizing that she was not being delivered by a horrible trick to some surprise execution after all. Normal people carrying on with unthinking kindness must be as shocking as sudden sunlight to such dark-adapted eyes, because she blinked back the same tears.

Distressed refugees were nothing new to Sioann, for she merely gave Pen a firm nod, putting her arm around Alixtra’s shaking shoulders and murmuring, “Yes, let me guide you upstairs, dear… If you would be so obliging as to accompany us, Blessed.”

“They’ll take good care of you here,” Pen promised Iroki. “I’ll be back… I’m not sure when. Later. But I should know more by then.”

Iroki cast him an encouraging wave. Pen’s stride lengthened as he headed out the door and turned toward the palace.

Chapter 7

It was near sunset of the lingering summer day before Pen made it back to his own front door. His conference with Jurgo had been long, complicated, and ultimately fruitful. He’d borne those fruits back to the chapterhouse for a shorter but packed parley with Sioann, Iroki, and the still off-balance Alixtra. Only the fervor with which Nikys greeted his return betrayed her worry about his extended absence. Hoping she’d saved him out his portion of supper, he was touched to discover that she’d put the meal off altogether until his return.

His favorite table under the back pergola had lost its privacy to Jurgo’s sentries, so the family met in the little chamber normally devoted to breakfasts, served only by Lin: half meal, half urgent council.

Nikys took in his account of the god’s shattering visit to the dungeon with as much wonder as Idrene, and more understanding; she’d been goddess-touched herself, once. It wasn’t an event one forgot, or that ever grew cloudy in memory. Unlike Jurgo, Pen didn’t need to persuade her of the truth of his encounter. She could doubtless see it in his face, set and shaken; hit with a falling fish as she’d once vividly dubbed the look. Encounter with the numinous, the theologians would put it. Pen thought Nikys’s description closer to the mark.

He wondered if Iroki’s experience of it was more on the order of hit with a falling sky.

“The god was not more present than the other times I’ve seen something like this,” Pen tried, faltering, to explain. “Just more… perceptible. I think Iroki is a wider aperture than usual, even for a saint. Strange man.”

“Pot, kettle,” murmured Idrene. Sounding much like Des; Pen was too prudent to pursue the remark. She held Rina in her grandmotherly lap, feeding her tidbits from her plate to divert her wriggling, like trying to bribe an escaping octopus.

Pen took a breath before delivering his more ambiguous news. “But it seems I am instructed to conduct Iroki to Thasalon, and bring him, and thus the god, before Tronio. Removing the man, or at least his demon and powers, from the gameboard.”

An indrawn breath from Nikys; Idrene’s head went back. But neither woman protested aloud.

“Alixtra as well, to rescue her son. I’m not sure if she’s meant as means or end or if it makes any practical difference, but that she’s been given into my charge is plain.”

Nikys’s eyes skimmed from Pen to Rina, as if to say, You have children closer than Thasalon to safeguard. But she only removed her palm from her mouth to say, “And bring all back safely.”

Though Pen wasn’t sure the god’s concern extended so far, he nodded heartfelt agreement. To both the spoken and unspoken sentiments. “This isn’t a task set by Jurgo, or my Order, or the archdivine. If all three lined up against it, I would still have to go. Fortunately Jurgo has chosen to support us.”

“How will you travel?” asked Idrene.

“Overland by coach to the western border. Across the mountains on the same spy trail Nikys and I used when we came for you, then a hired coach to Thasalon again, and after that… we’ll have to make it up as we go.”

“Shall you divert to Tanar?” asked Nikys. “She and Master Bosha were of enormous help to us before.”

Especially Bosha, Lady Tanar’s extraordinary eunuch secretary. The Xarre estate, not far outside of the walls of Thasalon, had made a superb staging area, but… “I’m not sure we should. Harboring us on the way in might be dangerous, and on the way out, worse.”

Nikys frowned. “She’ll want word of Adelis. Leaving her, and Bosha, in ignorance of his plans on the eve of his arrival could serve them a worse turn. Which of you do you think will get there first?”

Pen’s mouth screwed up as he calculated. Vilnoc and Thasalon lay near the same level on a map of the Cedonian peninsula, three hundred miles from east to west in the straight line that no real road ran. It was twice nine hundred sea miles in the longways loop around the northern tip and back the other side. “Even Adelis can’t make that journey by ship in less than eighteen days. Add more for contrary winds. He left five nights ago. By land, if there are no more setbacks than we encountered before, it will take us a week. Depending on when we leave Vilnoc, we could well beat him there.”

Idrene frowned, too. “Here’s another hazard to consider, then. Adelis’s safety depends in part on his secrecy. If anything you do in Thasalon betrays that secrecy, it could be fatal to him.”

After a moment, Pen merely said, “Ah.”

Idrene added, a little wistfully, “Did you get any sense that the gods support Adelis in his venture?”

It didn’t come up, Pen did not say. He offered instead, “Only indirectly. Defanging Tronio would remove one powerful support to Methani, I expect. I’m not sure the gods care who is ruler of Cedonia, or of anywhere else. Though I suppose they care for the soul of the person who holds the office the same as any other soul.”

The gods might watch over Their sorted flocks, but judging from all the premature fatalities Their protection seemed spotty. That’s because it’s not the destruction of our material bodies that the gods protect us from, but that of our spirits generated by them. Pen wasn’t sure but that the Five celebrated death as gladly as birth, conjoined aspects of the unending immigration of souls into Their realm. So did the son of an empress weigh any more in Their scales than the son of a chambermaid? Or any other mother’s son? Pen suspected not. Finished or unfinished might matter to Them, though, whether souls arrived in Their arms healthy and splendid, or miscarried or stillborn or crippled or mutilated by their truncated gestations in the world of matter.

Uncomfortable reflections, better saved for the bat-hours. Which would be upon him soon enough.

*     *     *

Upstairs in his study, Pen lit his good lamps and stared around at the piles of his projects in disoriented dismay, as though he could only snatch up one to save from a burning building. Since he couldn’t take any of them along with him, he supposed such imagining was pointless.

He knew which one he most regretted leaving unfinished, though—he drifted over to finger the careful stacks of demon-etched metal printing plates of four-fifths of Learned Ruchia’s great work on medical sorcery. Three years of work so far in translating it into Cedonian, updating and expanding as he went, and all of it useless to the ducal press without the final fifth. And the closing chapter, yet to be written even in first draft, with all the trailing addenda still to be tested and developed, like his scheme for the medical use of induced narcolepsy. The late codicil should even capture those things he’d not yet thought of.

Hands that could not hold the skills of a practicing sorcerer-physician anymore might yet give them away, and this was the means.

He wondered if anyone but himself thought that pile of metal sheaves could be more important to more people than which lordling was emperor this year in Cedonia.

Learned Master Ravana, Des put in, with a not-really-spurious air of helpfulness. And Master Rede. They’re almost as obsessed with this as you. A thoughtful pause. Possibly because they’re the only other people in Orbas who understand it all.

“The whole aim of this effort is to increase that number,” said Pen. But he snorted at himself, turning to tidying piles in simulation of any actual progress. His eye was snagged by the letter he’d broken off this morning partway through a sentence. He had no memory of what he’d intended the rest to be. He cobbled together a closure just so something would be finished, and sealed it ready to go out.

He looked up to find Nikys, arms crossed and leaning against the doorjamb, contemplating him like a woman studying a difficult mosaic. He wasn’t sure how long she’d been there.

“Are you two coming to bed soon?”

Ah. There is the one treasure I would save from the flames. Which makes it easy.

And another of your unfinished projects, too, quipped Des.

That’s right, be amused at me, see if I care.

Charmed, Pen, I promise you.

“Yes, directly,” he told Nikys. “Gods, yes. Um…”

Pen had drawn up the first will of his life upon the occasion of Rina’s birth, appointing Nikys his executor just as she stood for her brother. There was nothing in it that he needed to update yet, except… “If, um, it should become necessary, all the plates and drafts and notes for Ruchia’s second volume should go to Ravana in Dogrita.”

Her grimace conveyed both understanding of the request, and profound disapproval in prospect of any such necessity. But she said only, “I think we’d all prefer for you to finish it yourself.”

“I don’t disagree.”

“I thought, you know, when I married a scholar and not a soldier, that I was done with these sorts of farewells.”

“Sorry…”

He went to her then, gathering her in his arms. She gathered him back convulsively. He kissed her forehead with tender promise, releasing her only long enough to put out his lamps. At the last moment, he swung back to grab a copy of Ruchia’s first volume, cheaply bound in waxed cloth, from the stack delivered a while ago from Jurgo’s printer, before following his wife around the atrium to their own bedchamber.

*     *     *

Next morning, while waiting for his travel documents both forged and unforged to be delivered from the ducal chancellery, Pen addressed himself to packing. In this he was efficiently assisted by Nikys, long practiced at following the camp on behalf of her late first husband, as well as her equally military father and brother.

Rina and her cat drifted about the bedchamber adding elements of chaos and disorder that were, in Pen’s view, as good as a prayer to his god—Patron of all two-year-olds whether legitimate or not? Only childless theologians would argue. Or humorless ones, of which, Pen granted, there was a sufficient supply. He rescued his sash with the bright silver cord from Rina’s grubby grip; she was still trailing the red cloak.

Nikys unearthed his medical case from a chest. “Shall you want this?”

“It doesn’t fit my persona this trip.”

This had been a matter of debate with Jurgo yesterday. Pen had rejected the suggestions that he travel as either a physician, or learned divine or other Temple functionary, as being too close to his real identity, a scribe as being too lowly, and a merchant in cloth or spices as being too far outside his expertise—though he’d briefly considered being a wholesale apothecary. They’d finally settled on him feigning to be a dealer in rare books and manuscripts. Jurgo was to supply him with the documents of a Wealdean expatriate residing in Patos, which covered his foreign looks. There was every excuse for such a man to travel eagerly to Thasalon seeking new goods even in unsettled times, and to rub shoulders with any sort of person whether highborn or low.

Pen’s seed stock was a selection of books and scrolls pulled, regretfully, from his own library. Choosing which volumes he could bear to trade away—or lose in a river crossing—yet still be valuable enough to support his identity had been a wrench. That small trunk, he’d packed himself.

“If not for your disguise, then for yourselves?” said Nikys, holding up the medical case. The offer was chipper, no hint of her apprehension allowed to leak into her voice.

“The book antiquarian doesn’t risk any injuries worse than a paper cut,” Pen told her in a matching tone. “Or maybe a strained back from lifting his wares.”

She sighed and allowed this lie to pass, replacing the case in its chest.

Then she drew him down to the kitchen to deal, yet again, with his foreign hair. She whimpered at Pen’s request to trim off the bottom length of his queue, leaving just enough to gather in a thick hank at his nape, but complied. Rolling the cut braid up, she tucked it away in a cloth like a treasure. Her version of the red cloak?

There followed a practiced session with dye that left his hair a less memorable sandy color that went with his skin and did not clash unreasonably with the faint gold of his body hair. She did not forget his eyebrows. Rina was restrained from decorating much more than her hands, her shift, her face, and the cat.

At last the messenger arrived from the chancellery with the documents, which Pen tucked away into their own slim leather case. In the atrium, Pen steeled himself for the real goodbye to his household. He swung his daughter up to a perch in his arms.

“Hey, Rina-Rina. Be good for Mama while I’m gone, eh?” He gave her a kiss on her brow.

“I good girl, Papa,” she asserted with great authority. She eyed his altered hair in suspicion, finding his shortened queue disappointingly less grabbable, but agreeably enough gave him a damp smack in return on his cheek. He wasn’t sure if she imagined him as departing for anything more than a routine errand across town, to be back by dinner.

Nikys’s fiercer kiss, when he handed Rina over to her, was naked of such illusions. “Take care,” she whispered.

Saying, truthfully, My god goes with me did not seem all that reassuring to Pen. “I’ll try,” he whispered back, less promise than hope. He managed the last gestures: embracing Idrene, laying a hand on Lin’s head, turning back at the door to bestow the formal five-fold tally on his household and all within it, with the double tap of the back of his thumb to his lips. The red door swung shut behind him. The scrape of the bolt relocking sounded both comforting and weirdly final.

Jurgo’s sentries, still littering his front steps, gave him a nervous salute, so he returned them a blessing as well. “Please take care of things for me here, guardsmen,” he told them, command or prayer. Then it was time to set out upon the cobbled street, trailed by the household’s scullion-and-lad-of-all-tasks trundling a hand cart containing his valise, his goods-trunk, and a heavy hamper of food and drink put up by the women for the first day’s travels.

Pen made one brief detour to Vilnoc’s main temple. At this hour on a working day, only a smattering of supplicants shared the great atrium and its five holy niches stationed around the walls. Pen’s ordinary garb, giving no hint of either the learned divine or the daunting sorcerer, drew no eyes as he pulled a prayer rug from the stack by the Bastard’s altar and laid it down, and himself upon it prone in the attitude of deepest supplication.

For a man whose trade was words, he found himself achingly bereft of them in this moment. There were customary invocations for journeys, but the safety he sought was less for what lay ahead of him than what lay behind.

I think He knows, Pen, Des consoled him.

Aye. Everywhere, the same.

He rose after only a few minutes. On impulse, he veered aside to repeat his deep entreaty and wordless prayer before the altar of the Mother of Summer, a goddess he did not usually address, on behalf of the unborn child of his house they had not yet dared to name Llewyn. He wondered if the Great Lady would be willing to take Kittio’s rescue as an offering on Her altar, bartering blessings.

Only if we succeed in it. Des’s thought was indistinguishable from his own.

Pen went back out to collect the boy and cart he’d left under the portico, and continued to the chapterhouse.

Chapter 8

Learned Sioann met Penric in the chapterhouse vestibule.

“Did my charges spend a peaceful night?” he inquired.

“I think the saint is a naturally peaceful man. Your, ah… should I call her your apprentice? Your disciple?”

Better than your assassin. And your prisoner was uncomfortably on-the-mark. “Student is close enough.”

“Let’s say her exhaustion overcame her nerves. They’ll be down directly. I hope you’ll be pleased with how we’ve decked them out for their roles in your traveling play. Lencia and Seuka, when they learned you’d brought her, took over guiding her through the women’s quarters, and fitting her with clothes from the charity stock. The Blessed as well.”

“That must have been…” Pen’s imagination faltered. What tales had the two dedicat sisters told? “Seuka can be a little overwhelming. And Alixtra has good reasons to be, um, reserved. You did instruct them not to gossip about her around the chapterhouse? Or anywhere else?”

“Oh, yes, they took that to heart. No one told them not to gossip about you to her, though, so they were happy.” Sioann eyed his look of vague dismay with amusement. “Your student took no harm from the hen party, I promise you.” Her lips pursed. “Which brings me to another question. Do you wish a female attendant for her upon your journey? Because I have two eager volunteers.”

“Ah. No. I’d just have to send them back at the border anyway.” Alixtra had managed to get here in company of no one but a Thasalon bravo, after all, with her demon for sufficient duenna. “And we have Des. She’s ten women. It’s going to be a crowded coach as it is.”

Sioann’s shrug accepted this.

A glad cry of “It’s Penric!” in a light female voice turned Pen’s head around.

Alixtra and Iroki were descending the stairs in company with two girls in dedicat’s tabards. An assortment of light luggage was distributed among them, but the younger dedicat dropped her burden at the foot of the steps to scamper over to Penric and greet him with a spontaneous hug.

“Hey, Seuka!” Grinning, she ducked a return hair-ruffle.

Her more restrained older sister, almost grown to a young woman, strolled up to smile at him as well. “Learned Penric. Does Madame Nikys continue well?”

For greeting, blessing, and answer all together he gave them a tally that was more of a check-mark waved over his torso, and a thumbs-up. “Very well. You two should go visit her next week. She’ll be glad of your company. As soon as Adelis leaves and Jurgo’s sentries are gone, say, and the household is back to normal.” The public fiction that the general was still recovering in his sister’s house had to be breaking down by now, but Pen felt obliged not to speed its collapse.

Iroki and Alixtra had been dressed in clean used clothes suitable for servants of a traveling merchant of modest means, tunics near-matched for color by, Pen had no doubt, the girls, to suggest their shared employment.

“My apologies, Blessed, for casting you in this menial role,” Pen said to Iroki. “I promise you may be the laziest of servants.”

The saint’s smile was untrammeled. “Keeping it simple seems like a good idea to me. Plus, you’ve been down this road before and I haven’t.”

“Only as far as the walls of Thasalon.”

“And on the other side we’ll have Miss Alixtra.” Iroki nodded, seeming content with a plan that looked shakier to Penric the closer it drew.

The coach rolled up to the chapterhouse doors then, and further exchanges were lost in the bustle of loading. Light coach, postilion, and pair had all been requisitioned by Pen from the Temple courier system. He would retain the coach out to the western border; horses and their handlers would be traded off as needed at assorted courier stations, sufficient to their needs along this well-traveled main road. One less thing to beg from Jurgo, and underlining just whose responsibility the not-quite-prisoner was.

Jurgo had been dubious about releasing Alixtra from his justice, but Pen had at length persuaded him that the true author of the insult on his ducal steps lay farther afield, in Thasalon. And, while she still bore her demon, that the assassin was nothing that his ordinary prisons and courts could handle anyway. And with his leave Pen would be carrying the knotty problem out of Orbas forthwith. That last argument had seemed the clincher.

They boarded the close confines of the coach. Pen took the rearward-facing seat, leaving the forward-facing better one to the saint, and Alixtra to choose for herself. The woman, and most certainly her demon, didn’t really want either seatmate, but with a faint whimper she sat next to Iroki, who obligingly made room. She shrank to the farthest side. Pen waved farewell out the window to Sioann and the dedicat sisters, who called good wishes for their journey after them as the coach rattled away over the cobbles.

For the next few minutes Iroki was occupied with gazing out at Vilnoc, and Alixtra with gathering her composure. The town scene held no novelty for Pen, but he did lean to the window when the road cut past the top of his own street. He couldn’t see his door from here, though.

Beyond the town gates, the postilion set his horses into a brisk trot. Pen settled back to study Alixtra. She returned his regard with marginally less wariness than before, he fancied, and more curiosity.

“Did you give thought to the problem I set you yesterday afternoon of naming your demon?” he asked her. Lesson One, or maybe Lesson Zero, of the coming course.

She moistened her lips. “Not like a pet, you said.”

“Right. Because it’s going to become a person, in time. And the name will shape your relationship, will or nil.”

“I thought… perhaps… Arra.” She swallowed. “It was what we were going to name Kittio, if he’d been a girl. I don’t expect I’ll ever get to use it for another child.”

Likely not, but the negative effect of chaos demons upon female conception was a subject for a more advanced lecture. “Good choice,” said Pen. “Very promising. We can give—was it a girl weasel?”

“Yes?”

“We can give her a naming blessing later, to make it official.”

“Like an infant? That’s not an offense?”

“Not to the god of anyone here, I promise you. A divine and a saint between us should bear as good witness of her welcome to the world as any Temple ceremony.”

Alixtra looked dubious. Iroki, who’d turned his face to them to listen over the road-rumble, just looked agreeable.

“Did you decide how to explain me as your woman-servant?” Alixtra asked.

A manservant in the train of a modest merchant needed no explaining. A well-looking young woman was likely to inspire more prurient gossip. “Your speech is too different for you two to pass as siblings. Should anyone tax you, which, in my experience, they mostly don’t, you can explain Iroki’s guardianship as that of either your husband or a distant cousin, as seems best at the time. Except keep track of which tale you’ve told in any place.”

“Orphaned cousin?” suggested Iroki.

“If you like.” Pen glanced at Alixtra. “Do you have any family back in your home village? Or kin of your late husband?”

“Some.”

“I did wonder why you didn’t return there.” Death? Estrangement?

She shrugged one shoulder, implying nothing so dire. “At first, I was waiting for Kavi. By the time I gave up hope, I’d become used to my Thasalon stopgaps. I thought I could do better later, when there was more time, except there never was. We grew poor slowly enough that I barely noticed when it became”—her eyes flicked away—“a pit I could not climb out of.”

Pen tilted his head in acknowledgement. “Well, you’ve acquired a new vocation now, and it isn’t that of an assassin. I should mention, both I and Learned Dubro contracted our demons before our training, too. My Desdemona was already a highly gifted and developed Temple demon, who became my own best teacher. Dubro’s old farm dog Maska was closer to your case. Dubro was hauled to Trigonie and made to learn theology before they let him loose.”

Iroki chuckled. “Must have been before my time, or I’d have been the saint to send him to his studies.”

“A few years before, I believe, yes,” said Pen. “The magical part of his training was slighted, before he met me, though only for lack of the right teacher. The point is, if all this wasn’t going on”—Pen’s wave around took in their whole mad situation—“if, say, you’d found your demon by accident on the roadside, and then received the seal of the god, the Temple would adopt you as it did Dubro. The Temple wants its god-approved sorcerers. Culturing a demon is the work of decades, even lifetimes. By preference, my Order matches a new elemental with an older divine, since a mature, principled rider will leave a mature imprint. Very good for starting a demon off on its long road.

“The great prize at the end of the road is a demon developed and stable enough to gift to a physician, to make a Temple physician-sorcerer. Dubro’s demon is precocious, because he’ll make a physician on his next transfer. Granted Maska started as a very good dog.”

Alixtra grimaced. “I’m not a very good woman.”

“The white god differs.” It had been hard to make Jurgo understand that, yesterday. It might prove equally hard to convince Alixtra herself. One step at a time. Even if we have to run. “Ideally theology should come before sorcery, but we’ll make do. Can you read in a moving coach without getting seasick? I can’t, sadly.”

She looked taken aback at this sudden turn. “I’ve never tried.”

He dug into the hamper, occupying a goodly square of the floor at their feet, and extracted Ruchia’s first volume. “Try this, then. It’s as close as I can come to giving you your own Desdemona.”

Bewildered, she riffled through it to the title page. “Essentials of Sorcery and the Management of Demons,” she read aloud with fair fluency. “The Work of Learned Ruchia of Martensbridge, Senior Divine and Sorceress of the Bastard’s Order. With Aid from Learned Amberein of Saone and Learned Helvia of Liest. Translated into the Cedonian Tongue by Learned Penric of Martensbridge, Lodi, and Vilnoc. Volume One.” She looked up. “Wait. That’s you?”

“Yes?”

“You wrote this?”

“Translated. It was written by Des’s prior rider Ruchia, in Wealdean, back in the cantons some years ago.”

“Yes,” Des put in, “and we thought the writing of it the most tedious task in the world, till we came to Penric’s so-far three translations of the selfsame text. The white god avert him learning any more languages, or we shall discover if he can actually kill a demon with boredom.”

Pen grinned at the familiar plaint. “This book was my own primer, when I first came across it back in Martensbridge.”

“He stole it out of a locked cabinet,” Des put in, aside.

“You told me where to find it. And how to defeat the lock,” Pen said. “Anyway. It existed then only in a few hand-written copies. Two fires and a flood would have erased it from the world. Transcribing the Wealdean original onto my wooden printing plates for the princess-archdivine’s press was my first task as a vowed Temple scholar.”

“But… then… it’s inside of your demon as well?”

“That and more.”

She frowned at the book, turning it over. “Is there a Volume Two?”

“Yes. It’s devoted to medical sorcery. Longer and more complicated. I’m not done with its Cedonian translation yet. But all that’s in it rests upon skills taught in the first, like a house upon its foundations. Or you could say this gives the carpenter’s toolkit, and the second tells how to build a house using it.”

Iroki looked across at the book with less aversion than Pen would have guessed. “I’d like to read that too, when you’re not using it. Might tell me things about what I do that the Dogrita divines didn’t.”

“Very likely,” said Pen. “Oh, I should have brought two copies. I’ll give you one of your own when we get home.”

“Obliged!”

If we get home. That was one conclusion Pen was willing to assume with all his might.

*     *     *

Alixtra read until the first change, only looking up when they swung into the courier station fifteen miles out from Vilnoc. They did not linger longer than for drinks sold by the station girl and a visit to the privy. The pair of horses was replaced by a team of four with an additional postilion in anticipation of the climbing roads ahead, and they were on their way again.

When Alixtra betrayed her fatigue by closing her eyes for the third time, a good way into Chapter Two, Pen said, “That’s enough reading for now. Let’s break it up with something more practical.”

She watched in bafflement as he dug into the hamper once more, withdrawing a ball of twine. Iroki crossed his arms and sat back with the air of a man about to enjoy a marketplace juggling act.

“The first three magic skills Des taught me were how to kill fleas in my bedding, how to light a candle, and how to unlock a lock, which is a more advanced variant of undoing fastenings generally. All downhill magics, which you will learn is an important distinction. We’ll save fires for when we’re not in a moving coach, and use flies for fleas at the next station stable, but I thought we could start with undoing right here.”

He had her full attention. Her inner weasel had given up its initial terror of being squeezed so close to Des and Iroki in sheer exhaustion, not so much tamed as quiescent. Which was a start on taming, as nothing bad continued to happen to it.

“Watch with your second sight.” Pen held up a short length of the twine delicately pinched between his two hands, cutting it in half with a touch of chaos slightly more than the task actually took, but this needed to be clear, not subtle. Alixtra jerked. “And again.” He demonstrated several more times, then handed the ball across to her. “Now you try.”

If she’d borne a cat-demon, this might have been even easier, but the weasel was… interested. She made two or three frustrated attempts at it, then, her lips compressing in her concentration, called on her older skill, which was indeed a variant of the same underlying destruction. The twine exploded between her hands.

Iroki jumped; Pen, or maybe it was Des, laughed. “Very good!”

Alixtra hunched, glaring at him in suspicion.

“No, really,” said Pen. “It was the correct move, just a little too much of it. Try again.”

The coach floor was soon covered with twine bits. There was a brief moment of excitement when they caught fire, and the startled passengers all collaborated on stamping it out, Pen cheerfully explaining that no, this was a good start on a later lesson.

“Wait,” said Alixtra suddenly, the twine going slack in her hands. “The rope in the atrium—it didn’t just break. You did it!”

Pen’s brows rose. “I… did not realize you hadn’t sensed that?”

“No! I thought it was just me, or ill-luck, or something Rach did—we’d been arguing.”

“Ah, no. I needed to control where you fell—if you’d hit that flagstone floor from that height, you could have been badly hurt.”

“I didn’t hit my head and get knocked out?”

“Mm, no, that was me, too. Given the circumstances, I can’t really apologize.”

She stared at him in bewilderment; her lips parted. Closed again. Opened again, only to trail off in a mutter of, “No, just… never mind.”

With an effort, she returned her attention to her lesson. After several more repetitions, she was finally able to part the twine at will, with no unwanted side-effects.

“This would be easier with scissors. Or a knife,” she said.

“That’s exactly right. There is almost no downhill magic that could not be accomplished by ordinary physical means. Most of it, like rot or rust or fire, takes place naturally in the world without people having anything to do with it at all, very like a rock rolling downhill faster and faster once it’s given only a little push. The magic just directs the location, amount, and speed of the destruction or disorder.”

He picked two short lengths of twine off the floor, lining them end to end on his knee. “It’s uphill magic that starts to look obviously unnatural.” He restrained himself from passing a hand over them, however much the gesture helped his focus, to again make the demonstration utterly clear. With an odd little blur, the two ends spliced themselves together. He picked the single length up, pulled it to show its restored integrity, and handed it across to Alixtra.

She took it with the dismay of a woman being handed a live worm, but was unable to resist testing it herself. When she glanced at Pen again, she almost nearly smiled.

*     *     *

Partway into the next chapter, she looked up and said, “I don’t understand what this is trying to say about, what do they call it, magical friction.”

“Oh, you’re that far already? Good. This one is critically important, because it has directly to do with the bodily limits on what any one sorcerer can accomplish with demon-magic. Working any magic, uphill or down but especially up, generates heat in the human’s body. If one tries to work too much too fast, it creates a kind of heatstroke, from which one can pass out or even die.”

“Oh.” She touched her mouth, startled. “Learned Tronio never mentioned that.”

“I suppose I should stop even being surprised,” Pen sighed. “One of the, hm, less obvious things about new elementals is that none inherently has any more raw power than any other. As demons in the world build up their density, every generational imprint piled atop the prior, they do gain more ability, but it very soon exceeds any human capacity to channel it. What makes any sorcerer more, oh, not more powerful but more effective, is the cleverness and speed with which they can handle the friction, swapping it out of their bodies before it does them harm.”

“How?”

“I’ll show you at the next stop,” Pen promised.

*     *     *

At the second courier station, Pen escorted Alixtra through the stable and out behind it to the manure pile, taking a quick look around to make sure they were alone.

“This will be roughly the same move as splitting the twine. It’s the consequences that are different. Pick a fly, any fly.” A big black one buzzed up and landed on his foot. God-given fly? All right, maybe not. He pointed; it dropped dead.

Alixtra made an odd little sound.

Oh. Magical killing. Right. He should have thought of the troubling aspect to this lesson for her. Should he pursue that weasel into its dark hole now, or wait?

Wait for Alixtra, Des advised. She’ll circle back on her own when she’s ready, and ready for you to touch that wound. Physician.

Pen took a breath and went on steadily: “The point here is that life is the greatest instance of order that exists. When it is destroyed, more chaos is released than went into provoking the destruction. For a sorcerer trying to shed magical friction before he passes out or dies of heatstroke, the killing of theologically allowed vermin is by far the most efficient means of doing so.” He cleared his throat. “Other animals at need. When I was working as a sorcerer-physician, and had to deal constantly with chaos overloads from all the uphill magics, I made arrangements with local butchers to do their daily slaughtering. Not enjoyable, but it served.”

She looked startled. “So you really did heal Arisaydia’s eyes! Learned Tronio said you couldn’t have!”

“I think,” sighed Pen, “that we can just assume henceforth that if Tronio’s mouth was moving, he was lying to you. But yes. It was the most delicate feat of uphill magic I’d ever attempted, paid for with a week of night-slaughter among all the vermin in Patos I could find. Exhausting on both ends.

“Anyway. Flies. Among the most allowable of vermin to destroy. I could just fetch you a swatter from the stable, but it would miss the point of the lesson.” Saying This should be easy for you would have been deeply counterproductive, so he merely pointed. “Try that one.”

Swallowing, she followed the direction of his hand with her own. Her face scrunched.

Pen ducked several dismembered flies and a splatter of manure. Should have seen that coming. “Good,” he said, keeping his voice even. “And again, but narrow down on just one fly. And this time, try to be mindful of its effects not on the fly, but on yourself. You should sense an easing of heat in your body, and of tension in your demon.”

She did and… she did. Her lips parted. “Oh.”

“Exactly,” he said, with great satisfaction. “Try a few more, as long as we’re here.”

When he was assured that she could repeat the skill at will, he said, “Good, enough for now. And here’s the other half of the lesson, the more important part.”

She attended, what a delight.

“If you do not learn to shed chaos mindfully, your body will leak it anyway, but in a random manner that you won’t even be aware of. Did you notice, when you bore your other demons, more little accidents happening around you than usual? More clumsiness, food spoiling faster, things breaking or breaking down?”

“I…” Her mouth opened in astonishment. “How did you know?”

“Because that’s what chaos demons do. They do it the way you exhale, equally naturally and equally necessary. It’s their inherent nature. It’s both overt, as when a cup or an axle breaks, and much more subtle. Among the more lethal side-effects is the generation of tumors and like disorders in the sorcerer’s body. Quite a hazard for untrained hedge sorcerers. Several of Des’s earlier riders, before she fell into the hands of the Temple in Brajar on her seventh life, died prematurely of such causes. Most notably Mira of Lodi of a tumor in her womb in her mid-forties. But, of course, since many other people die in just that way, it’s seldom remarked, even by the hedge sorcerers themselves.”

An alarmed glance down at her torso. “Learned Tronio never told me any of this!” It was almost a wail.

“Of course not. He wanted a tool, not a rival. Remember the part about all demons being born equal? When gifting you with such a weapon, his first concern must have been that you would never, ever realize that you could turn it on your masters. He couldn’t give you a lesser elemental, there being no such thing, but he could sap your powers by keeping you ignorant.”

She was panting in her growing outrage. But still she turned it inward: “I was so stupid. So weak.”

“Neither, actually,” said Pen briskly, a matter-of-fact approach seeming the best way to stopper this self-castigation. “No one smart or strong enough to do the job they wanted could be, though I’m sure your masters wished it otherwise. So they compromised by selecting a strong tool with an inbuilt vulnerability through which it could be controlled.”

“Kittio,” she breathed. “They picked me for Kittio?”

“Precisely. Otherwise they could have just hired some bravo like Rach. Who wouldn’t have taken very long at all to realize his new possibilities, and revolt or bolt with his prize.”

“How do you know all this, how can you see so much…”

“I learned how bit by bit, over years, and Desdemona before me. You can learn, too. Although not all in a day. Or a week, but I’ll do everything I can. If you will, too.”

All her words—and there must have been many—choked up in her throat, but she gave him a fierce, fractional nod.

Chapter 9

The long summer day would allow them to squeeze in one more stage before darkness fell, just. Pen circled the coach, inspecting it before they boarded again. With Alixtra’s still-half-wild elemental aboard—which both he and she needed to start thinking of as Arra, yes—reaching the border without a wheel coming off, an axle breaking, or a horse pulling up lame would be a feat. But the bleed-off of chaos with the flies should hold things till the next courier station.

They could push on through the night, but progress would slow to a crawl on the dark hill roads, it would be grueling for all aboard, and his student had started the trip already exhausted. Better to reach the mountains more rested. Also better for her lessons.

On the road again, Alixtra attempted to read for a little longer, but then sighed and gave up the book to Iroki, withdrawing into herself. Her meditations did not seem to grant her serenity. Iroki read slowly, his lips moving, but with good understanding, as his occasional questions revealed.

Penric mused on the missing Rach. It was maddening not to know whether the man was ahead of them or behind. Each choice suggested different hazards. He’d not been seen in Vilnoc since the night of Alixtra’s capture. Had he hung about spying, or hurried straight back to Thasalon to report his bad news? And which news? That Alixtra was still in the bottle dungeon awaiting execution? That she’d been removed? That she’d left Vilnoc with Penric? That Adelis still lay recovering in his sister’s house? That he’d sailed several days ago? Any combination of the foregoing?

Pen had once imagined the greatest threat from the bravo lay in some ambush or attack, but it might be more in what intelligence he bore back to his masters. He could be almost to Thasalon by now if he’d left directly. Or was he tracking them? A fit man on a relay of hired horses could make good time…

“Has Rach any money, or had you carried all the travel funds?” Pen asked Alixtra.

A slight indrawn breath; her hand went protectively to her waist. The linen coin belt still circled it under her tunic, never confiscated. She might have feared this was an oversight about to be corrected. “We each had half.”

“Hnh.”

She settled back slowly as Pen did not demand she hand it over. “Why didn’t you take it from me?”

“It wasn’t the possession of yours that concerned me.” Pen supposed, if she’d been de-demoned by the saint and passed on to the ducal judiciary, it would have been stripped from her then.

“You don’t worry I’ll escape?”

“We’re taking you back to Kittio just about as fast as it’s possible to go, and at no charge. No, I don’t worry.” Not until they reached Thasalon, at any rate.

It occurred to Pen that he was using her son as the chain to control her much like Tronio had, and the thought made him slightly ill.

Not quite like, Des consoled him.

“Besides, keeping your coin makes you feel better,” he added on a note of cheer. Which won him a baffled look. “Safer? More powerful, maybe? Certainly having no money makes for the opposite.”

A grim tilt of her head conceded this.

*     *     *

The courier station offered simple accommodations, fortunately not crowded tonight, bunk rooms for men and women and a small refectory. They managed a trestle table by themselves, and supplemented the station cook’s offerings with food from the hamper. When the other guests left the room, Pen borrowed a candle for the last lesson of the day: starting a flame. Besides being the most basic of downhill magics, it was a necessary preamble for the skill he planned to teach tomorrow.

With that little accident with the flammable twine shreds for an example, Alixtra caught on quickly. Faster than Pen had, his first time. He had her blow out and rekindle the candle flame a few times, till he judged her body starting to warm up, then drew her attention to that as well.

She eyed him in new curiosity. “Is it true you once burned down a pirate port, and sank all the ships in the harbor?”

The dedicat sisters telling tales? Pen cleared his throat. “Just a few buildings along the shore. And it was only five ships. …And the piers, I suppose.” Taking the opening, he went on, “But that’s what makes fire so powerful an agent of chaos. Once you get it started, it goes on its own, naturally, until it runs out of fuel or air. Downhill magic is all about small causes with large effects. Uphill magic the reverse. Putting out a fire by magic would be vastly harder.” Or by any other means, to be fair.

Pen would have been willing to leave it at that, but Iroki begged him to tell all about the pirates, so Pen allowed that reminiscence to be drawn out of him. The saint was by no means above enjoying something more dramatic than fish stories; Seuka’s version might have been more pleasingly vivid. Pen… still did not like pirates. “They’re slavers, you know.”

Alixtra winced at this reminder of the threat to her son. Though after a moment she frowned and asked, “Were many drowned?”

Sinking ships were no jest to her, right. “All the ships were at anchor or at dock in the harbor on a calm day, and the crews had time to get off. So possibly not any. Or none that were brought home to my magics. I’d have known.”

For that, at least, she needed no explanation.

*     *     *

Midmorning of the next day’s continuing coach journey, Alixtra laid the book in her lap and rubbed her eyes. “I feel so stupid.”

Pen glanced at the open page, upside down. “Not at all, but you’ve come to a dense section. I nonetheless recommend plowing straight through to the end, and then circling back for closer study. It will give you more context, and sometimes the illumination wanted for an earlier page will be found some pages further along. But it’s a good time for a break. Give the book to Iroki and attend.”

Iroki took it willingly, but instead watched Pen dig around in the hamper for his next prop. Pen straightened up and unfolded the cloth from around a handful of iron nails. Both members of his audience looked mystified.

“Rust,” Pen announced happily. The looks of mystification deepened. “Another of the basic downhill magics. Even more oddly, it’s the same one that you learned last night. We don’t imagine metal burning like wood, but iron does. At least in the terms of chaos magic. Second sight, Alixtra, watch.”

Pen held up one nail, which was about four inches long, and ran a finger down its side leaving a bright orange trail of corrosion. He turned the nail and showed her again. And again, several times, till he’d reduced the thing to a stub.

He handed Alixtra a fresh nail. “Now you try.”

It took her longer than lighting the candle, in part perhaps because she didn’t quite believe the fire skill could work like that, but at length she managed to make a few specks of rust. The nail had grown quite warm.

She looked pleased but confused. “I —we—Arra can do this, but I don’t understand what use it is. Something that would stop rust, or take the tarnish off silver, seems more practical.”

“There are skills for those, too, which we can get to later. In fact there are dozens of small, useful domestic magics, as my wife has learned to appreciate.” Pen grinned. “But if someone is coming at you with a sword or a knife, you can do this.” He tossed a new nail into the air and exploded it in a shower of orange flecks, which rained down all over the rocking coach floor.

Both Alixtra and Iroki jerked back, gratifyingly startled. Pen loved that demonstration. So did Des.

“Although if your demon isn’t extremely fast, you’ll just get stabbed with a rusty knife.” The time-slowing or, more precisely, reaction-speeding skill…

Is not for Day Two, Des advised. Or even Day Six.

Likely not. Though he hoped to get to dark-sight by the time they reached the mountains.

“A more efficient—remember efficient?—thing to do is just run a very thin sheet of rust through the blade.” He held up another nail and did so, then broke it neatly in half with a light pressure. “Or through the chain that’s holding you to the wall, or manacles. Or cell bars. Or weaken a lock, if you can’t quite manage the unlocking trick.

“Between this, and the undoing you learned yesterday with the twine, nothing short of a bottle dungeon can impede or imprison you. The skills also work on belts, ties, ropes, girths, traces, hauling chains, really any fasteners. Ship’s rigging. Bowstrings. You can knock out arrows, but it’s more efficient to go for the bowstrings, if they’re in range. A rapid and clever enough application can turn a concerted enemy attack into a scene of stumbling uproar, and that’s not even getting to the advanced things a trained demon can do to nerves.” Pen frowned. “The rust trick doesn’t work on bronze or gold, though. I’m not sure why not. Silver isn’t too hard to corrode.”

“What in the world could ever defeat a sorcerer in a fight, then?” Alixtra said in wonder.

“Other sorcerers,” said Pen. He gestured to Iroki. “People like the Blessed, here. Numbers. A sorcerer may be able to stop a dozen men, but if he’s attacked by fifty, he’ll be overwhelmed. Also, the danger of accidentally killing someone. That’s very inhibiting.”

“I… see,” said Alixtra.

Pen traced the toe of his sandal through the dusting of rust on the coach floor. “Turning a nail into this is the work of an instant. Turning a handful of rust back into a nail would take a week, and significant sacrifice. Vastly cheaper and easier to just fetch a new nail. Uphill magic is only worthwhile for restoring or repairing something irreplaceable in any other way. Even medical magics need to be used with utmost frugality.”

Alixtra’s lips twisted. “Tell me. Are you or are you not a sorcerer-physician? Because you confuse me.”

“I was for a time, some years ago. I’m… retired from the calling. Also, my demon’s earlier riders Learned Amberein and Learned Helvia were both physicians, back in their day in their home countries, so I’ve inherited their knowledge through Des.”

“Wait.” She twitched the book out of Iroki’s hands and flipped to the title page. “Were those two women still alive when they helped write this book?”

“And that very good question,” said Pen, his smile stretching, “brings us right to the theology…”

*     *     *

The courier station that night was even more rustic than the one before, but it offered the essentials: flat bunks that weren’t moving, clean drinking and washing water, a small refectory that gave onto a pergola, its grape leaves glowing green-golden in the quiet evening light, sheltering another table. Pen at once seized it for his party. They supplemented the plain food with the remains from the hamper, and Pen brought out the last bottle of good wine from home.

“A naming ceremony,” he said, extracting the cork, “should be a celebration. So here.”

He shared cups around, took a swallow from his own, stood and dipped a finger, and leaned in to touch a drop to Alixtra’s forehead. She flinched away, but then held herself and her demon still, both watching him warily.

Laying his hand formally upon her head, he intoned, “In the Bastard’s name, newest of Temple demons, I bless you and name you Arra. Welcome to the world and our Order. May all your lives be long and fruitful.”

Iroki raised his cup in cheerful salute. “And so I bear you witness, Arra.” They were the words spoken by a naming-day godparent. He drank with appreciation. “Ah, tasty.”

Alixtra rubbed at the damp spot on her brow with the back of her wrist. “It’s not—you two don’t think this is just a jape. Do you?”

“Not at all,” said Pen, reseating himself on the bench. “As I and Desdemona are real, and Blessed Iroki is real, and you and Arra are real, and all five present stand in this place on the white god’s behalf, this blessing is real as well. Drink up. Arra shall enjoy it with you, you know.”

As cautiously as if she expected the cup to be snatched away, she raised it to her lips, and did so.

*     *     *

There were two problems with trying to teach dark-sight, first being that they had to wait until dark. The other being that since it was a perception rather than an action, it was hard to demonstrate, and not only due to the shadowed surroundings. Nonetheless Pen took his student out to sit on the pergola steps after the last of the summer sky’s luminosity leaked away, and tried.

“Can you sense anything? Some change in Desdemona or myself?” Much of the color was leached from the world around him, but he could see it all as clearly as broad noon.

“I have no idea what you’re doing,” she said frankly.

“Hm. I was hoping that the weasel, being a nocturnal hunter, might give you a leg up with this one. Perhaps just knowing that it’s a possible skill will help you to hone in on it, given a bit more time.”

“I’m sorry I’m so slow.”

“Slow? Certainly not! The skills you’ve discovered in two days took me that many weeks, when I first contracted Des. Though the dark-sight took longer, come to think.” He rested his elbows on his knees. “You aren’t receiving them in as logical an order as they’re taught in a Bastard’s seminary. I’m just shoving them at you in the bundle I think most likely to help keep you two alive in an emergency. I’d love to teach you how to extract water from the air, but that’s definitely uphill. Still too soon. But a sorcerer need never die of thirst in a desert. Or in a bottle dungeon, for that matter.”

“You can do that?”

Pen had worked this trick so often that he didn’t even have to think. He extended his hand and pulled the condensation into it, letting it freeze for good measure, until he had an ice ball the size of a walnut. “Here.”

When he tipped it into her palm, she yipped in surprise, dropping it in her lap. Cautiously, she picked it out from the folds of her skirt, rolling it from hand to hand it as it melted again. “It really is…”

“Very clean and pure, too, it turns out. Also a good skill when the only water around is foul. It does create a deal of friction which must soon be dumped.”

“You’re… not…” Her head swiveled; no dying insect life came to her view.

“As one’s demon grows and grows more experienced, the amount of chaos it can safely hold for a time also increases.” He decided not to offer some material metaphor about bladder capacity.

Thank you, said Des wryly.

He bent his head back to study the spangled indigo sky. “You’re doing very well,” he offered to Alixtra, and marked her habitual cringe. “So… what did that fool Tronio do to you, that you treat all praise like poison?” So much hunger. So much fear.

She glanced aside at him, rocked a little. “Do I?”

“Yes.”

“Just, that’s what he said to me, whenever I did what he wanted. You’re doing so well, Alixtra. It was what I longed to hear. I lived in hope of it, even when what he wanted was hard, and frightening, and terrible. I suppose it was a sort of sweet poison. I’ve learned to not want more.”

And just when Pen imagined he couldn’t despise the Thasalon sorcerer any more than he did already… “It’s going to make it tricky to teach you, if I can’t tell you when you’ve done something right. Maybe I should find myself a painted fan, like the ones Sora Mira used to carry when she was swanning around Lodi, and snap you coquettishly on the head with it from time to time for a signal, instead.”

She actually almost snorted a laugh. “Maybe you should.”

Chapter 10

Late the next afternoon, their coach reached the westernmost garrison town that guarded the three-way border between Orbas, Grabyat, and Cedonia. Penric had the Temple postilions drop them at the fort gate, sending them on their way with an extra thank-you of coins. His display of the sealed order from the duke sped them to the commander’s office, and the announcement of his name brought them the rest of the way inside.

The commander put down his quill and rose to his feet. “Learned Penric, come in!” The border officer was one of Adelis’s loyal hounds, but this warm welcome wasn’t only on Pen’s brother-in-law’s behalf. Pen had first made the man’s acquaintance two summers ago, which Pen had spent tracking down and eradicating the sources of the deadly bruising fever that had played such havoc all along the western road, but especially in the duke’s forts here and at Vilnoc. The disease had been an enemy very much out of any soldier’s reckoning, but the officer had been willing to learn, which Pen had appreciated.

“I’d received no notice of your coming,” the commander said, half apology, half plaint.

“It could scarcely have outdistanced us.” Pen handed across the duke’s letter of authorization, which he unsealed and read standing. It was quite short, which bore its own freight of implication; his brows rose in curiosity.

“Not contagion this time, five gods be thanked,” he said sincerely. He looked up in inquiry. “So what is the all requested aid to consist of?”

“We need the loan of your excellent muleteers, to get us over—” A jerk of Pen’s thumb indicated the mountain trail north. “With the utmost discretion.”

“Ah. That. But—you, Learned? Going in secret to Cedonia?”

“Yes. I’ve ridden this route before, a few years back.”

“I see.” Though it was obvious he didn’t, quite. “And your companions?”

“I’m Iroki,” said the saint genially.

Alixtra bit her lip.

“Aaand I think that’s enough introduction,” Pen overrode further hazardous probing. “I’ll also trouble you for our lodging in some quiet corner of the fort, if you please, sir. The trek starts at dawn, as I recall.”

“Certainly.” The fort commander was used to dealing with the duke’s special agents here, if maybe not quite as special as Pen’s odd band. He looked up with more open anxiety in his face. “We’ve heard garbled rumors of General Arisaydia being attacked in Vilnoc last week, but I’ve received nothing official or certain from him or from the duke.”

Pen could imagine just how garbled such rumors must be, at the end of a military gossip chain stretching the length of Orbas. Trying for maximum reassurance with minimum information, Pen said, “He was attacked, but is expected to make a swift and complete recovery.”

“Were you his physician, then?”

“Insomuch as he needed one.”

Broad shoulders sagged in relief. “All’s well, then.”

No hint of rumors about Adelis’s seaborne departure, good.

It plainly took all of the commander’s military discipline to restrain him from interrogating them further; utmost discretion started with not asking unnecessary questions. He detailed his aide to escort them to guest quarters, two adjoining rooms as simply furnished as the courier stations but equally adequate to their needs. Pen made arrangements for their evening meal to be brought to them, the better to avoid further interaction with and witness by the fort’s denizens. He still had no idea whether all this prudence was unneeded, sufficient, or too late.

*     *     *

Two stools, the edge of a cot, and the washstand cleared of its clutter turned one bedchamber into a dining room, when a soldier brought them food. Officer’s fare, Pen judged from experience. The man would have stayed to serve them, but Pen dismissed him in favor of being able to talk in private.

The three, or five, at the table collaborated on uncovering dishes and sharing the contents around: army stew, summer fruits, cheeses, the perpetual olives and oil, good bread, and a tolerable if harsh red wine, tamed by admixture with the water needed by all in the dry inland heat of the season.

“So,” said Alixtra, after swallowing a few bites, “whatever did happen to General Arisaydia? He wasn’t in your house when I finally arrived, though I was sure he’d been there before. I know he survived.”

“To everyone’s great good fortune, including yours,” said Pen.

She shrugged, not arguing. “That wasn’t fortune, there on the steps. That was you.”

“Happy chance that he’d asked me to meet him that morning, then.” And if she wasn’t unnerved by the closeness of that call, Pen was. “You did manage to give him a mild concussion, though I judge that was more due to the aftershock of my chaos clashing with yours.” He considered the assassin. Former assassin, he hoped. He had not yet earned her trust, he was sure. He wasn’t sure whether she’d yet earned his. “He’s in a secure place, recovering. In time, it will be safe to tell you more, and you deserve to know, but I think not quite yet.”

“Who would I tell? Not that I would.”

“If someone made a direct threat to Kittio? Oh, I think you’d break at once. And you might not be wrong.” He amended this to, “Morally. Maybe not tactically. But my discretion removes your dilemma.”

By the uneasy expression on her face, she was realizing that this also left her nothing to trade in such a hypothetical crisis. She managed a neutral, “Oh.”

She took another bite of bread, staring at Pen as if she could will herself to know if he told truth or lies. Sadly, even demon magic didn’t work quite like that. He was about to explain the nuances of this when her gaze strayed to Iroki, who’d been munching and listening contentedly. She dropped her bread and recoiled, yelping, “What is that?”

Pen followed her pointing finger, then realized. Sight, Des. The fort’s resident ghosts had found the saint, and were beginning to collect in his vicinity. A couple of old pale smudges coiled around him. Another, still new enough to hold a grayed-out human shape, pawed at him like a supplicant beggar. Pen was on the whole glad that such revenant spirits, howsoever they mimed their wails, were soundless to human ears. Iroki waved a hand through them, like a man dispersing the smoke they resembled. They scattered, but re-formed around him.

“Oh, good!” said Pen. “You can see ghosts now! Another breakthrough for you and Arra.”

“I’m supposed to be able to do this?” Her voice squeaked like a rusty hinge.

“All sorcerers can, as soon as their second sight grows secure. It’s a sign you and Arra are starting to harmonize.”

“If this is a god-gift… it’s rather appalling.”

“So many are,” Pen agreed cheerily.

Her horror yielded to wary fascination. “Have they been there all this time?”

“Yep,” Iroki told her. “That is, they’re mostly tied to the places they’ve died. So I find a new batch wherever I go, or they find me. Like mosquitoes.” He added after a moment, “Except better, ’cause they don’t suck your blood. The sundered don’t do much of anything, you realize after a bit. Being past the point of assent to any god, and all other choices with it. They just keep looping around and around, till they finally fade to nothing. Always feels sad.”

“Do you see them all the time?” Pen asked him. “Because I knew a saint in Lodi once who said she only had Sight when the god was flowing through her, or very near.”

Iroki pursed his lips. “They’re never not there, though they’re faint and easy enough to ignore. I see ’em way more clear when the god is in me.”

By which, should Pen construe, the god was never far from this fisherman? Disturbingly possible. Or rather… the gods were never far from anyone, anywhere, ever. Maybe it would be more correct to say that Iroki was never far from his god.

Pen turned back to Alixtra. “Exactly how long have you borne Arra, by now?”

A look of inner calculation, trailing unhappy memories. “Maybe… four weeks?”

“Hm. That sounds about right. It matches with my arrival at the Rosehall seminary, after I’d contracted Des. I first started to see the sundered shortly after. It took me a deal of persuasion to get Des to tell me how to turn the sight off, which I realize now she knew perfectly well how to do. She claimed she was forcing me to growth. I think my startled jumps and twitches just amused her.”

It sped your ability to deal with the dead, Des put in, blandly. You needed to become habituated before you could become adept. Holy necromancer. She spoiled this solemn homily by adding, Also, you were pretty hilarious.

Pen ignored this to ask Alixtra, “How long had you held your prior elementals?”

More bad memories flickered in her face, but she said, “None longer than two weeks. I’d never had to leave Thasalon for the others.”

“Tronio really didn’t want to risk you learning very much, did he,” Pen sighed.

She digested this for a little. “I never saw ghosts when I was…” she faltered, faced it directly: “murdering those men. I’m not sure what I saw, except that it was huge and terrifying. I don’t know if any were sundered.”

“Which actually makes sense, from more than just the inexperience of your elementals. Before the victims died, no ghosts to see; after, no Sight to see with. Sudden death can be disorienting, but spirits who are just shaken, and not actually refusing their god, are usually eased on their way by their funeral rites.”

At her troubled look, he added, “Each soul makes their own choice, when they stand at their god’s gate, whether to step through. And that will be entirely between them and their god. The person who may have hurried them to the gate—whether assassin or soldier on the battlefield or author of some fatal accident—has no part in this most private of transactions. Their deaths might be another’s choice. Their sundering is all and only their own.”

“You have seen this? Yourself?”

“I’ve been very close, a few times. The closest—I once met a ghost that was tied to the knife that had killed him. That was a very special case. He wasn’t entirely sundered yet.”

Iroki, as usual, wanted the whole of the tale. Pen, realizing that this gave him the opportunity to explain all about Wealdean shamans and their magics to an audience who knew next to nothing of them, was readily persuaded. Also, he could describe his home country. The complications of both filled the time till bed, which needed to be early for sake of the mules looming with the dawn.

At the last, before they blew out the lamps—which Pen had made Alixtra practice lighting, earlier—and she closed the door between the two bedchambers, Pen offered suddenly, “About spirit-sight, and second sight generally—”

“Yes?” said Alixtra.

“This is how demons see the world all the time. They only see the physical world, the surfaces of things, when they are looking out through our eyes. That they share their inward sight with us is, is a very great gift, like being granted a tiny piece of god-sight. A privilege. Never a curse, unless the human makes it so. But if you are overwhelmed by its newness… so a young demon may be, too.”

“And…?” said Alixtra, when his silence seemed to let this lesson hang without conclusion.

“And so, be… kind…? I suppose?” Pen felt himself floundering for words. “The self-interested mechanical kindness you would give to an animal you’re trying to tame would be, well, better than nothing. But if you want Arra to give you real joy, you have to give it to her first.”

The notion of her murderous tool having anything at all to do with joy seemed utterly alien to her. She finally said, “Oh,” it sounding more for escape than in agreement, and closed the door between them.

I did not say that well, Pen fretted.

No, said Des thoughtfully as they turned away, but you said it true. Which is better, and more rare.

*     *     *

It might have been possible to read atop a mule ambling down a level road. On the ragged track up to the spine of the long ridge that divided Orbas from Cedonia, it was all anyone could do to stay in the saddle, so Pen’s book remained stowed in Alixtra’s saddlebags. They rode single file, which would have thwarted conversation even without the inhibiting presence of the two army muleteers shepherding the little string of riders and a baggage mule. Pen was just as glad. It felt as if he’d been talking for three days straight in the dusty coach; his throat was more tired than any other part of him.

At the crest of the first foothill, he turned to glance back at the sunlit garrison town below, and the main road it guarded at the narrow head of the river valley from the coast. There would be, he recalled, more-dizzying views later. His companions, both country-bred, seemed adequate riders, at least up to the task of clinging and climbing. No one would be galloping.

They stopped and made camp while it was still light, just below the part of the route where even these sure-footed mules could not be trusted to carry them, and they would have to dismount and lead them over the most difficult ledges. Iroki took one muleteer and went off down the nearby shaded stream, returning in a while with half-a-dozen fat fish and an unnerved escort. They’d carried no pole or net.

Not to be outdone, Pen led Alixtra out among the scrubby boulders, the clear dry air scented with sage and thyme, to ambush a few mountain hares. She managed to drop one from a distance just short of spooking the creature into haring off. Pen bopped her gently atop the head with the edge of his hand, for want of a painted fan, and they scrambled silently over the scree to collect the corpses.

She was uncomfortable with the task, perhaps remembering her elemental that had been in that meat rabbit, but Pen had made very sure that she would not be leaking uncontrolled chaos into the mules or their harness tomorrow. He attempted to ease her by demonstrating some of those promised small domestic magics while neatly skinning and preparing their hares to grill alongside the fish. Interested, she was; eased, not as much.

The muleteers looked worried by all this uncanny campcraft, but they did help eat the aromatic catch.

*     *     *

The last climb and descent the next day was more grueling than Pen remembered, or maybe the past years of crouching over his writing table had sapped his fitness. Or they were taking a steeper track. He was unwilling to allow that it was due to his being five years older.

A sense of amusement.

Didn’t invite comment from you, Des.

Did I say a word?

In the late afternoon, they came upon the Cedonian patrol road that ran along below the far side of the ridge where the sheerer slopes lessened. Their muleteer-guides concealed their mounts in a shallow defile while one man scouted ahead. Pen followed, trailed by Alixtra. They took shelter behind a rockfall, a mess of boulders and snapped bushes, that overlooked the military track.

The muleteer, peering anxiously around, abruptly raised his hand for silence.

In a moment, Pen heard what he’d heard, the faint echo of hooves. A patrol of Cedonian mounted soldiers came riding along the road, four sets of eyes slowly scanning the sparse slopes above and below them. The lurkers in the rockfall all kept as still as nervous hares until they’d passed out of sight.

The muleteer blew out his breath. “We should be good now.” He made to rise.

Alixtra caught his arm. “No. Wait.”

He glanced at Pen, who nodded an endorsement, though Pen had no more idea what was in her mind than the muleteer did. After about ten minutes, the man was growing restive, but then froze again at the clack of more hooves. Another pair of watchful soldiers rode in the wake of their fellows. Tense moments followed till they had gone by.

“That’s new,” muttered the muleteer. Pen followed his gaze up and down the road with Des’s sight at its fullest extension, but there didn’t seem to be a second such trap. They hurried back to the others.

“How did you know?” Pen asked Alixtra as they hastily mounted up again. “Did you come this way with Rach, before?”

She shook her head. “We came over the ridge farther east, much closer to Vilnoc. But Rach said the patrols had been increased lately.”

Not, Pen realized, because the Cedonians were watching for everyday spies. Because they were watching for Adelis.

They crossed over the road as quickly as they could, one muleteer delaying to brush away their tracks, and down out of sight once more.

*     *     *

It was after dusk when they came to the farm where they were handed off to the guide on this side, a grizzled old man who rented out his handful of horses and did not ask questions. The muleteers and their string faded away into the shadows, not lingering. A night sleeping in the stable spared Pen’s party from a brief misting rain, rare at this season. They departed in the morning as silently as the fog that swirled around them, which burned off in pearly tendrils as the sun rose higher.

It was a very long day’s ride down to the wide valley floor, its river now running west not east, and the major road that followed it. It was the first such artery north of the border along which coaches might be hired, and it drove all the way to the heart of Thasalon, a hundred miles on. To Pen’s mind, it marked the end of the easy part of this strange trip.

The coaching inn where their taciturn guide let them off was the busiest in this not-very-large town, where Pen hoped they would not stand out memorably among the steady stream of guests. The crowd also meant that he was only able to rent one room, with a bed for the master and pallets lugged in for his two servants. Or, Pen privately resolved, the saint and his two supporters, but they could argue about that apportionment later.

He was just as glad to keep Alixtra close under his eye. She had been growing tenser even faster than he had as the goal of their journey grew nearer. Goals. His, her, and the saint’s aims all adjoined, but they were by no means identical. He wished for another year to tutor her in demon-keeping and theology, but they weren’t going to get it. The need to plan what they were going to do once they arrived in Thasalon loomed inescapably, eclipsing all other wants.

In aid of this, and to avoid the crowded taproom, the shy Wealdean book dealer had paid extra for an inn servant to bring their dinner to their room. Making shift with the washstand, the bed edge, a stool, and the room’s one chair served as well for the meal as it had back at the Orban garrison. Pen was able to send the maid off happy with a coin to make up for the one she wasn’t going to earn by hovering and serving. The food was decent enough, and everyone was hungry after the physically demanding mountain trek.

Merely getting to Thasalon had never been the challenge. Getting into Methani’s palace, in such a way as to remove Kittio and bring Iroki before Tronio, was a white blank in Pen’s imagination. On getting out again, amid whatever uproar this was going to leave in their wake, his imagination had many vivid pictures to offer, none good.

When in doubt on tactics, channel Adelis. The general had a mania about terrain and logistics; start with terrain. “I need to learn much more about Methani’s palace, and what goes on there,” Pen told Alixtra.

“With all that you know, you don’t know this?” She looked surprised, which was both flattering and flattening.

“I’ve never been to Thasalon before, and neither has Desdemona in any of her lives. I’ve visited a variety of palaces, from Martensbridge to the Weald to Lodi to Vilnoc and Dogrita, and each one was different from every other one.”

Pen spread goat cheese on flatbread, decorated it with honey, and went on, “I need to know everything you can tell me, no matter how trivial it seems. The layout, the daily rounds for the scriptorium, the kitchens, the laundries, the guards, the whole back side of the tapestry. How various kinds of guests are dealt with, and supplicants—the minister-regent has to suffer many, most of them too high-born to brush off. Minister Methani’s daily routines, and what he alters them for. And Tronio’s, when he’s there. Is he there all the time, by the way, or does he live elsewhere?”

Alixtra looked inundated with this spate of questions, and they didn’t even cover half of what Pen wanted to know. She grabbed the last like a floating branch hanging over a river in which she was being swept along. “He stays in the same room whenever he’s visiting, but he also keeps chambers in one of the Bastard’s chapterhouses. He has a small summer house of his own beyond the eastern suburbs, where he goes now and then.”

That could be a complication. One by one, Pen led Alixtra back through his questions as they ate, and on long after they were all replete, and the maid came to collect the trays and vessels. Iroki just listened.

At one point, growing confused, Pen drew out his limited supply of paper and ink, and had her sketch floor plans. The palace was built in the blocky Cedonian style, too different to compare to the canton or Wealdean examples Pen knew, but it was certainly larger than Jurgo’s summer palace in Vilnoc, and at least equal to the duke of Adria’s. And it was only one of dozens of such nobles’ residences, equally grand, scattered about the great city. That reflection awed Pen more.

Alixtra was richly informed about the under-workings of the palace, as useful as Pen had hoped; vaguer about the minister’s high dealings. Pen’s original notion, of presenting himself at the door as a rare book dealer wishful to examine the minister’s library and perhaps add to it, was by no means discarded, but it was beginning to feel thin. Alixtra’s thoughts all clustered around how she was to extract her son, with plans ranging from seeming-reasonable to tinged with panic, as she thought through everything that could go wrong.

She rubbed her brow. “And what will we do after? I’d pictured going to ground in the city, but Methani’s people will be looking for us, won’t they? Or of going home to my village, but they’ll know to look there, too. Would I be sought as a murderess by the Imperial judiciary?”

“Mm, not without incriminating Methani and Tronio. So they will certainly not deploy official aid—the last thing they must want would be for you to fall into the hands of regular justice. Your main risk is private murder, as long as you are anywhere in their reach in Cedonia. Which is why I undertake, if I hadn’t made it clear before, to bring you and Kittio back to Vilnoc with me. From that safety, you can make more sensible future plans for you both.

“Another factor on my mind, that I didn’t bring up with Jurgo as it was out of his ambit… We may be able to dress up as any sorts of persons we please, but we aren’t going to be able to conceal our inner selves from any Sighted we encounter. Des can only mute herself a little, and Arra not at all. Any Temple sorcerer, hedge sorcerer, saint, or petty saint we cross will know at once that we are two sorcerers and a saint. In thinly populated places, we can pass because there are so few Sighted. In Thasalon, I had thought we could pass, at least in the street, because there are so many.” With the possible exception of Iroki. The most ordinary of them in physical appearance, his holy aura when god-touched would stand out even more than Des’s density to the spiritually sensitive, and far more alarmingly. “Within the palace… hm. Alixtra will certainly risk being recognized there even if Arra is not perceived. Fine if by a friend, not if by a foe.”

She buried her face in her hands, overwhelmed. “Is there any hope at all of success?”

“The white god would not have sent us into certain death.” I’m almost sure. Nearly. “And we should be unexpected. Even if Rach returned to report, if he’s ahead of us, he won’t know we left Vilnoc, and if he’s behind, we’ll be there before him.”

A faint, unconvinced moan.

“A night’s sleep,” Pen offered, “often delivers inspiration.”

This won a deserved glower. “You imagine I can sleep, after this?”

A fair question, which Pen evaded. But when they’d sorted themselves into their beds—Pen won the argument with the saint by seizing a pallet before Iroki could lie down—her exhaustion overcame her anxiety. Her breathing evened out into slumber before Pen’s did.

*     *     *

Departure was delayed the next morning by Pen’s frustrated quest to secure them a private coach, everything with wheels at the inn being bespoke. He turned down two friendly offers to share carriages and their expenses. Mid-morning, one aging vehicle at last lumbered in whose passengers were stopping in this town, and Pen was able to procure it. It wasn’t in the best condition, so the fact that only a pair of horses were left in the stable to be hired for it was perhaps just as well. He was able to get everyone and their luggage loaded aboard before lunch, and they rattled on west.

Alixtra, for want of other occupation, plowed through to the end of Ruchia’s book. Its final chapter, On the Destruction of Demons, had been difficult for Penric to understand in his first, long-ago reading of it. Alixtra, who had experienced most of what it addressed first-hand, might have found it disturbing, but her understanding was very clear. Frowning, she paged back to one of the earlier chapters that she had found hard going, and started it again.

Pen had no illusions that he’d imparted anything like mastery to her in a mere week, but at least she now knew the lay of the land unrolling before her feet—like getting to study a map before commencing a long journey. Pen had even less idea where she would find herself at the end of it than he’d had at the same point in his career.

Iroki amused himself by watching the passing scene, all new to him. The scrub supporting only goats on the heights had given way, as they’d descended yesterday, to sheep interspersed with woodlots, then cow pastures, olive groves, and grape vines. As the land leveled, orchards and other crops yielded to the rich grain fields that fed the city at the river’s mouth. Iroki eyed the river, which the road bridged a few times here at its narrower reaches, with thwarted longing. Not much farther along, it would be possible to board boats going downriver to the city, but they were even slower than dilapidated coaches.

Pen… fretted.

On his prior trip, he and Nikys had managed to reach the outskirts of Thasalon in one taxing day by starting at dawn and driving long past sunset. Now, it might be more prudent to stop for the night enough changes short of Thasalon to deter Alixtra from any attempt to run ahead on her own. And they could arrive at their destination in daylight.

Which, he finally conceded, was going to have to be the Xarre estate after all. He could not forgo such informed local intelligencers, sure to be up on the latest news from the city, the ports, and the Imperial court. He hated like poison to involve Adelis’s betrothed Lady Tanar and her faithful secretary Bosha—or Bosha and his beloved mistress Tanar, whichever—in this dangerous business. But he could not question their familiarity with just those levels of Thasalon society that had been over Alixtra’s head.

The decision did not ease him much. He sighed and joined Iroki in gazing, tourist-like, out the window.

Chapter 11

At the last posting house short of Thasalon, the next day, Pen dismissed the coach and hired a local carter to transport his party the remaining few miles to the Xarre estate, not least because he wasn’t sure he could find it again relying on his five-year-old memories. Even the carter had to stop and ask directions. Back when it had first been built, the mansion had appended to an outlying farming village, since subsumed by the growing city. The carter navigated the maze of streets to deposit them at last at the Xarre front entry. Pen paid him off and sent him on his way before turning to bang at the postern door set in the high and solid wooden gates.

A head popped up atop the long stucco wall, porter or guard or blend of the two. The man looked down in suspicion at the three people and their baggage. But he was polite enough: “Your business, sir?”

“I’m a book dealer from Patos, who has been in correspondence with Master Surakos Bosha over some items of interest to me.”

“I wasn’t told you were expected.”

“My apologies, but we ended up arriving early. Please give Master Bosha this note, and all will be settled.” The head disappeared, and the port in the postern, door within a door within a door, opened at eye level. Pen passed the screw of paper through. He sank down on his small trunk to wait in some relief—he’d been worrying that the secretary and his lady might be out when they arrived.

“Will they let us in?” asked Alixtra nervously.

“If Bosha is given my note, quite promptly, I should think.”

“What did you write on it?”

“Penric.”

“Only that?” She frowned in anxiety more for her welcome than his, Pen thought, ever since the relationship between Adelis and Tanar had been belatedly explained to her. “Do you have any idea how awkward this is going to be?”

“Yes,” said Pen. “So let me do the talking.” A redundant instruction; her mouth was as tight as a clamshell. Iroki bore his usual air of a man just along for the ride.

After a few more minutes, the port opened once more, showing a known face. “Oh,” said Bosha, in a peculiar tone. “So it is.” The postern swung wide, and Pen entered, motioning his party to follow.

Now in his mid-forties, the eunuch secretary was still lean and fit, an impression augmented by his clothing—a closely woven, long-sleeved white shirt with ruffles at the wrists, slim trousers tucked into soft boots—and by the weighted wooden practice sword held casually in his hand. The braid of his snow-white hair was wound up in a knot at his nape, and his pale albino skin was flushed and sweaty with recent exertion. He was flanked by a youth, obviously a page in training, holding another wooden sword.

“Run to the house and let them know we have visitors,” Bosha instructed this follower. He eyed the baggage Iroki was re-piling on this side of the door. And to Pen, “I gather you plan to stay?” Taking in Pen’s ordinary dress, he offered no revealing honorific. No question the man was quick.

“If it so please the ladies.”

“Send someone to carry in their things,” Bosha continued to the page. “And tell the majordomo to let Lady Tanar know I’m bringing her callers, and to prepare adjoining guest rooms. The ones next to mine.”

The lad said plaintively, “But sir, it was my turn to spar with you!”

Bosha’s voice dropped to a sterner register. “You’ll have to wait.” He tossed his sword to the page, who caught it, gulped, and trotted dutifully off.

“Did we interrupt a lesson?” Pen asked, wondering if he should apologize, and to whom.

Bosha shrugged. “I take it as a side-duty to keep all the pages and guards of the household in training.”

“And yourself?”

“If any of them were better swordsmen than me, it might work that way. As it is, I’m as like to pick up bad habits as they are good ones. At least it keeps me limber.”

In the bright late afternoon light, he redonned a pair of green glass spectacles plucked from his sash, taken off for his sparring. He glanced over them at Pen’s two companions and waited; when no introduction was forthcoming, he merely said, “So. Follow me.”

Mansions in the crowded city might display their wealth with ornate facades. The Xarre manor was a plain, if large, stone rectangle built around its inner court. Instead of architectural decoration, it boasted surrounding and extensive gardens, rich right now with summer blooms, fountains, and winding walkways both rustic and formal, with a hive of gardeners wandering it like bees. Bosha kept himself to the shade of the cedars lining the curving graveled drive as they approached the main doors.

Another porter-guard hurried to swing them open for Bosha and his train, waiting attentively while they passed through under an archway and a gallery into the main courtyard, again graced with a garden and fountain. “Sir…?” the porter inquired after the senior retainer.

Bosha waved him back to his post. “I’ll take them up myself.” He mounted the leftward staircase to the lower of the two galleries circling the court, leading them along its echoing boards to a familiar door: Lady Tanar’s private sitting room. The page was just coming back. “Is my lady within?” he asked the breathless youth.

“Yes, sir. She awaits you.”

Bosha nodded, knocked, waited for the “Come, Sura!” in a light feminine voice, and conducted them through this final barrier.

At a writing table pushed against the far wall, a young woman turned to see what visitors her most trusted servant thought important enough to present so directly to her. Almost twenty-five, Tanar was shorter and more slender than Nikys, with paler skin copper-tinged, her dark auburn hair wound up in complicated jeweled braids. She wore just a light ankle-length shift, finished with fine embroidery, in the summer-close chamber. When her vivid hazel eyes fell upon Penric, she jerked to her feet, crying, “Five gods!” and started forward. Grasping his hands, she looked up earnestly into his face and demanded, “What news of Adelis?”

“Much, but first, you should know he is well.”

The breath went out of her in a relieved huff. “Thank the gods. We’ve been receiving such bizarre rumors here in the past few days.”

“I’ll want to hear them all,” Pen promised her, “but first I must introduce my companions. Lady Tanar, this is Madame Alixtra, my student sorceress”—she managed a stifled sort of curtsey as he waved at her—“and Blessed Iroki. The saint is traveling incognito, mind. As I am.”

This brought Tanar’s and Bosha’s heads around in a hurry. “Blessed—” choked Tanar in shock as Bosha stepped back a pace. Both offered the gesture of obeisance—Bosha, his eyes widening behind the green spectacles, taking them off and bowing low.

Iroki returned his ever-amiable five-fold tally. “Ah, how d’you do. Thank you for having me?”

Tanar offered faintly, “My household is at your service, Blessed.”

“Just call me Iroki. Everybody does.” He blinked and smiled, looking around the noblewoman’s well-appointed chamber. “My, what a nice room.”

Bosha hurried to set chairs around the small table fronting the doors onto the balcony, their pierced lattice leaves open to catch what moving airs might be obtained. “Blessed Iroki. Learned Penric. Learned Alixtra. Will you sit?”

Pen led the way; Alixtra followed, though with an uneasy correction of, “I’m not a learned divine.”

Bosha raised his white eyebrows at Penric.

“Yet,” said Pen, which won a startled glance from her. “Still in training, which is a tale we’ll get to.”

After seeing Iroki seated, Bosha excused himself, exiting the gallery door. Tanar joined them at the table, looking searchingly from face to face, only one known to her.

“Is Nikys well?” she asked Penric. “And Madame Idrene?”

“Very,” said Pen. “We’re expecting our second child in about six months.”

“Second! I didn’t know you’d had a first. Adelis’s messages have been far too brief!”

“His sister complains of that, too.” Penric filled a few minutes with an account of their life in Vilnoc, which Tanar took in avidly, peppering him with questions, especially on the parts in which Adelis featured.

Bosha returned via his own bedchamber adjoining the sitting room opposite to Tanar’s, where he’d paused to wash his face and hands and don a long, loose vest, making himself more formally presentable. Indoors, he’d left the sun-protecting spectacles aside. The trio of Xarre maidservants he’d summoned entered to offer a hand basin and distribute drinks and a light repast. Bosha saw them out and locked the door behind them. He caught his lady’s eye, and they both grew graver, bracing for the serious business that must have brought Pen and his odd company so great a distance to them.

“Start with the rumors that have reached you,” said Pen, “and when they arrived.” A major part of the Xarre wealth was the shipping business that Tanar’s mother Lady Xarre had inherited twenty years ago from her late husband, and had actively nurtured since to twice its original size. Her captains, agents, and merchants were very alive to rumors of all sorts that might affect their trade, reporting regularly to their shrewd noble owner. Whatever news reached Thasalon, they were sure to have it first, sometimes even before the imperial government.

“The first was six nights ago,” said Tanar, “and claimed that Adelis was either slain or had died suddenly in Vilnoc. I was… extremely distraught, but Sura encouraged me to wait on more certain word.” She cast a glance of gratitude at her retainer, who returned her a seated shadow-bow with his hand over his heart. “The next day’s rumor said no, but he was fallen into a deep swoon and not expected to recover.”

“That traveled fast,” said Pen. “He was actually attacked fourteen days ago.”

“So he was attacked!” said Tanar. “The others, let me see. That he had deserted Orbas for Adria or, in one version, Darthaca. That he’d gone to Trigonie for Jurgo to arrange a military alliance against Cedonia. Or that he deserted Jurgo to ally himself with the Roknari or the Rusylli, or both, to attack Cedonia by land and sea at once. That’s the most recent, reported this morning.”

Bosha put in, “We think that one was deliberately circulated by Methani’s cabal, to discredit the general. Which, I pointed out to Tanar, was the surest clue that Methani, at least, thought he was still alive, and a threat to him.”

Tanar nodded her thanks.

“Oh, and my favorite,” said Bosha. “That Arisaydia’s head was exploded in the Vilnoc palace square by Jurgo’s powerful court sorcerer—that would be you, Learned—on orders of the duke for suspected betrayal of Orbas to Cedonia. Brains splattered all over the pavement.” Bosha concealed a smirk in a swallow of watered wine. Or else the old jagged scar marring the left side of his delicate mouth just made him look as if he was smirking.

“That,” said Pen, disconcerted, “is surprisingly close to the truth. Though I have to assume completely by accident. If it’s come to Minister Methani’s ears, I imagine he’s none too pleased. That might have induced him to float the Roknari-Rusylli rumor, to counter it.”

This won two nonplussed stares. “Penric, what really happened?” Tanar begged.

Pen drank tepid tea-water and took a breath. “It’s complicated, as Thasalon politics always seem to be. What I’m going to say next… may involve you in business that some might see as treasonous.”

Twin short nods told him to go on anyway.

“If I am to take it in order… some six, no, seven, now, weeks ago a squad of Methani’s bravos or soldiers from Thasalon penetrated the fort at Tyno and attempted to murder Adelis. They did not succeed, fatally for them. Adelis thinks it was the minister’s first response to the unrest in the imperial army following the disaster to the Sixth Legion at Vytymi Valley, to eliminate a man who could lead them in revolt.”

Tanar growled in suppressed rage.

“Just over two weeks ago, General Gria of the Eighth arrived in secret at Tyno to convey a plea from Princess Laris and Lord Nao for Adelis to return to Cedonia and ally himself with them—the proposed trio thus covering the nobility, the bureaucracy, and the army.”

“Laris plans to move against her young half-brother?” said Tanar, her hand going to her throat.

“Unclear at this time. She certainly means to assert control over the regency council, and oust Methani. Anyway, Adelis very properly brought Gria and himself before Jurgo, and they had some considerable debate on the issues. Adelis had invited me along.

“Coming out, on the Vilnoc palace steps, we encountered the second and much subtler assassination attempt. Methani, and a Temple sorcerer named Learned Tronio, had concocted between them a scheme to use an untrained hedge sorcerer, endowed with a new elemental, to make a silent and invisible magical attack upon a victim that would mimic a natural fatal stroke. Also destroying the elemental in the process, but they evidently decided that such god-gifts were theirs to dispose of. The hedge sorcerer would survive to be used so again. It later came out that they’d employed just this method to murder Prince Ragat. And got away with it, inclining them to repeat the ploy.”

This news rocked even Bosha back in his chair, and he was no stranger to subtle ways of eliminating enemies—the blades he carried when he guarded Lady Tanar were poisoned, Pen knew. But she wasn’t a charge he dared fail by scorning any possible advantage. “How could one defend against such a strike?”

“In Adelis’s case, with another sorcerer. Thanks to Desdemona’s quick reaction, the bolus of chaos was fended away, though not without leaving Adelis with a mild concussion. We took him to my house to be nursed by his sister and mother, and guarded by me.”

“Oh, bless you, Learned Penric!” cried Tanar. Adding conscientiously, “And bless your Desdemona.”

Nice manners, there, approved Des, who’d been following it all without, for a change, remarks or quips. The girl might yet do for Adelis.

“Yes, it was more Des’s doing than mine. The upshot of it all was, Jurgo was so offended by this outrage on his own doorstep, he gave Adelis the use of one of his navy sloops to convey him and Gria in secret back to Cedonia. They were off the next night. If they catch fair winds, which they should this time of year, they might make land near Thasalon and join with Laris and Nao as early as the end of this week. And so Methani has triggered the very event he wished to prevent—Adelis told me that he’d been thinking of staying in Orbas, till the second attack changed his mind.” Pen considered. “Fifth, if he counts the three tries Methani had at him some years ago.”

“Even the gods,” said Tanar through clenched teeth, “are not compelled to forgive the fifth affront. And neither am I.”

“So,” said Bosha, his voice tinged with professional worry, “what happened to this hedge sorcerer-assassin? Is he still out there somewhere?”

“That,” said Penric, “is another very complicated tale. I must beg you to keep your questions and your tempers until I can tell it in full.”

Alixtra had stopped eating when Pen had started recounting the events on Jurgo’s steps. Now she froze altogether, giving Pen a beseeching look. “Learned, must we…?”

“I think so,” he said gently. “We none of us can make good decisions without full information.”

Bosha’s eyes darted in new wariness to her, his swift wits already beginning to fill in the gaps.

“I’d best begin this part of the story at its other end,” Pen went on. “In order to create a human tool that they could control even when gifted with such a power, Methani and Tronio selected an individual that came already with her own hostage—a widowed palace maidservant with a five-year-old son. They first entrapped her with pilfering. Off-balance and afraid of the penalties for theft, she was easy to manipulate into agreeing to the demonic experiment, the more so that they were careful to keep her in the greatest possible ignorance of its full potential and implications. What was probably a lie eased her through her first victim, a prisoner, and then she was trapped in crime in truth. Lord regent Prince Ragat was their third target. Adelis was to have been the fourth.”

Tanar had gone rigid, Bosha on edge, Alixtra strained. Iroki watched and listened without comment. Or expression, much. No one was still eating now.

“Methani being Methani, of course he could not send her off to Orbas on trust. So he ensured her obedience at a distance with a threat to her son—that at his mother’s failure or desertion, the boy would be cut and sold as a slave.”

Bosha… hissed, very quietly, through his set teeth. Tanar’s gaze skipped to him, and her face tensed in fresh thought. Her lips, which had parted to vent some furious reaction, closed again, and waited.

“Her first attempt, on the palace steps, miscarried as described. But because of Methani’s threat, she lingered in Vilnoc to try again, against, I gather, the protestations of the bravo Methani had sent along as her courier and assistant. And snitch, I imagine.”

A thinning of Alixtra’s mouth confirmed this speculation.

“Adelis was known to be recovering in my house, which we pretended still was so even after he’d sailed. I set up a trap there, and Alixtra fell, rather literally, into it,” said Pen, abandoning the tattered pretext of anonymity. “We kept her imprisoned for three days in a bottle dungeon, while we awaited word from my Order in Dogrita about the saint who would be tasked with removing her demon before she could be handed over to the duke’s justice. Instead, we received the saint himself.”

All eyes turned to Iroki, who offered a sheepish wave. “Ayup. Though it wasn’t the Order, exactly, that sent me along.”

“And then things took a turn that no one present expected.” Pen paused, uncertain how he was to convey the terrifying depth and certainty of the resonant moment the god had spoken.

Iroki, thankfully, took over. “The Bastard wouldn’t take His demon back. Said she was to keep it. First time that’d happened to me. I mean—I didn’t just sense that was what He wanted. He said. Out loud. Knocked me right on my butt, there in the dark.” He added after a moment, “He was right wroth with Methani and Tronio, though. That came through clear. Alixtra, not so much. He seems to expect good things of her and her demon, going on.”

“The god spoke to you?” choked Tanar. Not at all the words that had been hot on the tip of her tongue moments before, Pen fancied. “To all of you?”

Three faces around the table grimaced helplessly.

“There wasn’t any doubt,” said Pen. “I mean, there really wasn’t any doubt. For all the times I’ve prayed to my god for guidance, in all the years I’ve served Him, I’d never got back anything remotely like that.”

“Wroth,” nodded Iroki.

“I can take a hint,” said Penric. “Usually, I pretty much have to. We were all on our way to Thasalon by noon the next day, and here we are. To clean up this mess. Somehow. Two parts are clear. To rescue the boy Kittio out of Methani’s clutches and so free Alixtra, and to bring the saint before Tronio. Unfortunately, the god’s guidance lacked details.” He looked across in hope at Tanar and Bosha.

“You’d expect,” said Bosha slowly, “the gods to answer prayers at Their altars, tidily in a temple. Not… over a dinner table.”

“I don’t,” sighed Pen. “At least not my god. Untidy is what He does. …And I’m still not sure if it’s that He answers my prayers, or that I’m expected to answer His. Thus, practical theology. Which I think I warned you about, Alixtra, early on. You haven’t taken oath yet, but when you do, that’s what it will mean.”

Tanar’s brows had drawn in tightly as she sifted through all this. Her first question was not one Pen anticipated, for she turned instead to Alixtra. “So who was the second man, before Ragat?”

Alixtra swallowed. “Minister Fasso. Prefect of Imperial Shipbuilding.”

A spurt of surprise crossed Bosha’s pale face. “We heard he’d died in his sleep.”

“He did. Only his apoplexy didn’t happen on its own.” She looked away, her jaw set.

Pen was relieved Tanar hadn’t broken into a storm of outrage, as he had for a moment feared. Her only fury seemed to be furious thought, as she studied her unexpected guest. “Is that so,” was all she said. It was Bosha who regarded his lady uneasily.

After a longer moment, Tanar asked, “If you were brought before Methani, could you turn your demon on him? Serving him his own again? Could that even be the reason the god sent you back to Thasalon?”

“No!” said Penric firmly.

Alixtra opened her compressed lips to say, “Don’t think I haven’t thought about it. But it’s an incredibly intimate kind of killing. I don’t… don’t ever want to experience it again.” Her hand twisted in air. “Give me a knife, though, and either Methani or Tronio in front of me, and I’d be tempted.”

Bosha rubbed his brow. “Tanar, we must set all this before your lady mother before we can go on. Considering the dangers it could bring down upon our house.”

Penric put in, “But it’s critical that the word of Adelis’s movements be kept as close as possible before he lands and makes contact with Laris and Nao. Of all the rumors you reported, that’s the only one that seems to be missing. If his enemies were alerted to watch for him by sea, instead of at the land borders, his affairs could go very badly.” There was no way to ask Can Lady Xarre be trusted? without delivering insult. He tried instead, “Does Lady Xarre’s health permit the strain?”

Bosha grimaced. “She’s almost crippled now. But her mind is as keen as ever. She’ll be dealing with it all regardless, once things break. Better she be warned beforehand.”

Pen could only concede this.

*     *     *

Bosha conducted them to the promised guest bedchambers, two doors down the gallery from his own, and went off, doubtless to give some preliminary report to Lady Xarre. Their baggage had been delivered, but not, Pen was relieved to see, opened.

The problem of apportionment solved itself, not that they hadn’t all slept together in a barn loft once this journey. The chamber with the one bed, lying nearer to Tanar’s suite, had no balcony, though the chamber with two beds did. Pen was very conscious that they now lay within a determined walking distance to Alixtra’s singular goal, and her temptation to desert the company in the night to pursue the rescue of her son on her own must be throbbing in her brain. He had likely better warn her about the Xarre mastiffs let loose on the grounds after dark.

A manservant and a maidservant arrived to guide them downstairs to the mansion’s baths, divided into men’s and women’s sides, which combined clever Cedonian engineering with elegant tilework in a motif of waves and sea creatures. Raised spigots over drains provided an inexhaustible cold shower which must save the servants much heavy labor hauling buckets and hip-baths up to the inhabitants. Iroki marveled, examining the mosaic fishes closely and trying to decide their species, and was cheerfully grateful for tips on the facility’s use.

They were joined shortly by Bosha, intent on washing the dried sweat from his training session away before sitting down to dinner with his ladies. No new scars, Pen noted, seemed to have joined the faded ones on his pale arms and back. In the adjoining dressing room, clean light garments had been provided for the guests—someone must have noticed the meagerness of their luggage. Bosha dismissed the hovering manservant before he spoke to Penric.

“I’m not best pleased, you know, that you brought an assassin to my lady’s table without warning me.”

It was unclear if it was the assassin or just the lack of notice that he found objectionable. Pen chose to address the first part, saying dryly, “What, and here I thought you sat down with her every day.”

A twist of Bosha’s scarred lip dismissed the quip, though not without a nod of concession at a hit well-scored.

“And you have to admit, Alixtra took some explaining first. I was afraid Tanar was going to explode as it was.”

“…True.”

“But except for the parts about Adelis, she seemed more interested than horrified.”

“Yes,” sighed Bosha. “And I don’t thank you for that, either.” Finishing fastening his garments for the evening, a long tunic with a light over-robe, he seated himself on the bench opposite Penric and Iroki and bent to don his sandals.

“I know how Adelis has been occupied the past few years,” said Penric. “What of Tanar? When last we met, you were both worried about fending off unwanted suitors. Most notably Lord Bordane, as I recall. Who has come up in the world even further since then, in his patron uncle’s train.”

“Yes,” said Bosha, straightening. “Fortunately, we were soon relieved of his pressure when he found himself another heiress. Unfortunately, she died late last year in childbirth. To his credit, he seems to have mourned her sincerely. Now that he’s a lord regent, he’s going to be much more dangerous, if he casts his eyes upon Tanar again.”

“Has he done so?”

“There have been recent hints.”

“And Tanar? She struck me as a very energetic young woman.”

“She still is. Lady Xarre has brought her more directly into the management of her businesses, bribing her with sea voyages if she would learn the work.”

“Ah. I remember you feared she might harbor ambitions, if she found no other outlet for her vigor, to become a pirate queen.”

“Very nearly not a joke. Tanar’s excursions so far have been limited to our Cedonian coastal trade, and one trip down to the ports of Grabyat, but I know she plots more distant ventures.”

“And how did you enjoy them?”

Bosha bared his teeth in a pained non-smile. “I do not love the sea in summer—too much sunlight. Or at any other time, really. The one thought that reconciles me to the return of your brother-in-law might be that he’ll give her activities a landward direction.”

“And your life as well? If all prospers in Adelis’s suit, would you follow Tanar, or stay with Lady Xarre?”

Bosha waved one beautifully manicured hand—he had to be vain of them, to care for them so, though his rucked and ruffled sleeves hid the wiry strength of his wrists and arms. “Tanar, with Lady Xarre’s leave. My service here has lasted for seventeen years, which has been a gift greater than anything I could have earned. I’ve known this idyll was on borrowed time ever since Tanar decided Adelis was the only husband for her.”

He did not phrase it, Pen noticed, as ever since Tanar fell in love with Adelis. Pen wasn’t sure whether that reticence guarded Tanar’s heart, or his own.

*     *     *

As was common in the Cedonian summer in noble and lesser homes alike, dinner was not served till late, after dusk, at a table set up in the courtyard. Penric greeted Lady Xarre, eased into her chair by two attendants, with all the proper courtesies inculcated in him by service in a princess-archdivine’s and two ducal courts.

“We’ll talk more privately after we eat,” she told him in an under-voice, and he nodded.

The lady’s household was used to feeding visiting merchants of all sorts, so easing their formality for the comfort of the Patos bookdealer and his two companions—promoted from servants to assistants before this audience—was no stretch for them. Only Tanar and her mother knew to be daunted by Iroki—as a saint, he in a sense outranked not only everyone at the table, but everyone in the imperial city. As Iroki continued to act exactly like a village fisherman on his first venture into such high company, if one displaying good manners and a genial humor, their secret awkwardness did gradually pass off. Alixtra’s didn’t, but hers had other sources than the disparity of rank.

After the savories and the sweet wine—Iroki had been bemused when the courses kept coming—Lady Xarre was helped by her servants upstairs to the sitting room of her suite, laid out much like Tanar’s on the opposite side of the courtyard. Five years ago, she had needed only a cane, but the joints of her hips and knees, Pen observed with a flash of Sight, were more painfully deteriorated now. She was otherwise not greatly changed in appearance, with her gray hair elaborately dressed in its jeweled braids, and her slight body swathed in light summer robes.

Once settled into a cushioned chair, she dismissed not only her servants but her female secretary, an older woman who served her with the dedication that Bosha did Tanar, minus the bodyguard duties. “I promise we’ll discuss it later, dear,” Lady Xarre murmured to the woman. Not accustomed to being excluded from confidential business, she took this in with a thoughtful frown. The two reasons might be that the discussion was going to be too trivial for her witness, or too dangerous, and Pen didn’t think she guessed it was the first. But she withdrew without further protest.

Bosha arranged five chairs around Lady Xarre’s, awarding the other one with cushions to the saint, seated Tanar, locked the doors, and awaited his lady’s pleasure.

“Blessed, you honor my house,” Lady Xarre began, with an obeisance to Iroki that made him smile in discomfort and return her a tally-blessing. “Learned Penric… you bring me knotty puzzles. Again.”

He made her a half-bow at this inarguable observation, and said, “My apologies. Again. But leaving you unadvised of events seemed a worse course.”

“I agree.” She studied the silent Alixtra with neither pleasure nor dismay, more the concentration of a woman totting up difficult accounts. “Surakos told me the gist of your tale, Learned, but it left a number of questions…”

Which she asked, drawing from Pen a more complete description of the past two weeks than he’d given in the other chamber. She was keenly interested in the movements of her potential son-in-law, but gave equal attention to the lethal schemes of Minister Methani. “Ragat and Fasso both, was it? That explains much about recent disruptions in the imperial court. I do wonder at the identity of that first man, the prisoner. It would seem unfrugal of Methani to waste even a test shot.”

She looked to Alixtra, who shook her head unhappily, unlocking her lips just enough to say, “I supposed they didn’t want me to know, so I never asked.”

“Hm. It should be possible to discover it, but it does not seem the most urgent part of this. For what exactly do you seek my aid, Learned Penric?”

“Besides shelter, which you have so generously given us… what we were called to do seemed plain enough, there in the bottle dungeon.” His halting description of the god had left Lady Xarre silent and sober, uncharacteristically out of her depth. “Rescue Kittio, bring the saint before Tronio may be summed in half a sentence. It was the how that was lacking.” He held up his hands in some frustration, in evocation of his Order’s famous motto. “Left to us, seemingly.”

“Had you any plan at all?”

Pen tried to persuade himself that she didn’t sound appalled. “Up to a point. I have papers for the Patos bookdealer that will get us past the city gates. I thought to present myself at Methani’s palace as seeking or selling rare books—he has a library, and a librarian to look after it. Alixtra says Methani collects obscure histories and works on magic. Once within, send Alixtra to find and abstract Kittio, and make some pretext for me and my assistant to meet with Tronio. After Tronio loses his demon, I can silence him for long enough to escape. Rendezvous with Alixtra, leave the city as swiftly as we can.”

“There are so many things that could go wrong with that scheme,” Lady Xarre observed mildly. Bosha snorted. So did Des.

“I am very aware, my lady. If anyone here can offer a better, I’d be pleased to hear it.”

“I may,” said Lady Xarre slowly. “I must give it some thought, and make a few inquiries. You’ll be going nowhere tonight, in any case.”

Pen shrugged agreement, but Alixtra burst out, “We must not delay!”

All the faces around the circle turned to her.

“Who knows what Rach has reported, or when? They could be cutting or selling Kittio even as we sit here. Or worse—boys and men die of that operation, you know!”

Pen knew the medical odds, which could be quite poor. He imagined Bosha did, too.

She gestured jerkily at Bosha. “Though maybe it does not seem so great a thing to you. Or to Methani, for all I know.”

Bosha, eyes narrowing, leaned back with his arms folded. In an arid voice, he stated, “I was not a volunteer, at the time.”

Alixtra bit her lip, distraught in her chair.

A slow blink from Lady Xarre. “It might be instructive to our guest, dear Surakos, if you would tell that tale.”

Tanar looked anxiously across at her. “Must he, Mother?”

A circle of her beringed and somewhat arthritic hand. “I leave that to Surakos’s judgment.”

After a moment, he gave her an acceding nod. There wasn’t much, Pen thought, that he would deny her.

“It’s brief enough, and a quarter-century old by now. I was the fifth of five sons in the family of a petty noble, in a household not unlike this one, not far from here in the outskirts of Thasalon. Born odd as you see.” A wave summed up his unusual lack of coloration, so ill-fitted to this climate. “While my mother was alive, she protected me, but after she passed away in my late teens, my father and brothers renewed their pressure to allow myself to be cut, and enter the imperial bureaucracy, there to rise to the point of being able to do the family favors. I refused. At that age I’d wanted to become a sword-master, that being one of the few martial arts I’d been able to pursue indoors. On my eighteenth birthday, my brothers got me very, very drunk, and carried me in to the surgeon my father had summoned. And helped hold me down, when what was happening penetrated my mind along with the knife that penetrated my parts. Why they imagined I’d be disposed to do them favors, after, has always escaped me.

“Nonetheless. There was no going back. When I’d recovered from the wine-sickness, and the injury, and the fever”—his hand opened in concession to Alixtra’s fears—“I acquiesced to being apprenticed in the imperial chancellery, if only to escape that household. Eight years of my inky labors ended with the civil war that put the new emperor on the throne. My father, showing his usual judgment, managed to ally our family on the wrong side. I was caught up in his affairs for the last time on a very bad day, escaped here, found a shelter that has never betrayed me, and have served Lady Xarre ever since.”

He turned to Alixtra, grave. “But that my life came around well enough in the end does not mean I was ever happy with the event, even in retrospect. I promise you, I do not take the threat to your son lightly.”

In a small voice, she said, “I am sorry.” For her words, for his fate, for finding her fears well-founded?

Long, pale fingers twiddled the apology away. With a return to his usual sly humor, he added, “My one consolation was that none of my brothers nor our family’s prosperity survived the war, and my father did, to find me the only heir left of his house. Though I don’t think he appreciated the irony nearly as much as I did.”

“I’d not heard this story before,” said Penric.

“Oh? I recall I told some part of it to Madame Nikys and Madame Idrene. That’s right, you weren’t with us on the drive down to Akylaxio.”

“Perhaps they took it to be told in confidence?”

“Perhaps so.”

It occurred to Penric for the first time that if it weren’t for Bosha’s long-ago betrayals, his birth and fortune might almost have qualified him to aspire to Lady Tanar’s hand himself. Had it occurred to Bosha, to Tanar, to Lady Xarre?

Had to have, opined Des, who had listened to it all with arrested fascination. There’s still the twenty-year age gap, though.

For both ladies, up and down?

Just so.

Yet, certainly, without the histories that had made them what they each were, Bosha and Tanar could not have grown to be the same people to love each other, so very silently, now. Not a thought he could ever voice.

Wise, said Des.

The night conclave broke up without any more definite schemes laid, to Pen’s disappointment. But this day could hold no more. Tanar lingered with her mother, and Pen and the rest retired across the gallery to their beds.

Chapter 12

This was not my plan, Pen thought apprehensively as, two nights later, he boarded the Xarre coach in the dusk. His party, so unexpectedly augmented by Tanar and Bosha, climbed in after, disposing themselves on the padded seats. At Bosha’s word, the coach rattled off down the graveled drive to the front gates that swung wide for it.

Lady Xarre, exerting herself on the morning after their arrival, had confirmed through her agents that regent-minister Methani would soon be holding a reception at his palace: in part to launch the festive lead-ups to the impending Bastard’s Day, that intercalary holiday at Mother’s Midsummer to honor the fifth god, and in part to mark his nephew Lord Bordane’s accession to the lucrative post of Prefect of Imperial Shipbuilding. The next best thing to penetrating the palace under cover of darkness—and Alixtra’s descriptions made it plain that not only did the place never sleep, but that it was very closely guarded at night—would be to arrive amidst a crowd large enough that not everyone would know each other. Alixtra had been half frenzied at the two-day delay that waiting for this opportunity had required, but had been convinced by Tanar that all their goals could be served at once by it.

They had all been unexpectedly costumed for the play, or ploy, to come, as well. Alixtra and Iroki had been outfitted in formal summer clothes and jewelry suitable for a visiting noble couple of sober tastes, Alixtra with borrowings from Lady Xarre’s extensive wardrobe that lent her an air of matronly conservatism. Tanar had topped this with a gauzy lace headdress that fell over her forehead and in part concealed her face. Only her closest fellow-servants would recognize the former chambermaid under the fine linen and embroidered silks, and they were going to be very busy tonight; even the nervous Alixtra assured Pen that the more elevated persons in the palace wouldn’t recognize her, or any other maid, out of uniform, as they barely attended to their faces in the first place. Iroki, as the lady’s taciturn husband, wore even more receding colors, if in costly fabrics to support his role, mostly borrowed from Bosha.

Pen had been more difficult to account for. The larger the crowd, the more certain that there might be more than one spiritual sensitive among them, from whom Des could not be concealed. They’d finally cobbled up a fair copy of the Temple vestments of the Weald, decking out Pen as a visiting sorcerer-divine from that distant realm; which would also give him a good excuse to ask after Tronio and, with luck, draw him apart to one of the many side chambers or little courts with which the complicated palace was, Alixtra said, well-supplied. Tronio’s encounter with Iroki was definitely going to require a private moment, however brief.

If anyone asked after Alixtra’s demon, she was to say she was a novice who had put aside her vestments for the exciting Thasalon reception. No one, looking at her lady’s finery, would wonder why.

Tanar wore what Pen supposed was her usual garb for such events: fine linen dress, brocade over-robe, a silk purse attached to her jeweled belt. Bosha was as darkly sober as Iroki, though he’d chosen trousers and soft boots under his sleeveless ankle-length coat, rather than long tunic and summer sandals. The better, Pen supposed, to move at speed and to conceal the slender knife in each boot-top, the larger one fastened at his back, the scalpel-like blade in a flat sleeve sheath, and who-knew-what in the pouch as his waist, every one tainted. At that point, the jade-hilted sword he bore was likely just for decoration.

Pen studied what he could see from the coach window in the deepening shadows. This far out, the scenery was broken up by market gardens, but closer in the buildings began to crowd, until they reached the broad cleared space before the massive and legendary walls of Thasalon. This barrier ran for three miles, from the sea that bounded the peninsula on two sides to the river, now broad and sluggish, coursing down from the hinterland that bounded the third. The walls were pierced by fifteen great gates, every one of them crowded with traffic at all hours; in the daytime, by the business of the city, at night by an endless stream of oxcarts supplying it.

Even the very wealthy did not maintain horses inside the walls, where the crowded, crooked streets were not accommodating to coaches. Instead, those who wished to keep their feet out of the dubious detritus on the cobbles employed either sedan chairs and bearers, or light wicker carts mounted on two large, thin-spoked wheels, pulled by men. The Xarre coach had trailed a pair of these behind it, with Lady Xarre’s tabarded wickermen riding on the roof. As the coachman lit the lanterns, they jumped down to unfasten and bring their carts around for the distinguished visitors, who were then sorted as much by weight as volume, Penric with Iroki, and the two women squeezed with Bosha.

Waxed-cloth awnings could protect cart riders from the rain, or paper parasols from the sun, though neither were required tonight. Pen had been told that a sturdy young man, quick on his feet, who owned such a cart could make a decent living hiring himself out by the ride. On the Son of Autumn’s Day, wicker-cart races were held at the imperial racecourse between equine events, taken with avid seriousness by participants and the wagering audience alike.

The two carts still had to wait in line to be admitted by the gate guards, though the inspection was perfunctory and Bosha’s negotiation practiced. Pen spared a moment of regret for hauling that trunk of books all the way from Vilnoc to be not-used at this juncture. They passed through what amounted to a stone-arched tunnel under the wall, echoing like a well, and then, at last, Penric found himself for the first time in great Thasalon. His persona as a visiting Wealdman allowed him, he assured himself, to goggle. Any Wealdman would. Ten of its capital Easthome could have fitted into Thasalon, with room left over.

Both he and Des soon lost their bearings as they wended their way through the city. People of all physical types and degrees of dress parted casually around the carts, the rich with lanterns of glass and link-boys to carry them, the poor with lanterns of stiffened cloth held on sticks, the poorer still just tailing the glow of someone better supplied. Pen caught scraps of conversation in six different languages atop the Cedonian, two of which he did not speak and one of which he didn’t even recognize. They encountered half-a-dozen graceful neighborhood temples, any one of which could have stood for the main temple in most towns; crossed several market squares, some still active by lantern light even at this late hour; wound through streets lined with apartments three and even six stories high; spied bathhouses well-supplied with water from the municipal aqueducts, patrons still coming in and out; and passed two splendid palaces Pen thought must be their destination, but weren’t.

The well-trained wickermen brought them at last to the very broad steps of a long and even more splendid facade, all marble and porphyry, with fluted columns flanking double doors open to the balmy night. The soft air, so close to the sea, reminded Pen for a homesick instant of Vilnoc.

Castles and palaces in the Weald or the Cantons might daunt the eye with high spires and towers. This building did it with breadth. The newer front was built more for display than defense, though the rest of the exterior was a stern high wall, broken only by a few utilitarian back entries. By Alixtra’s drawn map, this barrier enclosed a maze-like series of courtyards, with colonnades, galleries, fountains and gardens, linking archways, and occasionally short bridges between upper floors.

Flickering cressets had been lit at the base of the steps, with brighter and steadier glass lanterns hung under the lintels in welcome. Sedan chairs and wicker carts were still disgorging a few late guests, or picking up a trickle leaving early.

Bosha set his lady on his arm, Iroki copied him not too clumsily with Alixtra, and Pen followed both couples up and inside. They were greeted by a superior sort of majordomo, who recognized Lady Tanar and her escort at once, welcoming the Xarre heiress with some surprise, but much courtesy. Bosha smoothly introduced his lady’s country visitors, who all said as little as possible, and then they were gated through to the first of the several interlocking courtyards devoted tonight to the regent-minister’s hospitality.

Pen gathered that most of the many guests collected here were as unknown to Tanar as they were to himself, but not all. A middle-aged lord and his female companion, probably wife, paused to speak to her in a familiar fashion.

“Lady Tanar, Master Bosha! I would not have thought to see you here. Lord Bordane will be delighted, I’m sure. But you are rather too late—you’ve missed all the speeches.”

“Just on time, then,” murmured Bosha, which made the man, whose face was flushed with wine, snort appreciation. By polite necessity, Bosha made introductions of Tanar’s guests. Fortunately, the need for extemporaneous dialogue in character was cut short by the fellow spying another crony. He did direct them toward the chamber with the most lavish food and drink before treading off. Only the size of the place kept the crowd from being a crush—everyone in Thasalon with an agenda to pursue, political, social, or romantic, must be here tonight.

The timing was not accidental, being calculated to bring them inside when the maximum number of people still lingered, but, like Tanar’s acquaintance, were beginning to be fuddled. Alixtra pinched Bosha’s arm. “Time to go in.”

He nodded, having helped bribe her to agree to the delay by a promise to assist her in extracting her child. “Tanar, stay with Penric and Iroki.”

“I’m perfectly safe in this company, Sura,” she reproved mildly. Which he must have agreed with, or he wouldn’t have left her side. In a good simulation of a man escorting a woman to inspect the wonders of the palace, he and Alixtra strolled into its further reaches.

Des, Sight. While Pen had never seen Learned Tronio before in his life, he didn’t need to go by physical descriptions to pick the man out. Which was fortunate, given the number of aging imperial bureaucrats and senior Temple functionaries present, some in Temple vestments. The press of souls in this room was almost painful—anxious or curdled with worldly desires or seething with varied emotions—but there were no demons among them.

He flared their senses in a wider sweep. Ah—one other demon in the building aside from Alixtra’s Arra, almost as young. Belonging to another Temple sorcerer, probably, but lacking the depth, distortion, and darkness required. Pen would know it when he’d found their quarry. It wasn’t as easy to be sure they weren’t missing him somehow.

“Tronio’s not in here,” he murmured to his two remaining companions. “Let’s try the next room.”

There they found and sampled the food and drink advertised, banked up on trestle tables in a display of excess testifying to their host’s wealth, but no stray sorcerers. Someone did find them, however.

“Oh, Lord Bordane,” said Tanar brightly, combining greeting to him and warning to Pen and Iroki. Pen smiled in a friendly fashion, schooling himself not to react. Iroki, too, held his default mild mien.

“Lady Tanar, what an unexpected pleasure.”

Bordane was a middle-sized man in his mid-thirties, typically Cedonian in coloration, albeit with his dark hair dressed in a queue with gilded ribbons, and wearing elaborate robes that must have been uncomfortable in this heat. His face was short of handsome but serviceably well-looking, clean-shaved, and not without intelligence. His soul was stressed, but so were many here, including Tanar’s.

“I couldn’t pass up the chance to show off to my visitors one of the finest palaces in Thasalon,” said Tanar, no hint of her nerves showing on her surface. She went on to introduce Pen and Iroki by their assumed aliases, if not in a way that would lead inevitably to friendly or at least polite questions.

The fending failed. “A Wealdean sorcerer?” said Bordane, decoding Pen’s formal garb without difficulty. “What brings you to Thasalon?”

“Minor Temple business, but I seized the chance to visit your renowned libraries and temples,” said Pen, making sure his Cedonian speech was laced with a noticeable Wealdean accent. “Oh, and I was instructed by my archdivine to bear a message to one Learned Tronio, who I understand is a respected and active Temple assistant in high Cedonian affairs.” Tanar only choked a little. Pen went on, “I was going to seek him through the main chapterhouse of my Order, but it occurs to me—might he be here tonight?” He tried to radiate the air of a man seeking to shortcut an assigned chore that was blocking his more tourist-like ambitions.

“I saw him earlier, but with so many going in and out, I could well have missed his departure.”

“Ah, too bad. It will have to be the chapterhouse, then,” said Pen, feigning a lack of disappointment.

“You two should take a look in the next courtyard,” said Tanar. “It has an especially fine garden fountain.”

Bordane nodded encouragement. “Lady Tanar, will you walk with me?” he asked, offering his arm.

“I actually did hope I might get a word with you tonight,” Tanar said, with a pretty air of confession.

Bordane brightened. Apparently, his last five years had made him a less clumsy and impatient suitor, for he merely said, “I am at your service, Lady Tanar.”

Pen was fairly sure Bosha would not have liked this, had he been present, but Pen could see no danger to her in a chat with the lord in a space so full of other guests. He accepted his palpable dismissal by the pair, and led Iroki off.

Inspection of the fountain courtyard, and two others, discovered no Tronio, though they were latched upon by the local Temple sorcerer Pen had sensed earlier, a younger man bearing a demon only one life old. He was quite amazed by Des, and full of questions. Pen spun out a few likely anecdotes about the Bastard’s seminary at the great university at Rosehall in the Weald, easy enough since he’d attended there for three years in his youth before being granted his degree as a divine—his first, Des’s fifth. The fellow knew of Tronio, and spoke of admiration for his skills, but was too young to be of his set. He’d noticed their target here before the speeches, but not after. Pen peeled him off with difficulty, making false promises to further their acquaintance later in his visit.

“Your disguise was a pretty shrewd choice, looks like,” murmured Iroki. The other sorcerer had accepted Pen’s story without hesitation, though he’d obviously been uncomfortably aware of Iroki without quite knowing why, the god, thankfully, not being anywhere near immanent within the saint presently. Pen had once been sternly told by another saint that the god did not come when called like a dog, but only in His own chosen time. Pen hoped—all right, prayed—the Bastard would appear when needed.

“Seems so,” agreed Pen. “What now? Further in?” Could Tronio be closeted in some private apartment on business—or pleasure, for that matter?

Easily, opined Des.

Though probably not in the servants’ quarters where Alixtra and Bosha had gone to seek Kittio. He hoped they’d found the boy safe and slipped him out of the palace by now. The plan had been to connect mother and son with one of the waiting Xarre wickermen, and send them off at once to be taken back to hiding at the Xarre mansion. Depending on how events played out in the other part of the night’s scheme, the rest of them would all rendezvous there by midnight. Maybe.

Pen thought they had left Tanar for far too long, but she was much more in her milieu here than anyone except Bosha, and less likely than him to find trouble. Pen and Iroki tried several more courtyards and levels, including, somewhat by accident, descent into a labyrinthine cellar complex, definitely servants’ territory. Despite his dark-sight making the blacker corridors readily navigable to him—Iroki gripped Pen’s shoulder for guidance in a few pitchy stretches—Pen was starting to wonder if they could find their way out again.

Coming out of one passage they stumbled upon the vaulted cisterns, sounds weirdly echoing off their walls and waters, air clammy and cool. This had to mark the lowest possible level of their explorations, apart from maybe the sewer drains, which Pen didn’t think he needed to check.

Thank you, murmured Des dryly. Are you ready to give up this fruitless hunt yet? I really don’t think Tronio is still here.

I’m afraid I agree. And curse it. His quest for the sorcerer was bound to become more dangerous once the man was alerted by Kittio’s disappearance that things were starting to go very wrong. Methani would be riled, too.

Time to go find one of those stairways back up that they’d passed in the black corridors. The first flight they came to would do as well as any, as they could sort out their location better once on the surface. Penric wheeled, brushing at a fog-like tendril trying to caress his face—not a vapor risen off the silk-dark cistern. Half-a-dozen harmless old ghost smudges had attached themselves to Iroki in the course of their search and were following him around like stray dogs trailing a butcher’s wagon, which he’d endured with his usual patience.

And then, abruptly, they were found by something not like that.

The agitated ghost was so fresh and well-defined he might have been mistaken for a man still alive, apart from being translucent and leached of color. He appeared to be some age around sixty, hair receding from his forehead, his coiled queue behind probably gray even before this transformation, running a little to fat, beardless. He still wore the memory of the elaborate clothes and jeweled rings he’d died in. They’d seen many men of the type upstairs, although not him.

He pawed frantically at Iroki, mouthing voiceless words that Pen could almost lip-read. He turned around and around, arms waving in protest and rage. His striking fists passed like faint drafts from the cistern through the material bodies of the live men he’d accosted.

“Woah,” said Iroki, stepping back. The revenant followed, swarming him. “That’s a new turn for me.”

“Only just died,” said Pen, who had seen the like before. “Or only just killed. Not a natural death, not even a sudden one. This feels like murder.”

Iroki glanced toward the ceiling. “At a party?”

“Has to be.”

“Looks too old to be the sort to get into a fight like the young bravos.”

“Aye, I don’t think that was it.”

Iroki studied the ghost. “He should have been taken up by his god by now. Too shocked to assent?”

“Some like that are. They usually calm down enough by their funerals to be gated through by the ceremonies. There’s this varied period in which they can still be saved if they’re helped to it, before they start to lose so much of themselves that they are incapable of assent. Or ascent. I’ve done that kind of funeral invocation a few times. And been answered, more than once.” He looked sideways at Iroki, still uncomfortably being pawed at. “I’d imagine your prayers would be even better.”

“Only for the one god. Eh. I can try, I guess.” After a moment’s thought, he lowered himself to his knees in a prayer of supplication, hands up, fingers spread wide. To Pen, the formal posture always looked like a person desperately surrendering on a battlefield. Which might not be so wrong.

After a few meditative breaths, Iroki’s abstracted expression grew peculiarly serene, a faint almost-smile turning his lips that made the hairs try to rise on the back of Pen’s neck. The cellar setting reminded him of the bottle dungeon, also the lowest pit of a life’s trials. Could he hope for a similar boundless mercy to flow here? The ghost was still raging.

“Oh,” said Iroki after a moment. “My.”

Not the resonant, unmistakable voice of the god himself, entrancing and terrifying. The mix of disappointment and relief at this left Pen vaguely faint.

Iroki thumped back on his heels, gazing in wonder at the ghost. “That one is sundered.”

“I can see that.”

“No… It’s not that he’s not assenting. In fact, I’d say he’s downright demanding. But the god won’t have him.”

“A soul that the Bastard won’t take? That’d call for some heroically bad behavior on the part of our late companion, here.”

“I couldn’t feel any of the rest of the Five trying to reach out, either. I sometimes sort of can, not clear like my god though. But this was just… empty. Scary empty. Not an empty street—the street itself gone. Like stepping out the door and your feet hitting air.”

Pen swallowed against the growing cold in the pit of his stomach. “Do you think that ghost could be Methani himself?”

“That seems… likely, come to think about it,” said Iroki. “I’ve seen a lot of old sundered spirits, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen one as sundered as that fellow.” Nervously, he licked his lips. “None too happy about it, neither.”

“You know,” said Pen in unease, “I think we need to get out of here. Collect Tanar and leave this palace as fast as we can. If it’s Methani—well, any of those men, but especially if it’s Methani—and his body hasn’t been discovered already, it will be soon, and then this place is going to be thrown into so much chaos…”

“Ayup,” Iroki agreed, climbing to his feet. “Which way?”

“That, I think,” said Pen, pointing up the black corridor they’d come in by. “There were stone stairs around that first turning.”

They walked together, steps quickening. To Pen’s dismay, the sundered ghost followed them, or at least Iroki, dogging his heels like the most obnoxious of whining beggars.

“Think he’ll try to come home with us?” Iroki asked in worry as they discovered the stairs. He kept his hand on Pen’s back as they climbed through the dark. It was shaking.

“Gods, I hope not. I think he was very attached to his palace, so maybe he’ll stick here.”

A door opened at last onto a small back court; the stars overhead and the few lanterns were among the most welcome light ever to greet Pen’s eyes. They jogged toward an archway that seemed to be the right direction, judging from the murmur of voices seeping through it. No screams yet.

“When we get among the people,” Pen panted, and not from the exertion, “we should walk. And pretend like we’re not seeing, um, him.” Which wasn’t going to be easy, as the gray image raved around and around them.

“Right,” said Iroki. He kept his eyes forward, trying not to flinch at the violent, if substance-less, movements.

To Pen’s relief, they found Tanar promptly in the entry court, seated on a stone bench and chatting somewhat distractedly with another woman, who was wriggling her feet in her jeweled sandals as if she’d been standing on them too long, probably the case. Tanar looked up, her face brightening, as they approached. She didn’t, thankfully, seem to sense their ghostly follower in any way, though the thing redoubled its frenzy. If any other of the Sighted present glanced this way, it would be a disaster. Get out of here before that happened…

Pen’s “It’s time to go,” crossed Tanar’s “We should leave now.”

She bade a polite farewell to her seatmate and rose to her feet. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“No. Unfortunately. We’ll have to hunt another day. We found something else, though. Tell you about it later.”

“Sura left with Alixtra, right?” Tanar asked anxiously.

Pen scanned the chamber for Bosha, not finding him. If he’d been here, he’d surely have joined his lady. “The last I saw of them was when they went to carry out her errand. But we need to leave now regardless. I’m sure they’ll catch up with us later.”

To Pen’s surprise, Tanar didn’t argue with this. “Yes. Let’s go. Maybe the wickermen will have word.” She swept toward the exit with all the directness Pen could have wished.

To his intense gratitude, their personal haunt fell behind at the steps. After miming wails, it turned to float disconsolately back to the entry court, seeking someone else to vent its futile fury at perhaps. Pen wondered if that young sorcerer was still present. He was in for a nasty surprise, if so.

Wicker carts were lined up neatly along the street outside, their haulers variously dozing on the seats to await their patrons, chatting or dicing with each other, or gone off to a nearby tavern to wait till called for. A similar number of horse-drawn carriages would have made a congested, noisy, and manure-strewn mess. They found a lone Xarre cart about halfway along the row. The tabarded wickerman jumped up and saluted Tanar.

Tanar’s gaze searched for the second cart. “Did Master Bosha return?”

“Yes, my lady, a while back. He sent the lady guest—she had a strange boy with her—on home. Was, uh, he supposed to?”

“Yes. But where did he go?”

“Back inside. To look for you, I’d thought.”

“I didn’t see him.” She glanced back up the palace steps and bit her lip, clearly torn by conflicting desires.

“He has money on him, yes?” said Pen uneasily.

“Of course.”

“So he could hire a chair or a cart himself to get home. Or walk, if he doesn’t mind a long hike and getting his fine boots dirty.” As she continued to dither, he went on, “You at least should go home, and see to Alixtra. Iroki can ride escort.”

“Will you stay and find him?” she asked Pen.

Pen couldn’t think of anything he wanted to do less. In the face of this hesitation Tanar added quickly, “Do you have enough coin for a cart yourself?” She reached for the purse at her waist.

Pen held up a stemming hand. “Yes, no need—” As the big hazel eyes silently beseeched him, he folded. “Yes, I’ll find him.”

Hooo boy, muttered Des.

Right. At least he wouldn’t be going back in there alone…

He helped Tanar and the saint into their cart seat, murmuring to Iroki, “Tell Tanar and Lady Xarre everything. But wait until you have her safely back.”

“Understood.”

The wickerman expertly turned his cart about, took his place at the drawing shafts, and trotted off into the city night. As willing to get home as any horse, Pen expected.

With an ocean-deep reluctance, Pen made his way back to the palace steps.

Chapter 13

In the entry court, the development Pen had feared—well, one of them—was in full spate. The shocked young Thasalon sorcerer had been fastened upon by the frenzied ghost, which was batting and silently screaming at him.

The sorcerer looked up. “There! That’s the man!” He pointed at Pen.

Pen jerked back.

Hold, said Des intently. He can’t know anything.

“There is a ghost here, there is!” cried the fellow, almost in tears.

A little crowd of men and women around him were trying to soothe him, apparently under the impression that he was very drunk or possibly hallucinating. “Calm down, young man,” said one, and “Fetch a physician,” another urged over his shoulder. A cadre of uniformed palace guardsmen had been discreetly circulating all evening, with the duty of quashing any troubles among the guests from excessive wine-sickness to violent altercations. A couple of them drifted to over to see what was happening.

“The Wealdean sorcerer! He can testify I’m telling the truth!”

Pen gulped and trod forward. Why this Thasalon crowd would look to a total stranger rather than one of their own, Pen wasn’t sure, apart from the fellow’s youth, and, yes, state of inebriation. But there were sound reasons why three Temple sensitives had to cross-certify any uncanny accusation or evidence brought to an official judgment. Pen supposed two was a start.

Pen manufactured a look of surprise, remembering just in time to color his measured speech with that Wealdean accent. “I’m afraid he’s right. I don’t know the deceased, but it appears to be an older man, quite distraught. As ghosts sometimes are, when death is sudden and the disruption of it prevents them from immediately reaching their god.”

“It’s Methani!” said the young sorcerer. “Himself!”

The bewildered guardsmen, seeing nothing, were taken aback at this. Neither seemed anxious to attempt to restrain a mad or even just drunken sorcerer. After some low words with each other, one hurried away, probably to find an officer.

A number of heads turned to Pen. “Was he murdered?” someone had to ask.

It said something about either Thasalon or Methani this this was the first question on everyone’s tongues. Pen temporized, with a touch of secret maliciousness, “I can’t tell. Men of his age and girth often pass quite suddenly of an apoplectic stroke, either of the heart or the brain. Even in their sleep.” He allowed, “I don’t see any obvious fatal wounds, although sometimes ghosts don’t reflect them. I’m sorry I can’t confirm his identity. Have any older gentlemen here gone missing?”

This triggered a general flutter, as a scattering of people went off in a panic to check on the senior members of their parties. That was going to spread the news in a hurry…

The gray Methani was darting back and forth between the sorcerer and one of the exits, for all the world like a dog trying to convince its master to take it for a walk.

“I think it’s trying to guide us to its body,” the young sorcerer guessed, probably correctly. He began to follow the ghost out of the courtyard, leading a procession of the concerned and curious, including the worried guardsman. Some other guests evidently decided that now would be a good time to leave this party, and began to circumspectly not-hasten to the street.

A hand grasped Pen’s arm, and he almost had a heart attack himself. Bosha’s voice hissed in his ear, “Bastard’s teeth, what is going on here? Where’s Tanar?”

“Safe. I bundled her and Iroki into a cart and sent them off a few minutes ago, before this all erupted.”

Bosha exhaled, ungripping Pen’s arm. Pen trusted he hadn’t left a bruise. Despite the stylish manicures, the secretary-swordsman’s hands were strong.

“Where were you?” Pen asked.

“Looking for Tanar. This place is an accursed maze. What’s the racket about?”

Pen lowered his voice. “A fresh ghost that is probably Minister Methani’s popped up a bit ago. Iroki and I encountered it down by the cisterns. It was drawn to the saint, uselessly—Iroki says it’s sundered. Very sundered. The minister was almost certainly murdered, somehow. I expect everyone’s about to find out how.”

A long indrawn breath reemerged as an under-voiced, “Someone has my gratitude.”

“It wasn’t you?” Pen was almost surprised.

“No.” Bosha’s scarred lips thinned as he glanced around. “But you shouldn’t be seen to know me.”

“We came in together,” Pen pointed out.

“All right, yes… So we just met for the first time this afternoon. Gah. Why would a Wealdean Temple sorcerer be visiting Tanar?”

“Not Tanar. Lady Xarre. I bore a letter from, from my archdivine’s merchant brother to her regarding some sea trade. I don’t know what was in it, I delivered it sealed. I invited myself along tonight as a goggling tourist.”

A knife-sharp grin. “Welcome to Thasalon, traveler. …This ghost, you can really see it? It’s there, it’s real?”

“Yes. Shouldn’t we get out of here before the uproar spreads?”

“Too late. I’ve already been noticed.” Bosha’s gaze flicked over a few guests staring at him in doubt or open suspicion. “It would be fatal to bolt now. And Lady Tanar and Lady Xarre need news of the event, undistorted by rumor. Shall we follow the crowd?”

This wasn’t hard. They just trailed the growing hubbub.

“Someone was clever in their choice of both time and place, if this was a murder,” Bosha commented out of the side of his mouth. “There must be a dozen high bureaucrats here tonight who would be delighted by their rival’s death. Not to mention a few military officers.”

“Lots of suspects, then,” said Pen, and didn’t add, Besides you.

He didn’t have to. “Yes,” sighed Bosha. “Unfortunately, most of them would be equally delighted to sacrifice me in their stead, and not just the guilty one.”

“Let’s find out what actually happened, first,” suggested Pen. Before panicking. Though it was already too late for that, for his own part. Bosha maintained his usual air of ironic detachment, but his complex soul was churning with tension.

The next courtyard was small, of an odd triangular shape, poorly lit, and not decked out for hospitality. A cluster of people around a ground-floor door tucked under the single gallery led them to the right place. “Make way for the physician!” called a guardsman, some senior officer who had arrived to take belated charge, and the cluster rippled. Methani probably kept his own medical man for the palace’s needs, though this might be a hastily conscripted guest.

When Pen came up, trying to see over heads, another voice said, “It’s the Wealdean sorcerer. Let him through.”

Pen pushed past the jostle into a small private cabinet of some sort, office not bedchamber. Bosha followed at his shoulder, to slip sideways and take up a vantage leaning against the wall. If he was trying to blend with it, it was a hopeless task. His striking pale looks, set off by his somber garments and darkly shimmering brocade coat, would make him stand out anywhere, even without the slim sword at his hip to add its note of understated menace.

The fleshly twin of the ghost lay on its back on the floor, evidently just pulled out from concealment under a writing table. Lord Bordane stood with his arms tightly folded, watching closely over the corpse, flanked by the appalled guard officer. A huddle of senior party guests encircled this centerpiece, crowding the chamber.

An older woman in formal dress knelt beside the body, quick hands checking its eyes and their lids, spittle-flecked mouth, stiffening and faintly discolored hands. The young sorcerer knelt on its other side, dividing his worried glances between the physician and the hovering ghost. “It seems to want you to look behind his upper arm,” he quavered.

She had been pressing the dead man’s fingernails, but at this gave a doubtful searching look somewhere left of where the ghost actually hovered. At her gesture, the sorcerer gingerly helped her roll the body onto its side. She reached for a small bloody tear in the upper right sleeve, but then drew her fingers more cautiously back. She ripped the fabric apart instead to expose a round, deep puncture wound, as if a nail had been driven in, to the rear and just below the shoulder.

Pen glanced back at Bosha to check his reaction to this. The eunuch’s eyes widened in a moment of genuine shock, instantly masked, his face growing as bland and still as a white marble statue.

Further examination discovered another puncture, like to the first, piercing Methani’s plump belly. Squeezing found no instrument left in the wounds. At a nod from his officer, one especially attentive guardsman dropped to his hands and knees and began searching the floor. Feet shuffled aside for him.

“There will have to be a proper autopsy, under the supervision of the imperial magistrate,” the physician stated the obvious. “The sooner, the better.”

A whisper of Poisoned! susurrated through the watchers. Pen’s Sight and medical training agreed. Something paralyzing to the nerves, leading to convulsions and swift and near-silent death, apart from some last bit of thumping around. No outcry, or none that was heard outside this room. Within the last hour, or even last half-hour—the encounter with the ghost by the cistern set a minimum time since death, but this physician would likely guess it closely enough without that clue.

About half the heads in the room turned to Bosha, including Lord Bordane’s. His eyes narrowed. “You,” he growled. “You’re known to carry poisons…”

“That’s no secret.” Bosha managed to inject his voice with disdain. “Given the gravity of my charge, I equip myself with every aid available.” He held up his pale hands. “But acquit me of stupidity, if you won’t of malice. If I wanted to murder in stealth, and not just defend, I’d pick any other method but that one. For obvious reasons. …Also, I’d hide my traces much more cleverly.”

“You have always thwarted my courtship of Lady Tanar.”

“But that would move me to murder you, my lord, not your uncle,” said Bosha with spurious reasonableness. “I get no benefit from this.” Pen wasn’t sure what evil impulse compelled him to add, “You do, of course.”

After a moment of bitter tension, Bordane abruptly ordered, “Search him.”

Bosha clenched his teeth on a wince, but submitted to having his sword and all four knives taken from him.

The thin, flat blade in his arm sheath was handed cautiously down to the physician, who compared it to the puncture and shook her head. “Not this, I promise you. Nor any of the others.”

For a moment, Pen breathed again, till Bordane said, “Check that pouch on his belt.”

It yielded some coins, a comb, a handkerchief, and a small leather folder which, when opened, revealed a row of nail-like larding needles, each in its own tiny sheath.

“Be very careful handling those,” Bosha advised in a dry tone.

The physician compared one’s diameter to the puncture, then demanded someone hand her down a quill from the writing table, which she used to test the depth of the small wound. Withdrawing it, she compared it to the larding needle. “Perfect match. Driven in with some force.”

“May I point out,” said Bosha tightly, “the case is still full. None are used.”

She frowned at this. “None of these are, no.” Implying there could have been others, easily disposed of almost anywhere? She replaced the sample needle in its slot and gave the pouch into the keeping of the guard officer.

With a short, rancorous nod toward Bosha, Lord Bordane ordered, “Arrest him.” The officer and his men in the chamber began to move toward the wall.

Bosha began angrily, “You surely can’t imagine lord regent Methani would—” but cut his own words short midsentence, hands clenching.

In a weak voice, the young sorcerer pointed out, “The ghost is not reacting very much to him. I’d think it should be gesturing violent accusations, if it had them.” The revenant was however making baffled movements back and forth between Bordane and Bosha.

Several men looked to Penric.

“I don’t see anything special, either,” said Pen, not quite truthfully. “I must agree. This soul is still fresh enough to remember its death clearly. Ghosts have accused their murderers before. A few on record have even managed to make false accusations, if they died with enough malice in their hearts to render them sundered from their god.”

It was the first time anyone here had dared to say the word sundered aloud, and most of the witnesses flinched, including Bordane. Methani’s funeral, which must follow soon in this summer heat, was going to be a disturbing show, assuming no one tried to tamper with the responses of the sacred animals. It would be made plain to all then that this was no temporary detour on his soul’s path, but that in truth no god would have him.

Pandemonium, Des predicted with relish.

Pen wondered if his vows as a divine required him to muster more charity toward the dead man. He considered his god, and decided not.

Pen’s misdirection was not enough to prevent Bosha’s arrest, but it at least seemed to reduce the violence with which it was carried out. For now. That, and the quelling effect of the array of high-ranking witnesses present, many with posts in imperial justice, and not all of whom were members of Methani’s cabal. Pen wasn’t sure what chaos was happening in the palace at large by now, but in here, the preponderance of senior and experienced men and women, however upset, was forcing some order on the events.

Addressing Pen by his Wealdean alias, Bosha called him to his side. “I am so sorry, Learned, that you had to be exposed to this unpleasantness tonight. This is not the way the Xarre household normally treats its honored guests, I promise you. But will you please bear report of this to Lady Xarre and Lady Tanar?”

“Certainly, Master Bosha,” said Pen. He didn’t have to feign his worry. “I’m sure Lady Xarre will send you her best lawyers tomorrow.” He wanted to ask Bosha what he had been going to say about what the lord regent would, or would not, but there was no way.

A wry smirk stretched Bosha’s scar. Lowering his voice, he returned, “I don’t think lawyers are going to be enough for this one. But at least my arrest wasn’t in secret. Those are more directly dangerous.” He allowed himself to be bustled out, surprisingly docile in the guards’ hands.

Pen tried to follow, but was delayed by a spate of questions about the ghost put to both the Thasalon sorcerer and himself, by the senior men, the physician, and Bordane. Pen kept his answers truthful about anything the young divine could also see and report, but uncolored by opinion, as befit a stranger here.

So wholly unsustained, the ghost was already starting to lose its definition of both shape and intent. By tomorrow, Pen guessed, it might be well on its way to the indifference and forgetfulness that was the fate of the sundered. Would that it could have happened faster—Methani’s body might still be undiscovered, and the Xarre party all safe away an hour ago.

He finally managed to extract himself, but not before inquiring of one of the judicial men, distinguished by vestments of the Father’s Order and braids of high rank, “Where will they take Master Bosha? I’m sure Lady Xarre will want to know.”

“Imperial prison,” the man told him. He added, in case Pen’s foreign origin left him ignorant of the nuances, “Minister Methani was a lord regent. This isn’t just murder, it’s treason.”

“Oh,” said Pen. All right, he’d known that, he just hadn’t had time yet to think the consequences all the way through. He withdrew without letting anything more escape his mouth.

*     *     *

The guests had thinned out greatly while Pen had been in the murder chamber. The majordomo, wildly distracted, nonetheless managed to find a servant to secure a wickerman, though Pen had to wait outside on the steps for several minutes. Pen gave the man general directions to the Xarre estate, trusting he knew his way around much better than Pen did. The city wickermen who worked the hours between midnight and dawn were paid double for their trouble, and might expect to receive extra for an especially brisk delivery. Despite the long distance, the man seemed pleased to be making his night’s income on one fare.

Pen sank onto the flimsy seat, brain dizzy with speculation, and with a lurch they started off. He spared a moment of deep regret for his lost bookseller ploy. This really wasn’t my plan.

So whose plan was it, do you think? asked Des. Since the first encounter with the ghost she hadn’t interrupted nearly as much as usual—cautious of the god, intent on events, or just enjoying the play? Night of Chaos should, as staged productions went, certainly appeal to her.

I won’t deny it, she said, but it’s most unfortunate about Bosha. I’d wish them all joy of one another except for that.

Mm, Pen agreed. He didn’t doubt the eunuch bodyguard was capable of carrying out such a killing, but he really didn’t seem to have done so.

The larding needle loaded with who-knew-what concoction had certainly been recognized at once for what it was by the physician, but unless everyone in Thasalon routinely carried around packs of little steel adders on their persons, Methani’s death must have been very much premeditated, and craftily planned. Who benefits?, wasn’t that the legal question? Pen’s old Easthome friend who worked as an investigator for the Father’s Order there would have known, and Pen wished he had him to hand. Locator Oswyl would have been in his element, if out of his jurisdiction.

It must have been some trusted colleague or agent who’d cornered the minister alone and unguarded, however briefly. The missing Tronio was… not out of the running, though Pen could not offhand think of a motivation. Yet Pen would swear the sorcerer hadn’t been present by that time. An angry general? A bureaucratic colleague anxious to inherit his position, as Bordane seemed to have acquired the late Fasso’s? Some jealous lover? Eunuchs sometimes had them, female as well as male, though Pen, despite his medical training, wasn’t exactly sure how that worked in all variants.

Mira could instruct you, Des offered, an interjection Pen ignored.

Pen, reluctantly, had to acquit Bordane, at least for any motive of financial gain. He was rich and had been growing richer under his uncle’s patronage. Pen wondered if the prior Prefect of Shipbuilding had been assassinated to free that post, or if that was just a happy side-benefit of some other aim. How deep was Bordane in his uncle’s more secret affairs?

And then there was Methani’s cabal, a whole association of government men of like mind and ambition. With the hub of their wheel taken out, would the spokes fly apart? Would they turn upon each other in a struggle for ascendance? The entire imperial government could be in upheaval by the time Adelis landed. Whether that would benefit Princess Laris or the opposite was hard for Pen to guess.

If Methani had thought himself above reprisal, he need not have been nearly so careful in staging Prince Ragat’s death as natural. Would Laris and Nao have sent an assassin to their rival regent? They hadn’t tried such a ploy before, so far as Pen knew, but if Laris had somehow learned of the method used to murder her uncle, she might have decided that the rules had changed.

Exiting Thasalon at night proved to be a swifter task than entering it, or else the wickermen had arrangements to speed their passage through the ramparts. In less time than Pen had expected, they drew up before the front gate of the Xarre mansion, and he paid the hard-breathing man off handsomely. Cressets were burning on the walls; the porter was on the watch to let Pen inside.

“Isn’t Master Bosha with you, sir?” the man asked, barring the postern door again behind them. “Is he coming?”

“Master Bosha was… detained in Thasalon. He won’t be back tonight.”

“Ah. I suppose I can let the kennel master know he can let the dogs out now.”

“I expect so.”

The Xarre mastiffs, Pen knew from experience, were better guards against intrusion than the human ones. But Lady Xarre’s defenses were set up to deal with robbers. Not imperial soldiers. This estate was no fortress.

Pen hurried to the mansion’s door, whose night-porter, after also asking after the missing Bosha, conducted him at once to Lady Xarre’s sitting room.

The chamber was bright and overwarm from candles in mirrored wall sconces and glassed oil lamps, with the circle of chairs set again for urgent conclave. Lady Xarre’s wrappings might be a dressing gown, but she had waited up for their return, her braided hair not yet undone. Iroki, Alixtra, and Tanar were seated around her, still in their finery, with two chairs empty. Kittio was not present, but since Alixtra was fairly composed, Pen guessed he was safe, possibly tucked up in her bed. As Pen closed the door firmly behind him, Tanar leaped up, gesturing anxiously.

“Where is Sura? Didn’t you find him?”

“He found me.” Pen took one of the empty chairs, grateful to sit. The night’s events had drained him. “Unfortunately, not before they found Methani’s body. He’d been assassinated in a back room while the reception was going on. Poisoned. They’ve arrested Bosha for it.”

“What? No!” Tanar cried in horror. “Why?”

“He was inspired to insult Bordane at just the wrong moment, and things went downhill from there. They found these little syringes in his belt pouch, poisoned larding needles, which were a match for the punctures in Methani’s body. None of his had been used, but that wasn’t much attended to in the heat of the moment.”

“Five gods weep, he knew was supposed to have left with Alixtra!”

“Was he?”

“Yes! I’d ordered him to! He shouldn’t even have still been there by then!”

“Did Iroki tell you about finding Methani’s ghost down by the cisterns? Or it finding us, rather.”

“Yes,” said Tanar.

Lady Xarre nodded. “It was a most bizarre tale. Somewhat… satisfying, but bizarre. It was Methani, then? The Blessed said you suspected it but weren’t sure.”

“Confirmed right after he and Tanar left. There was another Thasalon Temple sorcerer present, a Sighted man. I’d met him earlier. The sundered ghost found him, and led him to the body.”

Tanar sat back, astounded. “Who ever could have anticipated that!”

“You saw this?” asked Lady Xarre.

“Yes, they dragged me in as a second Sighted witness.” Pen gave a summary of the scene in the chamber. “Bosha had followed me in. He said he didn’t want to draw attention by absconding, but I think mainly he was curious.”

“Idiot,” said Tanar fiercely.

“They told me he’d be taken to the imperial prison.”

“No! No! No!”

“I don’t think anything too awful will happened to him tonight?” Pen suggested, out of no certainty, but distressed for her distress. “Everything is in too much disarray. There were important witnesses to his arrest, not all of them the minister’s creatures. And they know he’ll have lawyers coming.”

Lady Xarre nodded firmly at this. “I’ll send messengers tonight.”

Tanar scrubbed her fingers over her face, digging in. “But I’m terrified he’ll confess.”

“Under torture?” Pen said. “I suppose any man might, and the fact that it’s considered treason as well as murder won’t help, but it seems too soon for them to get to that. And such testimony is always suspect. The Father’s Order doesn’t like it.”

“No. If he figures it out. And he might, if he saw those punctures.”

“But he didn’t kill Methani.”

“Of course he didn’t,” said Tanar scornfully. She sucked in a ragged breath. “I did.”

Chapter 14

The stunned silence around the circle was broken first by Alixtra.

“Oh, bless you!”

“Oh,” said Lady Xarre faintly, “dear.”

Iroki just looked interested.

“It was the logical thing to do,” defended Tanar, “to give the most help to Adelis before he lands. And I was the logical person to do it. I don’t say Sura wouldn’t have tried if I’d asked him, but Methani would never have let him get within six feet, still less ever have gone into a room alone with him.”

You surely can’t imagine lord regent Methani would—Bosha had begun to say. Pen thought he could now finish that sentence. And knew why Bosha hadn’t. If he’d guessed Tanar’s involvement, the last thing he’d have wanted was everyone there wondering just what sort of person Methani would have let within six feet of him, alone in a room.

Alixtra, in a tone of wonder, asked, “How did you do it? How did you even know how to do it?”

Tanar shrugged. “I’ve been preparing Sura’s paralytics and poisons for years. Learned Penric has seen my stillroom. I’d started by learning to make all the medicines and dyes for the household, as a pastime when I was younger, and Mother let me be tutored by a trained apothecary.”

“It seemed prudent at the time,” Lady Xarre noted, and Pen wondered what it said that while she was taken aback by Tanar’s revelation, she didn’t seem to doubt it. “Given that we’d all be using them.”

“Not that I was going to be allowed to make a living as one, but I found the subtleties of the art quite fascinating.”

It was the most successful of the unexpected interests the sheltered young noblewoman had found to absorb her energies while waiting for her betrothed; better, Pen remembered, than her brief foray into horseshoeing. Ship navigation had been another, and he wondered if she’d actually had a chance to use that learning on her more recent outings.

“I need to refresh and reload Sura’s larding needles about every four months or so, as the paralytic dries out and loses its potency. What he carries is only a paralytic—though it might kill someone who was already fragile. I don’t know if they will think to check that, or if he’ll even tell them to. When I prepared Methani’s doses yesterday, after I’d realized the excellence of this opportunity, I mixed the paralytic with enough poison to drop an ox. Because I figured I’d only get one brief chance, and it daren’t miscarry.”

That certainly accounted for why Methani’s wounds matched Bosha’s needles. They were of the same supply.

“How did you get Methani alone?” asked Alixtra.

“It wasn’t that difficult, for me. I asked him if I could speak in private with him for a moment about Lord Bordane, implying that I was giving up on waiting any more for Adelis, and might be changing my mind about Bordane’s suit. Methani and Bordane have long hankered to add the Xarre fortune to their coffers. I hit him with the first needle the instant he turned to close the door upon us, as hard as I could. Because I didn’t think I could bear standing around chatting.

“I inserted the second dose after he was down, to make very sure. The hardest part was dragging him under the writing table, where he couldn’t be seen by a casual glance into the room, but might look as if he’d fallen there. Because he was heavy. And not… not quite dead yet.” She was shuddering in memory, but her jaw was determined. “It was all so horrible. But such a relief.

“It didn’t take ten minutes altogether, even with waiting to be certain. Sura should have been long away by then. We all should have been away before Methani was even found. I thought I’d thought of everything. Except that he’d become sundered and then seen. The Bastard takes up the most unlikely and unsavory souls. If all other gods failed him, there should have still been that.”

“For your consolation, Lady Tanar,” put in Iroki, “Methani was surprised, too.”

“He shouldn’t have been,” said Alixtra viciously. “Five gods spare us, he shouldn’t have been.”

“I don’t think Bosha will make a false confession,” said Penric, thinking on it. “To do so would point back to you or Lady Xarre as having set him on, and the treason charge would spread out to the whole Xarre household.”

“It might anyway,” said Lady Xarre uneasily. “Methani isn’t the only government man who’d be glad for a chance to seize my property, for the empire or for himself.”

“At any other time, maybe,” conceded Tanar. “But Adelis’s arrival is going to wholly change that gameboard.”

Giving Pen yet another reason to fervently pray his brother-in-law’s ship was not sunk at sea. Or even much delayed on its voyage.

Alixtra said doubtfully, “Is General Arisaydia going to be all right with this?” Clearly wondering how unnerved the man would be to find himself betrothed to an assassin.

Tanar tossed her head. “I’m hoping he’ll be pleased. Including that horrific blinding, Methani tried to have him killed five times. His unjust exile has delayed our marriage by years. Granted, neither Adelis nor anyone else was supposed to know it was me who disposed of his opponent.”

“Adelis,” offered Pen, “is nearly as bloody-minded as my demon. I don’t know if he started out that way, or that twenty years of military service made him so. But he would have to be a far greater hypocrite than I think to object to this. Tanar would have to poison squads of enemies to match even the souls he’s dispatched in battle with his own hands, not to mention however you’d count the deaths he’s responsible for as a commander. I really think her hope is justified.”

Tanar brightened, reassured. Alixtra’s brows drew in, thinking Pen knew-not-what. About mercy for assassins, perhaps?

“But another problem with Bosha’s arrest occurs to me,” said Pen slowly. “You realize it’s delivered into unfriendly hands a man who knows every secret about Adelis’s arrival?”

Tanar’s lips parted in dismay. “Sura wasn’t supposed to have still been there,” she repeated under her breath.

Lady Xarre rubbed her aging face. Rapidly aging, Pen shouldn’t wonder. She said, “I realized two days ago that the other persons who needed told of General Arisaydia’s coming were Princess Laris and Lord Nao. But I didn’t see how to get a message directly to them that would both tell them what they need to know, and not be decipherable if seen by the wrong eyes. Codes must be set up in advance. Surakos is good at oblique wordings, but he says they depend on knowing enough private things about both the sender and the recipient.” And Surakos isn’t here didn’t need to be underlined. “I’ve only seen Laris a few times in the imperial palace back when I still attended court, and that when she was a child, and I’ve never met Nao.”

“Where are they now?” asked Penric. “In Thasalon, or staying at another estate?” If they were off in some remote Cedonian province, they could be unreachable, but they had to be anxiously awaiting the return of, or at least some word from, their envoy General Gria.

“Thasalon, I believe. I’ll have to confirm this. I’d originally thought to keep myself, Tanar, and my household well away from this dangerous conspiracy until things were settled, but we’re far beyond that possibility now.” She regarded her daughter with a put-upon maternal sigh. Tanar raised her chin, and did not squirm.

“I might try… something?” said Pen. “Des and I.”

Lady Xarre’s gray eyebrows climbed. “You have some magical way to communicate at a distance?”

“No. Unfortunately. But I might be your messenger. Or, not me exactly. But the visiting Wealdean templeman was a close eyewitness to the events at Methani’s palace, whom they must be glad to question in person. If I were to present myself as that, I might be able to get in to them.”

“Hm,” said Lady Xarre, and “Tonight?” said Tanar.

“It can’t be tonight,” said Lady Xarre. “The hour is much too late, and Laris and Nao should have time to be given the news, which might not even happen till tomorrow morning.”

“It would help to have a little more chance to work out the details,” agreed Pen. Gods. He’d come to Thasalon to find and confront Tronio, and he hadn’t even managed to meet the man yet. If the sorcerer had simply gone home to bed, what was his reaction going to be when he was greeted with this lurid story in the morning?

“Sura,” whimpered Tanar under her breath, but did not argue with the logic of this. “But… what if they decide that the best way to keep a prisoner from speaking is not to rescue him, but to kill him? Or have his tongue cut out, or some other awful thing?”

Her exhausted imagination was running away with her, Pen thought. He could only promise, “I’ll do my best to see such notions don’t occur to them.”

He added to Alixtra, “I know you and Bosha got your boy away. You found him uninjured, I trust?”

She nodded. “Five gods be thanked, we were in time for that. We were stopped once by another servant on the way in, but Master Bosha overbore him, very haughtily. I’d have panicked.” Her face softened. “Kittio was bewildered when we woke him up in his bed, but glad to see me. Bosha carried him out for me. He was asleep again before we made it back here.”

“I shall be glad to make young Master Kittio’s acquaintance,” Pen told her, eliciting her rare smile.

With Lady Xarre’s nod, the conference broke up for the remains of the night.

At the door, Des seized Pen’s mouth to ask Tanar curiously, “Tell me. If Adelis and Bosha were both falling over a cliff into the sea in front of you, which one would you grab?”

Her hesitation was long enough for any number of men to fall over a cliff. “…Can Adelis swim?”

Pen’s lips twitched. “Well. Let’s hope so.”

*     *     *

It was almost noon of the next day before the Xarre wickerman delivered Penric to the steps of Laris and Nao’s Thasalon palace. Tanar had been anxious at the delays, evolving more and more gruesome fears for Bosha, and increasingly exotic rescue schemes hanging on which version she imagined. Penric, Lady Xarre, and finally even Desdemona all came down on the side of keeping things simple unless otherwise forced, so Pen was again presenting himself in the person and garb of the visiting Wealdman, and trusting his known witness of last night’s events would gate him through the well-guarded door.

So it proved; he didn’t even have to sit for very long in the entry court before the majordomo came back for him, jumping him over several other waiting supplicants, who eyed him in jealousy as he was led into the inner reaches. In the Cedonian style, this building was smaller, simpler, and older than Methani’s. It had actually been Lord Nao’s before his unexpected high marriage, about which Lady Xarre had given Pen a precis.

After several variously broken political betrothals, the princess had not been, as once anticipated, bartered off in some foreign marriage treaty, removing her from Cedonia and the succession. Instead, at the third empress’s instigation, she’d been given to a relatively minor nobleman, fifteen years older than herself, with no military connections that might someday be used against her younger brother. This scheme for sidelining her threat had foundered on two unforeseen elements: Nao’s keen intelligence, and the pair falling in love or at least very strong liking with each other. Nonetheless, if the emperor had lived long enough to see his son through to adulthood, the princess would likely have faded as planned to a mere social force in Thasalon.

Laris and Nao were taking their morning callers in a small courtyard graced with flowers and orange trees in tubs; their cushioned chairs could be moved to follow the shrinking shade, or under an awning when that no longer sufficed. Guards stood at the two entry arches and, Pen noted, a pair armed with short bows patrolled the gallery serving the second floor, all discreetly out of earshot if voices were kept low. A lady-in-waiting and a male secretary with a writing board flanked their principals on two stools.

As they came up, the majordomo announced Penric: “My lady. My lord. Learned Ingwyl of Rosehall to wait upon you.” Pen’s alias of last night, constructed from the names of his two best friends in the Weald.

Laris was a young woman of about Tanar’s age, with tea-brown eyes but not otherwise dissimilar in coloration and build, wearing a light linen shift with a gauzy silk over-robe, her dark hair bound up in smooth bands. Her features were regular, if not remarkably beautiful, mainly notable for their echo of her late father’s strong nose. Nao, nearing forty, was darker, sleek, his receding hair pulled back, of middle height, with a sedentary man’s soft body that another decade would likely render stout. He too was dressed for the Cedonian summer in loose trousers and a sleeveless tunic sewn of fine fabrics, and sandals. They both looked at Pen with identical narrow-eyed interest as he took his indicated seat across from them.

“Thank you for seeing me,” said Pen. “I have a great deal to tell you, some of it in confidence.” He glanced at the attendants. “How strict must be for you to decide, but I may say that I bear a message from General Gria.”

Laris’s head went back; Nao only blinked. Laris said to her woman and her majordomo, “Leave us,” and Nao said to his man, “Wait with the guards till I beckon you.” They all decamped as told, clearly stifling curiosity.

“I’d best take things in order,” Pen began. “First, I must tell you that I’m actually Learned Penric of Vilnoc, Duke Jurgo’s court sorcerer.” He quickly overbore their alarmed jolt at this revelation with, “General Gria and his aide reached my brother-in-law General Arisaydia there with your message eighteen days ago. With Jurgo’s leave, they left Vilnoc two nights later on an Orban navy sloop, aiming to be landed somewhere outside Thasalon as soon as the winds allow. The earliest, maybe two more days. Later if the voyage has been slower.”

Nao’s eyes widened, and he leaned forward. Laris looked faintly bewildered, if pleased: “But weren’t you the Wealdman at Methani’s reception last night?”

“I was. In this Learned Ingwyl persona, since I couldn’t disguise my Temple demon from any Sighted I might encounter. Which I did. Which was how I came to be conscripted as a close witness when Methani’s sundered ghost suddenly turned up.”

“He really was sundered, as we heard report of this morning?” asked Nao.

“Yes. Very.”

Laris eyed him in cool speculation. “So, were you sent as a spy? Or… an assassin?”

“Neither,” said Pen, “though I can imagine how more persons than you might leap to that hazardous conclusion. I really am an oath-sworn Temple divine, and my usual pursuits are much more scholarly, but I was drawn in, ultimately, because Methani sent assassins to Adelis in Orbas. Twice. Both miscarried, obviously. The first was a squad of bravos who attacked him at his fort, almost eight weeks back. Thanks to Adelis’s alert guardsmen, none survived the attempt.”

Laris’s lips pinched. Nao’s teeth set.

“But at the second one, the day after Gria arrived”—Pen drew a long breath—“things started to get really complicated…”

The telling of it was long, convoluted, and frequently interrupted by questions, some astute, some understandably baffled. They’d received many of the same conflicting rumors about Adelis that the Xarre ladies had, and were intensely relieved to learn he was uninjured. Pen tried not to get too diverted onto his basic-demon-lectures, though portions of it needed to be understood by his listeners before the rest of the events could.

Laris was less horrified than grimly validated by Pen’s confirmation of what had really happened to her uncle Prince Ragat. “We were both so certain it was an assassination,” she said, with a worried glance at her husband, “but no one could determine how, and without that, we could make no accusations. You may be sure we insisted the Mother’s Order try every test.”

One smaller mystery was resolved along the way, the identity of Alixtra’s first victim.

“It must have been Minister Hethel,” said Nao. “He was imprisoned on false charges which we’d succeeded in having dismissed, but he died in his cell the night before he was supposed to be released. The prison staff swore under the most stringent questioning that it hadn’t been any of their doing. How this Learned Tronio fellow of Methani’s got in is a question that never came up.”

“Do you know Tronio?”

“Only to speak to in passing. He’s been one of Methani’s court for years. I always assumed he was a liaison for any business of the minister’s that impinged on Temple interests.”

“To be clear,” said Pen, “I have no evidence yet that anyone in the Thasalon Temple hierarchy except Tronio was involved in this demon-ploy. He and Methani both had very good reasons to keep it close.”

“Hm.” Nao waved him to go on.

Nothing about any of the twisted political schemes had seemed hard for either of Pen’s listeners to follow. Only when he came to his account of the god in the bottle dungeon were they taken aback, Nao seeming rather stunned. Getting them both over the matter of Pen’s bringing the assassin back to Thasalon with him was the most delicate part; Pen mentioned the white god frequently.

“It’s highly probable,” said Pen, “that once the saint has succeeded in removing Tronio’s demon and it becomes practicable to arrest him, she’ll be quite willing to testify against him in return for a pardon, or even the clemency of exile. Note there were only three witnesses to that conspiracy, and one of them is beyond confession. Or anything else.”

Laris looked incensed at this. “She murdered an imperial prince.”

“One normally arrests the bowman, not his crossbow. She is much more than a tool, though it’s obvious Methani and Tronio treated her as one, but I maintain she is accessory not murderer.”

Nao scowled at him. “And if we differ?”

“Please, please don’t,” Penric begged. “I undertook to guarantee her safety if she cooperated with me, and it would make things dreadfully awkward”—he just managed the tact not to say, if I had to oppose you—“with Adelis.” Though with their chief opponent Methani removed, Pen wondered how much less critical Adelis had become to Laris and Nao’s affairs. The general must still be wanted, if not for a palace coup then for the Rusylli tribes menacing their empire’s borders, for this gave them pause. “And what our god might do on her behalf, I can’t imagine,” he added truthfully enough, if only to plant the quelling idea in their heads.

“Methani’s luck certainly seems to have run out,” Nao conceded. “Who did poison him last night, if it wasn’t you? The accusation of the Xarre’s servant did sound plausible.”

Which brought Pen, neatly and at long last, to his own aim for this meeting. “I promise you it was not him. I’m afraid I can’t say who it might have been, although there were plenty of suspects passing in and out to choose from. Many people were shocked at Methani’s death, still more at his attested sundering, but there was a remarkable lack of surprise. Or grief, even on Lord Bordane’s part. Master Bosha’s main error was bringing himself to Bordane’s attention at a bad moment in the proceedings. I gather they have some old enmity about Lady Tanar, Bosha’s long charge and Adelis’s betrothed.”

Yes, underline that last bit, Des agreed.

“They are indeed betrothed?” said Laris. “They’ve kept it very secret.”

“For fears Tanar might be used against Adelis, yes. But they both seem devoted to each other.”

Or Tanar found it a convenient excuse to be left alone with Bosha, Des opined.

Shh.

Laris, after a speculative glance at her husband that he reflected, accepted this with a nod. Both she and Nao certainly saw how convenient it was to their own interests.

“Bosha has been a faithful retainer to the Xarre ladies,” Pen went on, “a loyalty they return. I am especially charged by them this morning to beg of you any and all aid you can deliver to him in his arrest. Since there is some personal enmity between him and Lord Bordane, Tanar is very afraid Bordane may take this chance for some petty, or not so petty, revenge. No one could stop a lord regent from abusing the machineries of justice”—he turned to Nao—“except another lord regent.”

Or maybe a powerful and clever sorcerer, said Des.

That’s a stretch I’d rather avoid, thank you.

Laris’s neutral expression suggested that the fate of another noblewoman’s servant was not normally something to concern an imperial princess. Pen wondered if he might have done better to imply Bosha actually had done her the favor of removing Methani. But Nao looked thoughtful.

Pen, a little apprehensively, drove home his reserved clincher argument: “The other issue, of course, is that Master Bosha knows everything about Adelis’s movements that we do.”

“Oh,” said Laris, her hand touching her throat.

A short silence.

“What I can do,” Nao said finally, “is write an order remanding him into my personal custody as a lord regent. He can be brought here and kept safe for both the Xarre ladies and General Arisaydia, and from any reprisals to penetrate the prison. The fate of poor Hethel being a lesson against relying on its walls to protect and not just hold.”

“It could make it look as if he acted under our orders, though.” Laris sounded more judiciously concerned than objecting outright.

“If he’s indeed innocent, there must be a real guilty party somewhere, who may yet be found,” said Nao. “That problem could solve itself.”

Eee, no, thought Pen.

Laris shrugged. “I for one would not be inclined to pursue our unknown benefactor very hard.”

Des would have grinned if she could, but she noted to Pen, This might only serve to transfer Bosha as hostage into less unfriendly hands.

I actually trust this more if they see his custody as a benefit to themselves, and not a mere favor.

Point.

Nao called his patiently waiting secretary back over to him, and gave the requisite instructions. The man hurried off to the palace’s scriptorium to obtain the correct paper and seals and write out the official order. Pen was relieved that there would be no more delays. This unscheduled conference had already run long—the other supplicants waiting in the entry court must be incensed by now.

Laris tapped her fingers upon her knee, frowning. “If this uncanny assassin had succeeded with General Arisaydia, is there any doubt that I would have been next on Methani’s list? I’m still not best pleased with letting the woman go free. …Assuming it wasn’t she who turned on her lord last night.”

“It was not,” said Pen, “but please consider the mitigating factors. You two have a young daughter, do you not?” Their faces softened unwilled. A girl of three, Lady Xarre had told Pen. Easy to picture—he thought of Rina with a homesick pang. “Methani held her child hostage, and threatened horrors upon him. What would you two refuse to do, in that position?”

This appeal struck home to both of them. By the look on Nao’s face, the answer was Not much. And by Laris’s, But the threatener had better never turn his back. She gave a reluctant gesture of concession.

This brought another mother and child to Pen’s mind. “This is Adelis’s business, not mine, which is solely with Tronio. But with everything upended this morning, what are your plans for the council of regents?” Probably not politic to ask directly, And for the boy emperor? “Now down to just three, the empress-mother, Bordane, and yourself.” Leaving Nao still outvoted, if the empress-mother aligned herself with Bordane in his uncle’s stead.

Nao frowned. “Prince Ragat should have been replaced before now, but we were at loggerheads over a candidate. Adding a new regent requires the unanimous consent of all the remaining ones. We wanted an ally—preferably Laris herself. Methani of course wanted his own creature. As of yesterday, no sufficiently neutral other had been found who was acceptable to both sides. And now we have two empty seats.”

“One each?” said Pen. “By way of compromise?”

Nao pursed his lips. “If one were Laris, maybe.”

“With the empress-mother on the council, they cannot pretend my sex is a barrier,” said Laris. Some lingering heat, there? “If a half-uncle may sit, so should a half-aunt.”

“With Methani gone, are there any blandishments that would persuade the empress-mother to favor you?” asked Pen. Something to convince her that you are now less a threat to her own son had likely better not be said aloud. Pen didn’t expect he needed to.

“We were going to use Arisaydia to take the army out of Methani’s control, which was hanging by a hair even before his death,” said Nao. “And then use it to seize the council.” Or the throne? “Which was going to be… unavoidably messy. How Methani’s cabal will respond to all this is yet to be seen, but they have to be scrambling this morning. It will be hard for any of them to climb to his eminence overnight. And I promise, none onto the council.”

“The other possibility”—and by her expression it wasn’t one that Laris enjoyed contemplating—“is to soothe the empress-mother’s fears by offering a betrothal between her son and our daughter. I do not care to wager the fate of the empire upon the fragile lives of children, but it might do as a stopgap.” Yes, she of all people must know that such expedients could be temporary, for all kinds of reasons. “Methani had blocked this before as a threat to his control, but…”

Methani’s cabal, Pen reflected, weren’t the only powers in Thasalon scrambling for purchase on the new rocks this morning. How much of this had Tanar foreseen?

More than we’d guess, I daresay, opined Des. She’s been a close observer for years, and has had wit-full tutors in Bosha and her mother.

Laris diverted further dangerous discussion by summoning a servant to bring refreshments, for which Pen was grateful. All his talking in this heat, of both kinds, had left him thirsty. The secretary returned, and Nao scrawled his signature upon the bottom of the heavily stamped document.

The lord regent then detailed his guard captain and a small squad to deliver it to the prison and fetch back the prisoner. Their authority would be unquestionable. Pen, uninvited but not denied, tagged along, not least because he was going to need to report it all to Tanar later.

He had his faithfully waiting wickerman follow in the guards’ wake. Pen was grateful for the paper parasol the man raised over the guest—Xarre servants had to be used to Bosha’s albino vulnerability to sunburn—and even more glad not have to find his own way in the crooked streets. With Bosha’s urgent danger addressed, Tronio again returned to the forefront of Pen’s thoughts. Might Pen again use his disguise as a visiting templeman to try to find him through the Bastard’s Order here? This kept his brain busy until they arrived at the formidable imperial prison, a massive affair of gray stone blocks not far from the harbor.

Where they discovered from the bewildered warden that the prisoner Bosha had been removed, some three hours earlier, by order and into the custody of lord regent Bordane.

Chapter 15

Lady Xarre’s lawyer had arrived at the warden’s office only a short time before them, encountering the same setback. The warden, the lawyer, and Nao’s guard captain fell into a futile debate, a mixture of defenses, recrimination, obscure legal arguments, and threats. Pen dropped back to tax the captain’s lieutenant, who looked to be a senior and experienced man, prudent enough to stand aside and leave the affair to his betters.

“Where do you think Bordane’s people would have taken the prisoner for questioning? His palace? Does it have a dungeon?”

“Not as such. Cellars, yes.” The man pursed shrewd lips. “Don’t think they’d take him into the main house, though. Not if they expected things to get noisy or messy. Probably to one of the outbuildings, maybe one of the storehouses. They have thicker walls.”

“Do you know where it is? Could you guide me there?”

“Yes, but you’ll have to speak to my captain.”

The captain, frustrated in his orders, was amenable to Pen’s alternate scheme of attempting to extract Bosha from Bordane rather than returning empty-handed, although it was plain he didn’t give much for its chance of success. With a fulminating scowl at the warden that Pen thought the man really didn’t quite deserve—if their lord regent’s directive was valid, so must Bordane’s have been—he took back Nao’s order and led his squad out into the hot streets once more. In this relatively quiet part of the afternoon, many Thasalon residents withdrew into the shaded quarters of their houses to wait till the sinking of the sun brought some relief, which meant that there were only twice as many people on the streets than Pen was comfortable with, instead of six times. Too many souls, too close together…

Bordane’s palace proved more modest than his uncle’s, along the lines of Lord Nao’s, but still impressive enough. At the front steps, Pen left the captain and one of his men to present their signed and seal-stamped order at the entry, where Pen expected there would be another heated debate much like the one in the warden’s office. He had the lieutenant and two other guardsmen lead him the long way around, past the high walls. A wrought-iron service gate topped with spikes opened onto a utilitarian back compound that included a well, the kitchens, the laundry, and the storehouses. The lock surrendered quietly under Pen’s hand, which made the lieutenant’s eyebrows climb, and they slipped within.

Even at this hour, enough servants were around to make sneaking a useless exercise; better to walk through openly as if they were official visitors, carrying out some assigned task just like everyone else. Which was true in a sense.

Des, Sight. Pen flared his inner senses to their full range.

Yes! In that storehouse at the very end, thick-walled and windowless, was the soul Pen had learned to recognize as Bosha’s. In a high pitch of stress, but not moving around. Along with one other man—and a distinctive demon-ridden companion.

Well, said Des. That’s unexpected.

Unless Lord Bordane kept his own court sorcerer whom no one had bothered to mention to Pen, they’d just found Tronio.

And Blessed Iroki was still back at the Xarre estate… Pen bit off bad words in Wealdean.

The other man was not Bordane. It would be unusual for a high lord to sit in on such an interrogation himself, though given his strong personal interest, not impossible, but this was some stranger to Pen. Guardsman, recording scribe? Acting on Bordane’s orders, though, obviously.

Des, damp yourself as best you can till we get inside.

I’ll try…

Pen nodded toward the far building, and murmured to the lieutenant, “Bosha’s in there. I definitely want to get him out. But there’s a problem. There’s another sorcerer with him. He’s not someone you can handle. I’m going to have to try. Come in with me, but hang back till I tell you. There’s one more fellow—I’m not sure who or what he is. I want him detained till I can find out.”

“Yes, Learned,” said the lieutenant. He was clearly wondering how Pen had somehow taken command of this venture, but was disinclined to argue with the mysterious Temple sorcerer who’d come straight from secretive talks with his high lady and lord.

The heavy storehouse door was not locked. “It’s possible some things will be happening very fast, that you won’t be able to see. Don’t panic. I’ll explain later.” This caution, alas, only evoked stares of worried incomprehension.

Des, ready? It may mostly be up to you.

Oh, aye. If it’s Tronio, I have plans for him.

I’m glad one of us does.

With a jerk of his head, Pen motioned his escorts in behind him, pulling the door shut. His dark-sight came up without his having to ask, pushing back the deep shadows around the pool of lantern light ahead; the guardsmen peered into the glow, blinking. Bosha’s interrogators appeared to have arranged their own private midnight, and Pen doubted it was in courtesy to the albino’s sun sensitivity.

The three men limned by the lantern light all turned their faces toward the footsteps, Tronio pushing off the wooden chest he’d been perched upon, and wheeling. Even without Des’s view, he was unmistakable in the summer vestments for a learned divine, an ankle-length sleeveless tunic in the Bastard’s white with a sash braided of white, cream, and silver. Not, Pen was relieved to see, bloodstained. Spare and lanky, he was tall for a Cedonian, with short-trimmed gray hair and beard practical and serious, suggesting indifference to rich display.

The second man must be there for his muscle, though he did not wear Bordane’s guard uniform. He was better dressed than a street thug; a lord’s personal retainer, yes. Something about him tugged at Pen’s memory, but it wasn’t his appearance. More than his heavy build and sunburned-brick skin, the poniard at his belt marked the bravo. His hand went to its hilt as his more dark-adapted eyes summed their interrupters, by his waiting stillness misliking his odds. He looked to Tronio, who had to be in charge here.

Bosha was seated on the floor, his back to a crate, bare feet tightly roped together, bent over his bound hands in his lap. He still wore his dark trousers and tunic of last night, though the fine brocade coat was gone. He looked up at Pen with a weird grin of recognition, panting. His features were unmarked, but his eyes were wide and wild, his long hair escaping its braid. Stray white strands stuck to his sweating face in the hot, close, musty air of the storehouse.

Any more detailed medical survey was interrupted by Tronio, stepping forward to demand, “Who are you?” He perceived Des directly—Pen could tell by the way his demon cringed within him. Not, by any means, a weak or young one, but…

Two lives old, would you say, Des?

About that. She regarded it with the air of an old sword-master presented with a gawky young challenger, amused and a little pitying. Ugly muddle. Muzzled, too. Tronio has not used his gift well.

Or wisely, Pen agreed. But we knew that already.

“Learned Tronio, I presume?” said Pen lightly. “The white god wants a word with you. I was sent to deliver it.”

Whatever Tronio had been expecting him to say, that wasn’t it. He stared at Pen in disbelief of several kinds. “What are you?” Pen wasn’t sure if that was addressed to himself or Des.

Oh, me, I should imagine, preened Des. She was getting dangerously excited.

Pen thought what he had to say next bore no chance of working, but he was obliged to try. “We are Learned Penric of Martensbridge, Lodi, and Vilnoc, and my Temple demon Desdemona, and we are sent to arrest you by order of the Bastard, for sins of sacrilege in the misuse of His gifts. The crimes for which you abused them are a matter for other authorities.” Pen’s wording was precise—by order of the Bastard, not by order of the Bastard’s Order—but Tronio misheard. Willfully?

Tronio kept his face straight and stern, but consternation was washing through him as he realized that Pen somehow knew his lethal secrets. Buying time with misdirection, he said, “None of those polities have authority in Cedonia or its Temple, and two are our enemies. Are you a spy?” He stared at the Wealdean Temple robes, which he certainly recognized, mismatched to Pen’s native Cedonian accent, northern peninsula hillman overlaid with a high Thasalon education.

“I shouldn’t think so,” said Pen, a little doubtfully. “In any case, I’ve brought a signed order from lord regent Nao requiring the custody of the prisoner Bosha. So I’ll trouble you to turn him over to us and come along peacefully.”

The presence of Nao’s uniformed guardsmen upheld the truth of this. The bravo looked alarmed, but Tronio’s eyes narrowed. “Lord regent Nao has no more say than lord regent Bordane in this matter. You’ll have to take your demand before Lord Bordane. And he’s gone out.”

“That’s being attended to right now at the front entrance,” said Pen, wondering if that last tidbit of news was in their favor or not. But really, he didn’t believe more time to think was going to help Tronio much. Rather the reverse. The man’s bodily tension and heart rate were soaring. His demon, with its own reasons for fear, was reaching a frenzy that must be immensely distracting.

Aye, said Des. Tronio might not have understood you aright about where our marching orders came from, but I promise you his demon did.

With a passing glance, Pen chopped through the cords binding Bosha’s ankles and wrists. A whimper of relief escaped the eunuch as he pulled his hands apart, but he did not, as Pen would have expected of him, roll to his feet, remaining in his huddle. His body bore no bruises, no blood pooled on the floor—here, at least—but his hands were a swollen, purpling mess, several fingers bent till they’d disjointed. All of that still should not have pushed such a fit man so close to serious shock. Pen, getting some unpleasant notions about that, scowled at Tronio.

The inevitable moment when Tronio broke that Pen had been anticipating joylessly and Des eagerly happened in that instant—did Tronio think he was taking advantage of Pen’s momentary distraction? Des wasn’t distracted a bit, and fended the bolus of chaos, aimed at Pen’s knees not his head, into the floor almost as it left Tronio’s hands. Tronio learned faster than Alixtra had back on Jurgo’s steps, because he didn’t try again, instead grabbing the bravo and shoving him stumbling against Pen.

Pen wasn’t sure which of them was more startled. The bravo snatched his poniard from its sheath. Pen didn’t wait to find out which target he had in mind for it, clapping his hand to the back of the man’s head and putting him out, uncomfortably fast for the precise aim required. The bravo slumped into Pen’s arms, and Pen staggered to his knees.

This won Tronio time to bolt through the storehouse door, bright daylight slicing in and flickering with his passage. Des was quick enough to divert the ill-aimed and ill-formed chaos he’d cast at the three guardsmen while running by, but not enough to trip Tronio himself—of course the man didn’t double his opportunities by permitting his demon to act on its own. The guard lieutenant took a few sprinting steps toward the door, before Pen’s bark of “Stop!” reminded him of Pen’s earlier order not to attempt this.

“Follow and see which way he goes,” amended Pen, “but don’t try to close with him. Then come back.”

Pen laid the bravo-retainer out on the floorboards. His first question to Bosha as he rose was none that he’d rehearsed in his mind. “Who is this unpleasant fellow, anyway?”

“Unpleasant indeed.” Bosha’s knife-grin flicked, but he was still breathing faster than he should have been. “That would be the elusive Rach, Methani’s errand-boy whom you have so longed to meet.”

“Really!” And, looping back to his initial concern, “How do you feel?”

Bosha appeared to consider this query with great seriousness. “Old,” he finally chose.

His wits and wit were still intact, anyway. Pen wished he could say as much for his hands, which told a horrifying tale of recent events here. Pen knelt and pulled one toward him by the wrist for closer examination, making Bosha flinch and shudder. “Sorry. Did Rach do this?”

“Yes, till Tronio stopped him.”

“Wouldn’t have thought he’d have such mercy.”

“Ah, no. Tronio just had more effective methods of supplying pain.” Bosha glanced down his shivering body. “Leaving no marks, either. I’d no idea sorcerers could do such extremely useful things.”

“Worked directly on your nerves, did he?”

“Was that it? It felt like I was being burned alive from the inside out.”

“I imagine it would.”

“I would have screamed more, but he stopped that, too. Unhelpfully, as it also made me unable to talk for a few minutes.”

“For a man who is not a trained sorcerer-physician, Tronio seems to have some very advanced skills.”

“You would know, would you?” Bosha eyed him in newly wary speculation.

“Yes. It’s a perversion of the gift, though. Not his only one. What did they want of you? Admitting to Methani’s murder?”

“Among other things. We had a wide-ranging discussion. Wonderfully informative. For me at least. I’m almost glad I came.”

Pen’s brows rose. “I’ll want to hear more about that, when we have you safe. What did they get out of you?”

“Well, not that. I confessed to many other things, though. Every famous crime in Thasalon more than forty years old that I could remember, for a start. Oddly, they were not pleased.”

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to mock your torturers?”

“Yes,” sighed Bosha, “just now.” He gave a rueful look at his mangled hands.

“I can treat those,” Pen assured him. “Um… but the first thing I’m going to have to do is pull the popped joints back into place. Which is going to hurt as much as the disjointing.”

“Maybe… not quite yet?” said Bosha faintly.

“Shouldn’t wait too long.”

“Understood.”

“What was Rach doing with Tronio, and the both of them here?” Pen asked, nudging the bravo’s unconscious body with his toe.

“Feel free to kick him for me if you like,” encouraged Bosha. “Tronio I’d seen around, but I first met your Rach when I arrived here some hours ago. They were detailed by Bordane to question me, I’m guessing because none of them wanted anyone who didn’t already know about this demon-assassination plot witnessing, just in case. How they both decided to come here in the first place, you’ll need to ask him for the specifics.” A nod to Rach.

“We’ll take him along, then.”

Nao’s lieutenant returned, a little winded.

“Which way did he go, house or street?” Pen asked.

“Street. He fled east, not that that tells us much.”

Considering how hard Alixtra had been to find in much smaller Vilnoc, this was going to present Pen an intractable problem. Although one less likely to delay them here than if Tronio had fled into the house, raising whatever alarm. Pen was almost as anxious to be gone as Bosha had to be.

“One of you”—Pen waved at the by-now-riveted guardsmen—“go out the gate and around to the front, and fetch back my wickerman. The other two, wrap this fellow in a sheet or roll him in a carpet or something, and carry him out to the cart. I’ll help Master Bosha. If anyone stops us on the way out, let me do the talking.”

This program was adopted, with a dust cover stolen from some stacked furniture.

A male servant approached them as they trudged through the compound, staring at them in nervous suspicion. Talking, in this case, might need to be with added powers. Pen readied the weirding voice in his mouth, trying to think of the least noticeable wording—You need to see these visitors out the gate, probably—and not looking forward to the sacrificial nosebleed to pay for the shamanic compulsion, but the man only asked, “Are you done in there, sirs? May we go back into our storehouse now?”

Someone had told the staff to ignore any sounds or other strangeness issuing from the building, apparently, and possibly not for the first time. Pen let the unvoiced spell out on a breath of relief, and told him brightly, “Yes, it’s all yours.”

His little procession skittered out the gate before anyone thought to ask how it came to be unlocked, though the servant followed to dutifully lock it again after them, saving Pen the trouble. The advantage of a large household—right hands used to not knowing what the left ones were about.

Bosha wasn’t best pleased to be loaded onto the cart with the unconscious Rach and having to prop him up, looking like a man out for a ride with his good friend the shrouded corpse. Pen paced alongside, ready to catch either if they started to fall out. It said something about Thasalon that they drew only brief stares from passersby, or maybe their uniformed guards daunted questioners. Rach’s color was better than his seatmate’s gray tinge, though the escape seemed to ease Bosha’s lingering shock a trifle. First thing when they got back to Laris and Nao’s, Pen decided, even before addressing the finger joints, was to get some fresh water down the shaken man.

As soon as they were a few streets away from Bordane’s palace, the lieutenant sent a man back to let their captain know he could stop arguing with Bordane’s porters and household officers and follow on. They arrived back at the princess’s palace at about the same time Pen’s party did, the captain still clutching Nao’s order and looking harassed.

The captain left to report to his lady and lord, the Xarre wickerman was sent off to the servants’ quarters for rest and refreshment, and the lieutenant guided Pen, Bosha hanging on his shoulder, to the palace infirmary, along with his men carrying the still-unconscious Rach. They found the place to themselves in the quiet of the late afternoon, though the palace physician hurried in shortly. Pen made use of the man in finding the water and a dose of syrup of poppies for Bosha, and helping with the physical work of straightening the several dislocated joints.

Bosha, still too nerve-strained to relinquish what control remained to him, declined more than a half-dose of syrup and also, more charily, Pen’s offer to knock him out like Rach for the treatment. In recompense Bosha did not, as he’d threatened, scream like a peacock as he claimed to have done at their breaking, but he did make distressing wheezing noises at the cartilaginous crunching of the joints realigning, his gray face going green.

Pen followed this with a general infusion of uphill magic to each hand to speed healing, which would help but not, alas, immediately, a process the hovering physician found baffling but intriguing. Pen tried to keep his explanatory lecture short, not easy with such an appreciative audience who asked such informed questions. He got rid of his helper at last by assuring him that he’d watch over this new patient as long as necessary, and no, the physician didn’t need to do anything for the unconscious Rach, the man was uninjured and would wake on his own.

The lieutenant and one guard had stayed to watch, in part because both patients were, technically, prisoners; in part, Pen was fairly sure, from sheer curiosity. He had them help settle Bosha on an infirmary cot, making him as comfortable as possible against a bank of pillows.

Bosha stared down at his swollen, discolored hands in fascinated dismay. “I’d managed to keep one last blade hidden on my person through it all, a little razor in my trouser cuff hem. I was thinking that if I ended up sewn into a weighted canvas sack and thrown into the harbor in the night, I could use it to slice my way out. I expect I really couldn’t have, after this.”

“I thought that was silk sacks,” said Pen, seating himself on the cot’s end for close hearing. Bosha’s voice, already raspy from its misuse, was losing volume to the syrup of poppies, though he still refused to surrender to what must be a sapping exhaustion.

“No, those are an honor for unfaithful imperial concubines.” Bosha considered. “Or unfaithful imperial bedchamber eunuchs, but fortunately such a task never came my way in my palace days.”

“I’m almost surprised.” As striking as the albino was now, he must have been stunning in his youth.

“I took care to make myself too useful in the chancellery. Also, the prior emperor’s tastes didn’t run in that direction.” He sighed. “At least Tronio and his dog didn’t work around to threatening my eyeballs. My other balls not being available. I tried to keep their thoughts from drifting to the notion, though they were getting increasingly frustrated when you showed up. Providentially.” His gaze flicked to Pen. “Was it?”

“I never quite know, with my god. He does have an interest here. More proximately, it was Lady Xarre’s idea to go to Laris and Nao for help.”

“Bless her, then.” He added after a reflective moment, “Always.”

“So what did you manage to glean from your interrogation? In between screaming like a peacock. Why were those two even there?”

“I gather they encountered each other at Methani’s palace while asking after last night’s excitements, which neither had been present for. Though the sorcerer saw the ghost still maundering around this morning. Whatever the pair concluded sent them hotfoot to Bordane. Whether it had something to do with your affair or they were just looking for a new protector, I’d not yet determined.” Bosha wrinkled his nose, mulling. “Rach seems to have arrived back in Thasalon only a day or so before you. His report was out of date—at the time he left Vilnoc, he thought the general was still recovering at his sister’s house, and Alixtra was in the bottle dungeon awaiting hanging. He’d no knowledge of what, if anything, she’d confessed or revealed. No hint of your journey. Nor, ah, of the general’s.” A glance across the room at the two guardsmen, who’d taken up flanking positions by the door, assiduously trying to look as if they weren’t drinking in and hoarding every word.

“Good so far…”

“Whatever they said to Bordane induced him to pull me from the prison for more private questioning. Much as he might have liked to sit in, he was compelled to go off for an urgent meeting with the archdivine of Thasalon on the pressing subject of his uncle’s funeral. Which, for a man of Methani’s high rank, would ordinarily be a major event, except for the disturbing matter of this sundering. If they don’t manage to lay the angry ghost before the ceremony—and by what Tronio let fall, his newly haunted palace was littered with Temple luminaries today, trying—”

“They won’t,” said Pen with certainty.

“His funeral rites represent their one last chance to do so. Which, if they fail, would be a highly public embarrassment for all concerned.” Bosha couldn’t help smirking.

“So—was Bordane privy to his uncle’s secret assassination schemes?”

Bosha’s lips twisted. “Tronio plainly thought so. Rach… seemed less certain. Which I thought curious. Granted, he was less central than Tronio, but he’s not stupid or unobservant, or Methani would never have employed him on such sensitive affairs. As much as I dislike Bordane, I’m not sure, hm, not sure I’d trust Tronio’s judgment of him. Tronio was fairly distraught, which seems to impair his thinking and comes out as, er, snappishness. I was trying to coax the interrogation in that direction when you arrived.”

“I shouldn’t have thought you’d have wanted to extend it.”

“Well, there was the picture of that canvas sack waiting for me at the end. Inspired my invention.”

Does this man even know how amazing he is? wondered Des, as engrossed by this oblique account as Pen.

I think Lady Xarre and Tanar do. It may be enough. Not that oblique misdirection wasn’t Bosha’s usual mode. Tronio and Rach must have had an utterly maddening few hours with him.

I notice, said Des, he doesn’t ask who you think poisoned Methani.

Yes, and I’ll bet he led Tronio away from the question, too. Any discussion on that head would have to wait until they were truly private.

A groan from the neighboring cot drew everyone’s attention. Rach opened his eyes, blinked. His hand shot to his empty knife sheath, and he convulsed upward. One wild glare around placed his surroundings—the infirmary was common enough, but Nao’s guards by the door told him whose, and Penric’s and Bosha’s scowls hinted just how deeply he’d fallen into this new privy. He swung his legs out and bunched himself to stand, possibly to bolt.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” said Pen. He nodded toward the guards, holding themselves fully alert. “They’re in better shape than you are, and… I’m a sorcerer, too.”

Rach had just witnessed what havoc an infuriated sorcerer could wreak upon a man. With a muffled curse, he sank back on the edge of his cot, shoulders slumping.

Pen’s narcolepsy skill, he knew, was painless to its recipient, who awoke from it with wits in good order apart from some natural disorientation. “I’m glad you’re back with us,” he told the bravo. “We were just talking about you.”

A hiss through his teeth. “Tronio,” he muttered, as the last moments he could remember came up in his mind. “That sack of maggots…” His gaze went back to Pen. “And he ran like a rabbit from you?” His eyes narrowed. “Wait. You really are that sorcerer from Vilnoc! Jurgo’s hot man. What are you…”

Doing here, Pen could finish for him. It did explain Pen’s vague sense of familiarity, not with Rach’s face, but with his soul, perceived so briefly on the roof of Pen’s atrium. Rach must have glimpsed Pen from a distance in Vilnoc as well.

“I suppose I should start,” said Pen, “by telling you that everything Alixtra knew, I now know.”

“Witless baggage,” Rach muttered. “Did Jurgo hang her?”

“No. She was pardoned by a higher authority.”

This making no sense to the bravo, he abandoned it for, “Tronio said her whelp was missing from Methani’s this morning. Upset about it. Did you have anything to do with that?”

Pen glanced at Bosha, who offered him an innocent smile, somewhat glazed by the syrup of poppies. Yet another subject he’d managed to keep his interrogators from reaching?

“Not your most pressing concern right now, I promise you,” said Pen to Rach. “Your own situation, I observe, is wholly upended since yesterday by Methani’s death. You’ve lost both an employer and a protector. But also a source of reprisal for any disloyalty.” Pen paused a moment to let that last sink in. “Leaving you quite anchorless.”

Rach flinched, but returned only a wary scowl.

“Learned Tronio would seem to have a similar problem,” Pen went on. “Is that why you both went to Lord Bordane this morning? I’m surprised you obtained an interview, as frantically busy as he must be today. Lawyers, archdivines, magistrates, autopsy results, matters of Methani’s truly massive estate falling upon his shoulders, reports no doubt demanded from the imperial palace, his own duties as a lord regent not paused… Your urgency to see him is no surprise, but he must have thought you an urgent matter to him as well, to interrupt all that for you.”

More silence. Though as Rach perhaps reflected on what his own sorcerer had done to Bosha, his fear was heightening.

“This whole affair is very tangled on the secular side, but my interest is only in its theological thread, the late Methani’s and Tronio’s uncanny demon-assassination scheme. Did Tronio go to Bordane because he was either involved with or knew of this secret? Is that why the lord regent was so willing to see you?”

“Tronio thought he must be,” muttered Rach.

“Had you ever observed this for yourself, earlier?”

“I never knew anything about it at all, till Methani assigned me to take that jumped-up scrubwoman to do for Arisaydia.”

“So you weren’t involved in the earlier murders? Ministers Hethel and Fasso, Prince Ragat?”

Rach jerked back at this, plainly horrified by the depth of Pen’s knowledge given the perilous prominence of the victims. “No! Those weren’t anything to do with me! I only got saddled with it for Vilnoc.”

“If this turns out to be true, it suggests you could find a better protector than Bordane. You might be able to negotiate some commutation from Princess Laris and Lord Nao, in return for sworn testimony against Tronio and Methani. They’ll be looking to secure such.”

Rach was a fourth witness that Pen had overlooked, earlier. Pen trusted his unexpected arrival would not displace Alixtra as a pardon-candidate. The more, the merrier? suggested Des.

By Rach’s expression, this was a fresh idea, risky but not instantly rejected.

“And testimony against Lord Bordane…?” Pen went on, leadingly.

Rach frowned, this time in thought. “If he was in on this demon-thing before, I never saw sign of it.”

“Would you have?”

“Likely not. Tronio might have, but…”

“But?”

“No, Tronio didn’t know before,” Rach decided, “because he spent the first part of the talk with Bordane angling to find out if Bordane knew. You ever watch two spiders trying to figure out if they’re going to mate, or eat each other? Like that. I finally gave up listening to the pair of them fencing around, and just told Bordane about it. He hardly reacted, which made it seem he must have been filled in by his uncle at some point.” Rach’s voice slowed as he felt his way to unwelcome new notions. “Except Bordane’s a pretty experienced politician by now, for all Methani treated him as his tool. I don’t think he could have survived this long at the imperial court if he hadn’t learned to lie even better than that rug Tronio.”

“Might Methani have left some missive to Bordane about it to be opened in case of his death? An unnotarized codicil to his will, as it were?”

Rach snorted. “The old snake would never have put something like this in writing. With Alixtra hanged in Vilnoc, Tronio thought knowledge of the scheme was just down to him, me, and maybe Bordane. He really wanted to make sure of Bordane.”

“They have a saying in Lodi—two can keep a secret if one of them is dead.”

“I expect they learned it from Thasalon. And if it was between me and Tronio… I wouldn’t give odds for my chances.”

Pen’s brows rose. “Hence your making sure Bordane knew, one way or the other?”

Rach looked truculent. “If Tronio wanted to make three into one, well, Bordane’s not beyond his reach if Prince Ragat wasn’t. But I figure it would be harder. Especially if Bordane was warned. Besides, he might have liked to take the scheme over for his own use.”

Bosha’s assessment had been right, Pen decided; the retainer-bravo was neither stupid nor unobservant. “Well, a lot more than two know this secret by now,” said Pen. “Probably dozens. More by the hour, as Nao and Laris get their allies lined up.”

Rach grimaced, looking sick.

“I’d really recommend you try to make yourself one of them,” Pen advised, “while you still have a chance.”

A noncommittal grunt.

“Did Bordane order you to torture Bosha, by the way?”

An irritated glance across at Bosha, who was sitting up and apparently enjoying this show to the fullest. Bosha’s lips stretched in a return non-smile. “He said we didn’t need to be gentle, but to make sure the prisoner he’d signed for was still alive at the end. He really did think Bosha’d had a hand in Methani’s death somehow, and he wanted to know how.”

Not right, but not exactly wrong, either. Bordane’s frustrated suspicions were understandable.

“Returning to my own thread,” said Pen, “where do you think Tronio might have gone when he hared off from Bordane’s storehouse?”

“Why was he so terrified of you?” Rach asked back.

“I doubt he was that afraid of me, but his demon was truly terrified by mine. It was giving him a lot of distracting noise just then. And, um, after two hours of interrogating Master Bosha, I expect his thinking was a trifle… snappish.”

Rach snorted. But judging by the ugly damage to Bosha’s hands, Tronio wasn’t the only member of the pair that the evasive eunuch had worked into a froth.

“Retreat and regroup might have seemed his best option, in that pressed instant. Sacrificing his rear guard for cover.”

Rach’s teeth clenched at this reminder. Although, Pen reflected, if Rach’s account of the earlier interview with Bordane was true, it wasn’t exactly the first betraying move in that game.

“So, where?” Pen prodded.

“No idea,” said Rach. “Depends on if he thinks there’s still some counter he can make to you, or if he realizes it’s all up and there’s nothing for it but to try to get out of the country.” Rach sighed as if he coveted that last pick for himself, vainly.

Pen must warn Nao to have the borders and ports watched, although how to square that with keeping Adelis’s arrival unimpeded… was Nao’s problem, Pen decided. “And if Tronio remains in Thasalon?”

“No idea,” Rach repeated. “There’s his—your—Order’s chapterhouse, and that place in the eastern suburbs he keeps, but if he thinks he’s looked for, he’ll stay away from them.”

Rach really had no more to offer on this problem, Pen decided. Although it did seem as if the events of the last—had it only been a day?—had cut away most of Tronio’s options, one way or another.

By the reddening hue of the daylight filtering through the infirmary’s high windows, afternoon was advancing into evening. Pen hoisted himself from the cot and went over to the guardsmen.

“The prisoner can go to whatever you have here for a lockup, now. He’s fully recovered, and he’s no amateur at violence, so watch him closely. If he decides he wants to talk to Lord Nao, let Nao know at once.”

The guards consulted briefly with each other, and one went off, to return shortly with a small squad of mates. As Rach was marched off under this escort, Bosha sighed and sank back into his pillows, allowing his alert strain to ease at last.

“That was masterly,” he said to Pen, as Pen sagged back onto his cot-perch with scarcely less fatigue. “A pleasure to watch you work, Learned.”

“It wasn’t especially hard.” Pen shrugged. “It makes all the difference if a man has every reason to be loyal, or none.”

A conceding nod.

“I was thinking at first this might be another occasion for the shamanic weirding voice,” Pen admitted, “but it turned out not to be needed. That would have made me bleed, not him, though, so I’m just as glad.”

“What, no setting his nerves on fire? I’m disappointed.”

“There are subtler and more effective methods. Also much quieter.” Pen stretched his aching neck. “So. Shall I try to extract you from Nao’s custody and take you off to your ladies? I need to get back there myself and nail Iroki to my hip. Curse it, if I’d had him with me today this could be over already. I don’t want to be caught without him if I can find Tronio again. Somehow.” The now fully warned Tronio—Pen’s teeth gritted.

“Gods I want to go home…” groaned Bosha.

“That makes two of us.”

Three, allowed Des. But we’re not done yet.

No. Alas.

Bosha inhaled for resolve. “But no. I’m probably safer here with the princess’s very loyal, muscular, and numerous men looking after me than even the Xarre mastiffs could manage. And… I wouldn’t be trailing any potential reprisals back with me.”

“Mm. Bordane must be home by now, and have learned of you being filched away. But however much you irritate him, I’m not sure you’re at the top of his very long list of problems at present.”

“Maybe not.”

“Do you have any notion of where in Thasalon Tronio might have gone to earth?”

Bosha shook his head in regret. “No more than the egregious Rach, I’m afraid. Your guess is as good as mine. Better, given your shared callings.” And after a moment, curiously, “Do you think Tronio and his demon have the same aim by now?”

There was a new thought. “Maybe… not.”

I never saw a demon struggling harder to ascend, mused Des, with less hope of succeeding. Whatever else you could say of Tronio, he’s brim full of will.

“Gah,” said Pen. “So many unknowns, still.”

Bosha glanced around the infirmary at their temporary solitude, the guards not having returned from bestowing Rach yet. “So… do you know who poisoned Methani?”

“Yes,” said Pen. “Do you?”

That stretched non-smile again. “If you do, then I do. Well.” He raised one stiff, swollen hand to stroke the tail of his white queue, hanging limply over his shoulder. “She always was a quick study. Look after her till I can get back, yes? Both of them. As I can hold neither quill nor blade at the moment. Don’t let her do anything rash. More rash.”

“I don’t think that was rash. It seems to have been very astutely managed. Apart from one servant who didn’t follow his instructions.”

“Ah.” Bosha’s smile, into his lap, was briefly genuine. “That would be it.”

By the time Pen had placed one more dose of uphill magic into Bosha’s hands, the guards returned, so he took his leave to go report the new developments—well, barring that last-discussed with Bosha—to Lord Nao and call for his wickerman. Dusk was closing in as he left the palace once more.

The fit young wickerman lit his glassed lantern and raised it on its post. “Is Master Bosha going to be all right, learned sir?” he asked Pen diffidently as he was engaged in this task. The concern in his voice seemed sincere. He’d carried out all his duties today with an unmoved, sometimes wooden, countenance, but that last leg in particular had put a strain on his trained reserve. Pen wished he could be a fly on the wall for the gossip in the Xarre servants’ hall tonight.

“Yes. He’ll be spending the night in Nao’s palace infirmary while he recovers a bit more.” Des added, curiously, “Do you like him?”

The lad reflected. “Well, you don’t want to get on the sharp side of his tongue, that’s for sure. Or of his sword, I suppose. But… he kind of makes me laugh, sometimes? Not out loud, of course,” he added hastily. “The ladies rely on him like anything.”

“Two-way street, son, two-way street,” Des murmured as he saw Pen up onto his seat. The wickerman nodded thoughtfully as he went to take up his shafts, and they rolled off for the long trip out to the eastern suburbs.

Chapter 16

The dusk had deepened, the night insects taking up their songs, when the wicker cart pulled quietly up to the Xarre front gate. The wickerman didn’t need to pound on it for admittance; they were watched-for. Cressets new-lit flickered on both sides, and several glowing lanterns sat along the top of the wall. Not one but three heads popped up among them: the porter, Alixtra, and Lady Tanar. Tanar leaned out precariously, her gaze searching, then disappeared. By the time the porter unbarred and swung the gate wide for the cart, she’d descended to the drive, bouncing in impatience at Pen’s elbow as he dismounted.

“Sura?” she asked tensely.

“Safely retrieved at Princess Laris’s palace.”

“Why isn’t he with you?”

“Well, technically, he’s still in the custody of lord regent Nao.” The more distressing details had better wait until they were in private, he judged. “I have a great deal to report to you two, and to Lady Xarre. Best to tell it all once.”

She nodded understanding, seeming inclined to rush him to her mother’s chambers on the instant. Alixtra, less urgent, strolled up beside her hostess. Both were garbed from Tanar’s wardrobe in slightly worn day-at-home dresses that any Vilnoc seamstress would have prized. Pen fished out an extra coin for the wicker-lad, sweating from his speedy run, and waved him on to his stable.

Some yips amid laughter from the adjoining lawn brought Alixtra’s head around, and she smiled into the lantern-shot shadows. “Kittio!” she called. “It’s time to come in, now. Bring the puppy and come meet Learned Penric.” The tenderness in her tone was entirely new to Pen.

“Yes, Mama,” a breathless high voice returned.

Two young figures tumbled up to them: a skinny boy of five with a shock of dark hair, bronze-skinned, tunic and knees grass-stained, and what Pen recognized as a mastiff puppy from the Xarre kennels. It actually was a reasonable creature for a boy to be set to play with, Pen told himself, not yet looking ready for a saddle like its seniors, panting and sociable, with milk-teeth not fangs. Still drooling, though. The awkward size of its paws, which it tripped over galloping around its new friend, promised something more appalling for its future.

“Kittio,” said Alixtra carefully when she’d captured and straightened the boy, her hands protective on his shoulders, “make your bow to Learned Penric. He’s a Temple sorcerer from Orbas, and has become my teacher.” A little pressure from behind prompted an unpracticed but willing dip.

“How do you do, sir,” Kittio managed, credibly, then a little more doubtfully, “Divine-sir?”

“Learned sir is the usual polite honorific for a divine, though Learned Penric, Penric or just Pen all work. My Temple demon is named Desdemona. Would you care to say hello for yourself, Des?”

Amused, she cooperated: “Hello, grubby child. Pay attention to Penric, and you’ll do all right. That goes for your mama as well.”

Kittio’s face screwed up, understandably uncertain if this was a jape at his expense. He looked Pen up and down, his Wealdean whites unfamiliar but obviously Temple-y, and leaned in to whisper, “Is it really really true mama’s become a sorceress…?”

“Yes,” Pen said, bending down gravely, “really really true. She’s going to be a good one. When she finishes her theological training, you’ll have to call her learned ma’am.”

Kittio, nonplussed at this news, accepted it as yet more adult incomprehensibility, to be lived with like the weather.

Pen straightened back up to find Alixtra anxious, her smile gone thin-lipped. He expected he’d better curtail conversation on this interesting subject with Kittio until he’d found out what she’d told the boy already—he doubted she’d broached the magical assassin part yet. He gave her a reassuring nod, and her grasp relaxed. Kittio seized this release to crouch down to the wriggling puppy, ecstatic to greet him again after a half-minute’s inattention. Small hands rubbed brindled fur in fresh wonder.

“He’s never had a pet before,” Alixtra murmured apologetically to Pen. “It wasn’t possible in our little city room. Still less in Methani’s palace.”

“I imagine not,” said Pen. “I grew up in the country myself, on the mountains’ knees—someone once called Jurald Court a fortified farmhouse, which wasn’t far off the mark. Animals all around. Looking back, pretty idyllic for a boy. And your girlhood?”

“It was in the village, but yes. Something like that. Good parts taken for granted, dreary constraints spurned, finally, when there seemed a chance of something grander.”

“So how did Kittio come to acquire a dog?”

“Not acquired,” said Kittio’s mother fervently. “Only loaned. I pray.” A worried glance at the generous Tanar.

Now, there’s a vision for the trip home, said Des.

If we get as far as a trip home still alive, I’ll be willing to put up with anything. But don’t you dare encourage it.

You could use your shamanic weirding voice. That works on animals. …And children.

Sh. Nikys doesn’t like it when I use it to get Rina to sleep.

Oh, she’s just jealous that she can’t.

Pen stifled another spasm of longing at these reminders.

“Waiting today was tense for everyone,” said Tanar. “Blessed Iroki kindly offered to take Kittio off to see the fishpond, on the other side of the kitchen garden, and the kennels are just beyond that. I gather Kittio made a good impression on our kennel master, admiring his charges, and the puppy somehow happened.”

She gestured toward the house, and Alixtra, taking the hint, called Kittio to order.

“We need to take the puppy back to his mama and his bed, now,” she told him. “And you as well.” She raised her lantern, meaningfully.

Kittio’s protests were undercut by a yawn, which made them both laugh. He went along the garden path with her, bumping her hip much as the puppy bumped his knees, apparently received with the same pleasure. “So where is that all-white man?” his voice floated back out of the dark. “I wanted to see the white man.”

“Master Bosha will be back later,” she told him, “and you mustn’t stare rudely when you meet him…”

That will be a challenge, said Des. I stare at Bosha.

I daresay Kittio’s interest will be less prurient.

Given my physical state and his, I don’t think prurient is the word you want, Pen.

Aesthetic, then.

Better.

Tanar took up her own lantern, and Pen escorted her toward the house.

“You were so long away,” she said. “I thought you’d be back much sooner.”

You were right to worry probably wasn’t something he should say to her, for all that it was true. “There were unforeseen complications, overcome, but they spawned new ones. Give me a chance to wash up, and to get a bite, and I’ll explain them all.”

“Mother won’t care if you come in your day dirt. And we can bring you something to eat in her room.”

“I’ll take you up on the food, but Alixtra is going to need to scrub her boy before putting him to bed. I may as well do the same.” It would give him a bit more time to think, though not even the long ride in the wicker cart had helped much with that. He couldn’t be more tired if he’d pulled the thing himself.

She mastered her impatience, and nodded.

“So… I really didn’t expect you and Alixtra to become friends,” Pen ventured cautiously as they passed along the row of cedars, aromatic sentinels in the shadows. “When did that happen?”

“Not friends, exactly. But she’s proved an interesting woman to talk to.”

“She’s not very forthcoming to me. Reasonably enough.”

“I drew her out when we were devising her clothes and story for Methani’s party, day before yesterday. I wanted to understand how she did what she did. Not the mechanics of it, which weren’t anything I could copy, but how she mustered her nerve. I can’t say as I admire her, and I certainly don’t envy her. But she gave me a good example of what one woman might do, if she was determined enough.”

Maybe not a good example, murmured Des.

“Fired by a spirit of emulation… were you?” said Pen dryly.

Tanar shrugged. “I couldn’t sit on my hands once I realized how perfect the opportunity was. With the kind of strategic timing Adelis calls a god-gift, to regret ever after if you miss it. …And there was a poetic justice to it, if no other kind.”

Oh, several other kinds, I’d say, said Des.

Tanar… wasn’t wrong. Pen chose not to argue.

*     *     *

Lady Xarre, still dressed for her household’s earlier dinner, met with them as before in her brilliantly lit sitting room. Five chairs had again been set around hers in the circle, one doomed to go empty. Pen wondered if it was left there as a silent reminder. Or reproach. Iroki was before him, flanking the house’s mistress like an odd new retainer. Alixtra arrived last, having settled a clean Kittio into her bed; Pen had overheard them in the baths, where Kittio had been torn between resistance to washcloths, and a fascination with the facilities almost equal to the saint’s.

Pen was grateful to discover the promised tray of edibles set out for him on a small table beside his own seat. Lady Tanar poured him watered wine with her own hands, less as a mark of favor, he thought, than an effort to speed things up. Obliging her, he launched into the long and involved account of the day’s doings, much interrupted by everyone but Iroki.

As he’d foreseen with trepidation, Tanar was enraged by even his brief description of what had been done to Bosha’s hands, but those injuries weren’t something that could be concealed. He softened the account of the worser but invisible torture that Tronio had inflicted to almost nothing—the last thing he wanted was for Tanar to be inspired to go after the sorcerer on her own. He’d be a vastly more dangerous opponent than an aging high minister. Alixtra read between his lines better, her scowl deepening, but thankfully she had the presence of mind not to comment about this misuse of magic.

Pen defended Rach from unscheduled Xarre reprisals by pointing out, heavily, that the man was turning his coat and looked to be offering testimony soon against his late masters, including Tronio, an effort that shouldn’t be impeded. “The man’s won plenty of trouble for himself, I promise you.”

“Not nearly enough,” Tanar growled, but subsided.

Alixtra’s face tightened, as she perhaps mulled on just how much harm Rach’s testimony could do to her in turn.

Pen finally was able to get back to his own most pressing problem.

“So Blessed Iroki and I need to find this missing sorcerer—somewhere in Thasalon, probably, unless he’s made for the coast or the borders already. Lord Nao is ordering a watch by his people on those, and he has a longer reach for that than we do. Yet I don’t think Tronio would flee Cedonia until he’s exhausted every other course. You know Tronio better than anyone else here, Alixtra. So, what are his other courses? Would he go after you as another witness he needs to silence? He certainly wouldn’t want you falling alive into the hands of any authorities.”

Bait? said Des brightly. Seems like Iroki’s sport.

“I wish he would,” she said darkly. “It would save steps. But does he even know I’m here?”

“I’m not actually sure. He found out this morning that Kittio was removed from Methani’s—it was one of the things that came up with Bosha that Bosha drowned in his morass of misdirection—but I don’t know if he’s connected the Xarre’s noble country visitors from last night with you.”

“Then you’d seem a far greater threat to him. Would he go after you?”

“I’m sure he’d like to. His demon definitely doesn’t want to encounter Des again, though. Fortunately, neither of the pair seemed to suspect Iroki’s presence.” Yet another key element that Bosha had managed to keep out of his grueling interrogation.

“Tronio is a man of lies,” Alixtra said slowly. “Even to himself, I think, or he could never have been persuaded to undertake this scheme by the minister. So if he’s afraid to clash with you directly, I’d think he’d try to attack you at a distance with lies.”

Pen’s lips screwed up. “He has plenty of plausible ones to choose from. Even Laris and Nao wondered if I was sent from Orbas as a spy or an assassin. They had only my word about the white god. If they doubted that, they had wit not to show it, but who knows what their later reflections might bring.”

Lady Xarre pointed out, “As long as you seem to serve their cause, they won’t air such doubts. Whatever reservations they may hold privately.”

“So who else might Tronio run to with lies?” asked Pen. “Or misbeliefs, even. Aside from Lord Bordane, which… seems to have been an ambiguous encounter. Who could he expect to credit him? How corrupt, or gullible, is the greater Temple hierarchy here in Thasalon?”

Lady Xarre sat back as every face turned to her. She touched her beringed fingers to her lips as she contemplated this. “The neighborhood temples are much the same as in any other place,” she said at last. “Mostly people honestly trying to help each other and their gods, doubtless a few bad stems. The highest echelons are not corrupt, I wouldn’t say, but have developed a certain suppleness from surviving their centuries of imperial duties. The present archdivine has a reputation for probity—how deserved, I’m not close enough to Temple affairs to guess. He came up from years of service in the Father’s Order. I think he may not be quite as rigid as some templemen from that house. But even if he approved the political outcomes I don’t believe he would be drawn knowingly into Learned Tronio’s demon-murders, if they are sacrilege as you say. Gullible, no. Misleadable, maybe.”

“I’d guess,” said Iroki, “if your Temple here isn’t just rotten top to bottom, somebody in it must be taking a long look at Methani and everyone around him today. What with him being so openly sundered and all. It’s not like he’s a gutter criminal or even just some mean shriveled soul, all dried in on itself, a life wasted that no one would miss alive or dead. Shouldn’t think anyone owned rug enough to sweep such a big man under.”

“Not with so many people pleased to have it otherwise,” said Lady Xarre. “If for a host of conflicting reasons. And so many witnesses. This sundering scandal has already exploded out of last night’s reception and its widening aftermath. There will be no putting it back.”

Tanar said nothing. With quiet satisfaction.

“So the question isn’t who Tronio would lie to,” Pen began.

“Anyone,” Alixtra muttered. “Everyone.”

“—but who would believe him, and for how long.”

“A quagmire of delay,” Lady Xarre observed, “has trapped efforts at righting wrongs before.”

“Adelis’s arrival is going to clear out a lot of bogs,” said Tanar, her jaw setting.

“So delay could help as much on our side as Tronio’s?” said Pen. “Except we know it, and he doesn’t.”

“I wish Sura were here,” sighed Tanar, with a sad look at the empty chair. “He’s so clever at this sort of twisty thinking. I’d wager he’d see a way through.”

“Mm.” Pen couldn’t disagree. “I’ll wager Tronio isn’t going to be getting much sleep tonight. Whatever he may try, he’ll be trying at panic speed.” Pen considered. “I don’t know if he’s realized, or can find out, that Rach was arrested by Nao. And he can’t know that the man has confessed already.”

Alixtra put in, “It would seem unlike Tronio to have faith that Rach wouldn’t betray him. …Though he might believe that Rach would keep silent on his own behalf.”

“And then there’s lord regent Bordane,” Pen was reminded, “another powerful piece of this puzzle that has to be moving on its own today. And far into tonight. Although in what direction, I cannot fathom. Did he actually love or even like his murdered uncle, as Laris seems to feel something for her late uncle Ragat?”

“Cupboard love,” judged Lady Xarre, “And long association. Which must add up to something. How much he chafed under his uncle’s thumb in turn, he’s not displayed that I’d heard of.”

Even the lowly Rach, Pen recalled, had said Methani treated his nephew as a tool. However much Bordane had accepted being a junior apprentice when younger, he might have been growing tired of such disregard with so many years of his own experience under his belt. He’d seemed shocked last night, as many were, but not grieved.

“Well, he’s inherited the whole cupboard now,” said Pen. “As Bosha pointed out. Rather publicly. I don’t think that jibe could have got up Bordane’s nose so badly if it hadn’t struck some nerve. Fear of being thought a suspect, if the two were known to be in conflict over other matters?”

Lady Xarre turned out her hands in a ladylike version of a shrug.

One member of this night council had not yet spoken. “Des?” said Pen aloud. “Do you have anything to suggest?”

A thoughtful pause before she took over Pen’s offered mouth. “It seems to me we’re not making full use of the main god-given resource we have packed along all the way from Vilnoc.” She gestured at Iroki, who blinked.

Tanar and Lady Xarre seemed startled by her sudden emergence, familiar enough with Pen by now to perceive the difference in his expression and cadence but not, like the other two, with direct Sight and grown used to it.

“There is One who certainly knows exactly where Tronio is,” Des continued. “If the god sent us here, why not ask the god to bring us the last few steps?”

“Pray?” said Pen doubtfully. “Are you sure? The last time He answered me so directly, it was with a dose of plague.”

“You were dealing with that plague,” said Des. “It was very much to the point at the time. …Also, it was quite a mild dose.”

Pen shied from trying to imagine a Thasalon political version of that.

“Maybe,” said Tanar cautiously, “the saint could pray for us? I mean, I thought that’s what saints were supposed to do.”

“Not saints of the Bastard,” said Iroki. “We just eat bad demons. And nasty they do taste, I can tell you. We kind of specialize, that way. But anyway”—he held up and twiddled his fingers—“our hands are supposed to be His. Says so right on the Order’s seal.”

“It couldn’t hurt to try?” said Tanar.

Yes, it could, thought Pen. Very painful indeed. But when he had arrived before at his wit’s uttermost end, it was often face down on a temple floor. Though any floor would do, from forest to sea.

Iroki, in a way familiar to Pen, was weakening under the limpid gaze of those big hazel eyes. “I could try. I guess?”

She waited.

“Not here in front of everybody!” said Iroki, sounding harried. “Maybe I can go out by that fishpond in a bit. That was right restful, this afternoon.”

“Oh, were you performing a religious meditation?” asked Tanar. “I thought you were napping.”

“Well, if the one don’t work, t’other makes almost as good use of the time.”

“And did it, ah, work?” asked Pen.

“Not as good as my river,” sighed Iroki.

Pen tilted his head back and stared at the fine plastered ceiling, if not for long, as his neck and shoulders ached. As did the rest of his body. Although not, he suspected, as much as Bosha’s did tonight, in his lonely bed in Nao’s infirmary. He straightened back up with a thump. “All right. Here’s another idea.”

He couldn’t have held his fascinated audience’s attention more firmly if he were a marketplace juggler. This rabbit had better run. “Chaos and random disorder, give it a chance to work in our favor. I propose that I, Iroki, and Alixtra go into the city tomorrow and let Iroki lead us in whatever direction he’s moved to. And we’ll see where the white god’s hand guides us.”

“To getting right lost, I should think!” said Iroki.

“Isn’t that what we’ve been doing?” murmured Alixtra. Not very loudly.

“Alixtra knows her way around,” Pen asserted, choosing to ignore that last. “She can get us unlost, after.”

Alixtra’s lips pursed in doubt, but she didn’t deny this.

“All we need,” Pen went on persuasively, “is to bring Iroki face to face with Tronio, in any way we can. All the rest of this huge political mess is just a digression, from the theological point of view.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Tanar, a bit tartly.

A handwave of acknowledgement. “You only need a moment, yes?” Pen said to Iroki.

“Well,” said Iroki, “it’d be nice if it was a moment of quiet. But I suppose so?”

“Anyone have a better idea?” Please?

Silence, alas, reigned in the sitting room. Even Des didn’t critique.

Lady Xarre spoke at last, with her usual generosity—though with her daughter drawn in this deeply, she was committed will or nil to supporting Pen’s venture. “Shall I have our coach ready to convey you to the city gates, at, what, dawn?”

Pen nodded reluctantly. “Soonest begun, soonest done. As my mother used to say. …So did my late princess-archdivine, come to think.”

“Do you wish to take the wicker carts? If so, how many?”

The three of them, Pen calculated, were all skinny enough to fit on one cart seat, though it would make a lumbering load for the wickerman. He wasn’t sure if there was more benefit to making sure everyone stayed together, or to having a second cart available to dispatch at need. Though in the daytime, spare carts might be hired at almost any street corner… “Not sure. Maybe none. Can we decide in the morning?”

She nodded.

With this, the group broke up, Iroki trudging out to the fishpond, Pen and Alixtra returning to their adjoining rooms, and Tanar again lingering with her mother.

At Alixtra’s door, Pen peeked in over her shoulder at the sleeping Kittio.

“He did all right with his sudden relocation today, I take it?” he murmured.

She nodded. “He’s always been shy. It worried me once, but I was so grateful for his quiet after we’d moved into Methani’s palace and I began to realize how treacherous it had become.”

“He didn’t seem shy this evening.”

“Lady Xarre’s staff have all been very kind to him. This estate must seem like an undiscovered country to a boy his size. And then came the puppy madness. I didn’t realize how quiet he’d become till that. I never told him of our danger, but he must have picked up something from me.” She added abruptly, “I didn’t get a chance to tell you before you left this morning, but Arra’s dark-sight came in last night.” She spoke as if reporting her infant’s first tooth, with muted pride.

He started to say Excellent! but bopped her atop the head with the edge of his hand, instead, which made her quirk a smile. “A good sign of you two settling in. Did getting Kittio back help your relaxation?”

“I think it must have.”

“Yet another skill that can serve you your life long, in all sorts of ways. I’ve occasionally mused that given second sight—of which dark-sight is a variant, at root—no sorcerer can ever be imprisoned by blindness, even with both eyes plucked out.”

She regarded him wryly. “You lie awake at night thinking of these things, do you, Learned?”

“Sometimes. I’m a light sleeper.” Except when he had Nikys in his arms. She was as good as teaspoon of syrup of poppies, without the side-effects.

“Why am I not surprised.” Alixtra almost-laughed, closing the door on him.

*     *     *

Pen was in bed, not sleeping, when Iroki came back. He’d left one candle burning—Pen didn’t need it, but the saint’s residual second sight didn’t quite extend to dark-sight.

“So did you say your prayers?” Pen asked as Iroki sat to strip off his sandals.

“Ayup.”

“Get any answer?”

“Nope. Well, one fish jumped out at my feet. I put it back in the pond.”

“Was that a sign that the god was listening?”

“God’s always listening. Might’ve just been a jumpy fish, y’know. The god speaking was what you wanted, aye?”

“…Maybe?”

“Uh-huh,” Iroki said dryly, and blew out the candle.

*     *     *

They were awakened in the predawn dimness by the polite tapping on their door of a Xarre manservant, bringing them a too-early good-morning-sirs and hot shaving water. Pen ceded most of the latter to the saint—with Des’s aid, he only needed to rub a damp cloth over his face to rid himself of his night’s stubble.

Iroki, when he’d washed his face in the basin, shaved, and put on trousers, shirt, and sandals, said, “I believe I’ll stroll out to that fishpond for one more prayer. Just in case.”

Pen nodded gratitude, going to tap even more gently on the adjoining door to Alixtra and Kittio’s room. She answered at once, putting her finger to her lips and slipping through to Pen’s side.

“Is he still asleep?”

“Yes, though not for long. I’ll want to wake him up before we go. He shouldn’t be left among strangers with no goodbye. I mean to set him in Tanar’s charge, or at least oversight—he was impressed by her, yesterday.”

“I’m sure she and her Xarre army can manage one small boy for a day.”

Alixtra almost-smiled, and Pen kept to himself the reflection that their task might end up taking a lot more than a day, and her good-bye might have to bear more freight than planned. Especially if things went very wrong somewhere. And he could think of so many…

Well, you’ll only have to deal with one or two, said Des, so stop fretting yourself with the entire imaginary barge load.

They were all to meet in Tanar’s chambers for some sort of breakfast while the coach was called for. Alixtra slid back into her room to finish dressing, and Pen sniffed at his Wealdean whites, smudged and smelling of dried sweat. Even when fashioned out of Cedonian summer-weight cloth, the long sleeves and generous folds had been overwarm yesterday. The outer robe was really a disguise for Des, not for himself—maybe he could take it along to be donned later at need. He settled for just the inner shirt and trousers for now.

He took a moment to pass through the latticed doors onto the room’s little balcony. Leaning on the balustrade, he looked over the quiet, dew-drenched gardens, still misty and gray. He imagined sitting in one of its shaded nooks in the drowsy part of the afternoon, all liquid birdsong and golden bee-drone. Maybe with a book, to complete the idyllic picture. It didn’t compose his nerves much. A few birds were starting to twitter. Lady Xarre did not presently keep peacocks, to screech imperiously at the dawn like outraged aristocratic roosters, though he guessed they must have featured here once. Eaten by the mastiffs, maybe.

The distinctive barks of a couple of the dogs carried through the damp air to Pen’s ears—great bass woofs resonating from their deep chests. Apparently they’d not yet finished their night patrol and reported back to their kennel for their own breakfasts. Pen straightened, frowning. The beasts usually coursed the grounds in silence, unless they’d found something unusual to excite them. But these barks weren’t just excited—they sounded frantic. A couple more joined the chorus, then some pained canine shrieks. What…?

There’s some kind of trouble at the front gate, said Des, as arrested as himself. She tensed, uncanny senses straining. Just outside my range. And, in a moment, Men. Breaking through or coming through, but either way, many.

The din of barking and snarling redoubled, laced with men’s voices shouting and swearing, some also yelping in pain. Kittio pelted out onto the balcony, bed-rumpled and wild-eyed. “Someone is hurting the dogs!” he cried in alarm.

And vice versa, sounds like, said Des.

Alixtra came hot on his bare heels. The weasel’s senses too flared wide, though without the range and control of Des’s. In another moment, the influx of agitated souls became apparent even to her as this mob, whatever it was, made its way up the curving drive. Several pairs of individuals split off to the right and left of the main body, spreading out through the grounds. Intent and nervous. And… disciplined?

Pen squinted as a couple of pairs came around the corner of the house, one taking the winding garden paths, the other starting along the house wall. He and Alixtra together grabbed Kittio and retreated back through the latticed balcony doors, shutting them hastily.

“Uniforms,” said Pen. “Short swords. Not imperial soldiers…?”

“Thasalon municipal guards,” said Alixtra, her voice going strained and high. “Oh, gods, have they come for me?”

There were as many as in a soldierly company, anyway. Fifty? More? More than Des could handle, or even Des and Arra between them. Or all the dozen Xarre mastiffs put together, of which a few extra seemed to be rushing in, attracted by the commotion. More barks turned to yelps. Some new shouts seemed to be Xarre servants, trying to get them under control.

Pen, said Des. They have sorcerers. Have to be local Temple folk. One… three… four… Some other Sighted as well, I think. A fifth one hanging back… it’s Tronio.

Well. Now they knew what Tronio had been up doing all night. Not plotting a run for the borders after all…

“To Tanar,” said Pen tightly, and dragged Alixtra, dragging Kittio, out onto the courtyard gallery. The uproar had reached the house doors, guardsmen both municipal and Xarre yelling at each other, servants protesting. Tanar, flanked by a frightened maidservant, had popped out of her door and was peering over the railing.

“Go to Lady Xarre,” Pen told the maidservant. “Tell her to stay in her chambers.” And to Tanar, sharply, “Back inside.” He hustled Alixtra and Kittio into her sitting room before him.

“What’s going on?” Tanar demanded breathlessly as he clapped her door closed.

“It seems to be a city guard company somehow got up by Tronio to arrest… probably me, though you and Alixtra aren’t out of the running. Don’t rush out to them. Stay here in this chamber with Kittio like the timid young noblewoman you aren’t, and buy time. Wait for your servants.” She was still in what Pen guessed was a night-wrap. “Insist you need an hour to dress.”

She glared at him, but with a glance at the tearful Kittio and the distraught Alixtra, nodded agreement.

“Alixtra.” Pen turned to her. “Get out the back way, go to the fishpond, bring Iroki back at once. Your weasel can help you avoid the men on the grounds. Both ways, I hope.”

She huffed in several kinds of fear, but nodded, saying to her son, “Stay with Lady Tanar, Kittio. Keep out of sight of those men. Do what she tells you till I get back.”

“They wouldn’t dare search in here,” said Tanar indignantly, undercutting herself with a smaller, “…would they?” If she was thinking of what lay in her stillroom’s locked cupboards, in the chamber beyond Bosha’s, she was right to be worried.

“If so, maybe Kittio could pretend to be, I don’t know, a houseboy? Could you do that, Kittio?”

Kittio stared back at him in timid bewilderment. So, maybe not… “In any case, be very quiet.” This less daunting suggestion won an apprehensive nod.

Alixtra bent to hug him hard, then sped out the door.

Pen looked up at nothing, other senses straining. “They seem to be forcing their way through your front doors. With bluster, not blades, so far.”

“Oh, how I wish Sura were here!” cried Tanar. Pen couldn’t quite tell if her tone was heartbroken, or homicidal.

Bosha’s blades, however swift and tainted, wouldn’t have been a match for this many men either, and Pen was by contrast deeply grateful the secretary-bodyguard wasn’t present to try anyway, crippled hands and all. Because he would, if he thought his ladies threatened. Though his edged and poisonous tongue might have served better to slow the invasion.

Or get him spitted on the spot, said Des uneasily. As with Bordane.

“Lord regent Bordane,” Pen said to Tanar. “Would he have sent the municipal guard for me? Or imperial soldiers?”

“Imperial soldiers if this was official. His own household guard if he wanted to keep the affair more private and under his direct control,” said Tanar.

“So it wasn’t Bordane Tronio ran to last night for this?” Pen guessed.

She shook her head in equal mystification.

“Only one way to find out. All right. I’m going down there to try to talk them into some sort of standstill, or stand-off, till Iroki can get back.”

“Do you think Tronio would want to take you alive?”

“Dead men tell no tales?” said Des aloud. “I’d invite them to try.” Fierce excitement shuddered through her.

“Maybe not,” said Pen, “but if this is meant as a murder squad, I don’t think most of the Temple folk can know of it. Nor even all the guardsmen.” A small selection of them with more intimate orders, maybe?

Not without the collaboration of at least a couple of the learned sorcerers out there to hold us down for it, said Des.

More likely Tronio will try to engineer some moment where it looks like we’re violently resisting, said Pen. That would seem his nasty indirect style, and with fewer consequences to himself. He seems very adept at avoiding consequences to himself.

Till now.

Aye. But don’t give him his chance on a platter.

I am in your hands. …As always.

“Lock the door behind us,” said Pen said to Tanar. She nodded grimly.

With more earnest sincerity than ever before in his life, Pen signed himself with the holy tally, tapped the back of his thumb twice to his lips, and stepped through. May our god go with us.

As they ventured out onto the gallery to look down over the seething mass of quarreling people in the courtyard—remonstrating servants being thrust back roughly by irate guardsmen bleeding from dog-bites, benches knocked aside and flowers trampled—Des murmured, I believe He is already here before us, Pen. Who in the world would think it a good idea to collect six chaos demons into one small space? Seven, when Arra gets back.

Someone who decided his years of theological training were to be edited for his convenience at his will?

Good guess.

Thumping groups of municipal guardsmen were lumbering up both branches of the gallery stairs from the entry arch, which would be cutting off Pen’s retreat if he’d planned one. The boards shook under their heavy feet. The main body, headed by the sorcerers, the officers, and some other folk in assorted Temple garb, had spilled out onto the flagstones before the fountain. Tronio kept himself well back.

He has a line of retreat we’ll need to cut off somehow, noted Pen.

One step at a time, love.

The approaching guardsmen were inadvertently herding them into the first such step, which was going to be steep. Pen swung over the balustrade, hung for a moment from the floor edge by his hands, and dropped to the courtyard below, long legs folding to take up his impact. His bare toes tingled, and he wished he’d had time to don footwear. The guardsmen shouted and pointed down at him. No doubt to their confusion, Pen did not attempt to dash off, but rather, straightened and strolled steadily toward the crowd assembled, hands held out empty at his sides.

His eye ticked off the Temple folk. Of those in whites of his own Order, two sorcerers were younger men—one of them was the fellow from Methani’s party, who certainly recognized Pen instantly even without Sight; one middle-aged sorceress; one man about Tronio’s age, stouter, in shabbier vestments. Another middle-aged man bore the silver chain and pendant-and-seal for the head of a chapterhouse. Which, therefore, must be where Tronio had gone to shop for his help after all.

A man in Father’s summer grays with a divine’s braids on his shoulder also wore some significant chain of authority around his neck—probably a magistrate from the city office at which Tronio, or more likely the chapterhouse head at his instigation, had requestioned the guardsmen. The sergeant flanking the guard captain was, good grief, a petty saint of the Father of Winter. The god was not immanent in him at the moment, but the faint lingering gray haze in Pen’s second sight was distinctive.

Tronio couldn’t possibly have wanted him along, said Des.

Likely not…

So, this support was not gathered from the neighborhood temples, which were too weak to serve Tronio’s purposes, nor from the greater Thasalon hierarchy, which would have been unmoved by his personal authority, but from those middle echelons that had been passed over in Lady Xarre’s earlier evaluation. Pen, surveying their numbers, had to give Tronio credit for not underestimating his opponent. Some of the guardsmen now manning the gallery had unshipped short, powerful bows, and stood with arrows nocked and strings ready to pull back.

Got a line on those bowstrings, Des?

Oh yes.

Wait for it.

Aye.

“Who’s in charge here?” Pen called loudly enough to damp the din, winning a moment’s startled pause from all. Not quite what they were expecting?

You never are.

Now to spin that hesitation out to its maximum duration…

The guard captain, the Father’s divine, and the chapterhouse head glanced at each other and all stepped forward, the sergeant, at a quiet hand signal, staying right behind his captain’s shoulder. The other sorcerers looked back at Tronio and parted to let him through, an invitation he seemed reluctant to take. But he advanced beside the other three authorities.

He inhaled, lifted a stern hand to point at Pen, and intoned, “That’s the Orban spy who poisoned Minister Methani.” His delivery was very sonorous and convincing, Pen had to admit. An unpleasant frisson of memory shivered through him. That’s the spy! had been the very words that had prefaced his own first introduction to a bottle dungeon. And to Cedonia, come to think. He wagered great Thasalon harbored some very well-maintained bottle dungeons.

“I did not,” said Pen mildly, “although I admit I’m an agent of sorts. But not, at this time, for either Duke Jurgo or the archdivine of Orbas. I’m more of a courier, assigned to conduct a message and its bearer through the hazards of its journey to its destination. Which would be you, Learned Tronio. I told you of it yesterday, but I don’t think you were listening.”

Four matching glowers testified to shared disbelief, plus one deeply puzzled stare that didn’t. The captain glanced back at his sergeant, who murmured, “Well, he doesn’t think he’s lying.”

Tronio had surely been tutored by Bosha yesterday in the hazards of letting a glib man talk, but this—two might keep a secret, but fifty definitely couldn’t. This had been over, Pen thought, from the moment he and Des had failed to either run or resist as planned. No tactical plan should hinge on one’s enemy making the right mistake—Adelis could have taught Tronio that.

Pen turned to the Father’s magistrate. “I surrender to you, sir. But not to him.” He jerked a thumb at Tronio. “He and Minister Methani between them got up a sacrilegious scheme to—”

So baited, Tronio had to strike. Jumping for it like the pike he is. He cast a bolus of chaos toward Pen, at the same time screaming up to the bowmen on the gallery, “Shoot him!”

A couple of the men, confused about their chain-of-command, actually tried. Their bowstrings parted under their hands, snapping back into their faces while their arrows tumbled over the balcony. The bolus of chaos caromed into the flagstones like a fly being batted away. The two younger sorcerers looked briefly impressed by this double defense, before hastily bringing their own demons to the alert.

“Ah-ah,” said Pen, prudently slipping around and taking cover behind the shocked magistrate.

“No, sir, you can’t!” cried the sorceress, trying to grasp Tronio’s arm. “He’s surrendered!” He jerked away from her, his face working.

With all the attention riveted upon Pen’s drama, no one had noticed the figure walking through the entryway at their backs. But guardsmen stepped out of his way without quite knowing why. All across the courtyard, petrified silence spread from his passage like the bow wave from a boat. Every Sighted person present wheeled, gaping, and every demon except Des went into a sudden panic, like horses bolting wildly around a paddock they could not escape. Tronio looked up and froze.

“I’m Iroki,” said Iroki amiably, but his eyes were not at all friendly. Or human. “You’re done,” said… not-Iroki.

Chapter 17

Iroki opened his hand in a gesture that was nothing like a blessing, his lips parting. The demon’s scream, as it was drawn from Tronio’s soul like hot wire through a forming plate, was heard only by the Sighted; the two younger sorcerers clapped their hands to their heads in an attempt to block it out—futile, given that this agony didn’t come through the ears.

Alixtra slipped up to Pen’s side, and they stood together bearing grave witness, as those tasked to officiate at a judicial hanging. Her weasel cowered, but clung to her determinedly. She sheltered it like a child bade to turn its frightened face into its mother’s skirts.

Tronio’s scream, following, could be heard by everyone in the building, Pen thought.

“I know just what he’s feeling,” murmured Alixtra through set teeth. “Now he knows what I felt.”

“More so, I expect,” Pen muttered back. This pair had been given maybe twenty or thirty years to grow into each other, like roots, or a spreading tumor. No love lost between them, to be sure, but Tronio was trying to hang on to his demon regardless, like a miser watching his only treasure chest sinking into the sea and struggling with the temptation to jump in after it. Too late. In the Bastard’s hands, the crying demon was already spinning away into the white nothingness from which it had once sprung.

The god’s Presence had to be a devastating certainty to every person there, Sighted or not, though some might not quite recognize the source of the awe that scraped on their souls so rawly. Foretaste of death. Too much World beyond the world for mortal minds to encompass. And… wroth, yes. If all others watching were shaken by the thunderclap, Tronio and Iroki were standing in the center of the lighting strike.

Then, as swiftly as in the dark of the Vilnoc dungeon, the greater Absence filled the morning courtyard, and more than one person cried out in bewildered loss. Tronio was crouching curled in on himself, making inarticulate noises too angry to be weeping, as flattened as if by those siege engine wheels Pen had once imagined.

Iroki dropped to the flagstones, sitting with his legs sprawled out, in barely better case. He scrubbed the back of his hand over his lips. “Whew,” he said faintly. “And isn’t that the nastiest thing I’ve ever swallowed.” His green eyes were huge. “Like an amputation. ’Cept no one’d make me eat gangrenous limbs.”

All the Thasalon sorcerers were on their knees, either in deference, dismay, or still struggling with their demons; as were a sprinkling of other more sensitive servants or guardsmen, with equal reverence but less understanding, and to the confusion of their comrades. The eldest sorcerer lay prone, arms outflung, the chapter head kneeling in worry at his side. Tanar, Pen saw in his swift survey, had come out of her chambers against his orders, he wasn’t sure how long ago, and was leaning transfixed over her gallery railing.

On the opposite side, Lady Xarre too had emerged, in some sort of dressing gown and supported by the maidservant. She frowned darkly down into her courtyard. For one more teetering moment, the scene was remarkably quiet, like the wine-sick aftermath of a rowdy party or a small battle. Iroki getting his wish?

It was broken by the faint clink of one last tumbled flowerpot falling apart, spilling its dirt across the flagstones. With all of these distraught chaos demons collected, it was unjust to blame the poor guard company for all of the disorder—broken crockery, smashed foliage, benches knocked over, people bruised and bleeding—there had doubtless been an outbreak of conspicuous clumsiness among the already ham-handed and big-booted men. Five gods be thanked nothing had caught fire.

The sergeant-saint was the first to move, going to kneel on one knee in front of Iroki in a posture a little too military to be subservient. He offered a polite obeisance, even if he was the representative of a very different god.

“Blessed Iroki. All here are at your service.” His captain looked a bit startled at this news, gulping back protest. “May we be permitted to know”—the sergeant faltered—“everything?”

Iroki jerked a thumb toward Pen. “You want words, that fellow over there with Miss Big Demon is your man. Has more’n anyone I ever met.”

A press of Pen’s fingertips on Alixtra’s shoulder instructed her to stay where she was—a coin toss whether she was more inclined to stick to him tightly or run away. He cleared his throat and stepped forward. Pen had a number of tart things he wanted to say to the chapter head of his own Order, but of the three it was the magistrate he must first convince—the city guard captain was here only upon the magistrate’s legal authority. Pen had always found the truth easiest to keep track of, for all that the Bastard was called the god of liars. And, Pen was reminded, the god of justice when all other justice failed, Midsummer’s reproach to Winter.

Which is likely as unwelcome as any other reproach, murmured Des, so—tread carefully.

Aye.

Raising his voice to carry throughout the courtyard—really, the place had excellent acoustics—Pen said, “As I began to introduce myself before the interruption, I’m Learned Penric of Vilnoc, court sorcerer to the duke of Orbas.”

The eldest and youngest sorcerers looked up, startled, at this.

Don’t think that’s just for Jurgo’s name, love, said Des.

“But I am not here as a diplomatic envoy from him,” Pen overrode this.

Isn’t that a fancy term for spy?

As a swan to a duck. Now hush.

“My mandate came from a higher Authority,” Pen went on, keeping his volume up, “as you all here have just witnessed.” And, counting the sergeant, not three but five temple sensitives to cross-testify to the non-visible parts, hah. “Why the white god entrusted us with this task, and not anyone in great Thasalon, I must leave you to think about, but I’ll be at your disposal to explain it all momentarily.

“The charge here that concerns me as an official of my Order is only that of the sacrilege—Tronio and Minister Methani, between them, lately concocted a scheme to use elemental demons as instruments of secret assassination upon their political rivals. Their victims in the past months were Minister Hethel, Minister Fasso, and lord regent Prince Ragat. General Adelis Arisaydia was to have been the fourth, which is how Orbas and I were drawn into the shambles. I gave testimony about all this yesterday to the lord regent Nao and Princess Laris.”

Ah, all of those names won alarmed jerks. Good to get them out on the table as soon as may be.

The chapterhouse man asserted, “Learned Tronio said he had orders from lord regent Bordane for your arrest.”

“Did he show them to you written? Sealed and signed?”

“I… Learned Tronio is long known to be a confident of Minister Methani and his nephew.”

“Only verbal, then?”

“Uh… yes?” It seemed to be the first moment the chapterhouse man had considered this might be a problem.

Des almost purred. Interesting. Pen nearly purred back. It was only half helpful, though. A written document would have confirmed Bordane’s involvement, but its absence proved nothing.

“While the sacrilege of the brutal demon-sacrifice is my remit, the crimes it was used for belong properly to the authorities of Thasalon. Your Honor”—Pen turned to the magistrate—“ah, may I know your name, sir?”

“Pasia,” said the magistrate. By no means falling in with this, but listening carefully. Good.

“Did you bring a court scribe, among all this company?”

Pasia’s brows flicked up, and he made a motion. A woman in Father’s grays with a writing-box strap over her shoulder, who had been hanging back clear of the violence, ventured cautiously over from beside the entry arch.

“Then everything needed is here for seating a preliminary court of inquiry,” said Pen happily.

Really, murmured Des, Tronio is like a chicken that brought its own pot and onions.

Holy parsimony at work? Disturbing thought. Just how effective were Iroki’s prayers?

“My god’s task here is done,” Pen went on, with a reminding wave at the saint, still sitting on the pavement and listening with silent appreciation, “but there’s a great deal I’d personally like to know that only Tronio is left alive to tell. So if you can make written, attested copies of my examination of him—Lord Nao will want them, and also Lord Bordane and the empress-mother. And whatever your own city hierarchy requires. I believe there may be enough unbroken benches left for the purpose at the other end of Lady Xarre’s courtyard…”

At this apposite moment, Lady Xarre came down, supported by two servants and her own secretary. She must have been listening to it all from her gallery, while somehow being hastily garbed in morning dress, fine enough to support her role. This sudden reversal of her status from suspected harborer of spies to outraged noblewoman suffering an unwarranted invasion of her home, with unanticipated high government connections and possibly higher holy ones, pushed the magistrate, the captain, and the chapter head all off balance.

Well, the magistrate had probably supplied a warrant, but still. The experienced shipping magnate was not a woman to miss a negotiating advantage. Her daughter, Pen checked with a quick glance, had been shoved back out of sight and mind into her chambers, where Pen hoped Tanar would have the sense to stay put along with Kittio. With a polite bow and holy tally that handed off all attention to Lady Xarre, Pen stepped back to admire her entirely canny skill.

By the time Lady Xarre had worked through her list of complaints, from the early hour and entirely unnecessary violence of their entry, through the injuries done to her servants and dogs—Pen was sorry, though not surprised, to learn that several of the latter had been killed, relieved to hear none of the former—the destruction to her premises evident all around them, and the insults to her honored guests including a blessed saint, the three red-faced authorities, if not quite reduced to abashed schoolboys, were openly glad to turn the proceedings back to Penric’s direction.

He first convinced the captain that the bulk of his men could be sent back to their barracks, apart from a few believed needed to keep physical control of Tronio, though the sergeant of course stayed. Pen thought he might have stayed whether ordered or not. Pen would have liked to be rid of the sorcerers as well, especially that young fellow who’d met him at Methani’s, but he’d have to deal with problems from that quarter as they came. He did suggest to the chapter head that they should be placed as far from each other as possible.

Des watched the mass of the guardsmen depart with satisfaction bordering on glee. There go forty wagging tongues to spread the word around the barracks and the town. Atop news of Minister Methani’s sundering, the court of public opinion should be well-swayed. Also well-muddled, Pen expected, recalling the metamorphosing rumors surrounding the attack on Adelis.

Between his stage directions and Lady Xarre’s, they all ended up in the far end of the courtyard, mostly seated. Lady Xarre let the magistrate take the chief place, though she disposed herself co-equally beside him, her reestablished authority as hostess in unvoiced competition with his. Iroki tagged along to plunk down cross-legged at her feet, which truly left precedence confused. Pen put the uneasy Alixtra behind his right shoulder—every sorcerer or Sighted present had to be wondering wildly who she was by now.

“It’s going to be all right,” he murmured to her, and had the wit not to add I hope. Her trusting nod was both flattering and daunting.

Tronio, through the first part of this, had remained mumbling and sniveling on the ground, to the point where Pen began to wonder if he’d been struck altogether mad in the moment of his demon being ripped from him, thwarting any attempt to extract his story. But by the time a pair of guardsmen pulled him up and marched him over to be seated again on a stool at the center of the new circle, he’d fallen quiet, beginning to look around. And think? His eye evaded the saint, but he regarded Penric malignantly. And Alixtra with astonished ire.

When the scribe was seated and organized with her writing board in her lap and her quill dipped and ready, Pen exchanged nods with her, signed himself by way of marking his sworn testimony, and commenced.

“To begin at the beginning, on the Thasalon end: sometime after the death of the old emperor nine months ago, Methani’s grip on power in the new regency council was being contested, I deduce mainly by lord regent Prince Ragat and his followers. A military solution was beyond the minister’s reach, as Methani was at odds with much of the army even before the disaster at Vytymi Valley, and Ragat was popular with them, so he sought another way, a more devious way.

“My first question for Tronio”—Pen decided to dispense with the honorific, though the man had so far only lost his status as a sorcerer, not his rank as a divine—“is to ask exactly how it came about that he and Methani put their heads together for what doubtless seemed a perfect plan for assassination, so secret it could not even be recognized that any murder had even taken place. It is understood by Temple folk educated in my Order, though not well understood outside it, that demon magic may not be used to murder. It is less spoken-of, but also known among the skilled, that this is not quite true—demon magic may only be used once, then the demon is stripped by the god from its host through the death of the victim. Trained Temple demons are strong enough to resist being used so, and most sorcerers would be loth to lose their powers.” Pen gestured at the other sorcerers ranged around the circle, listening uncomfortably. “You need not take my word for this—others here can attest to this fact.” Some reluctant nods.

“Methani and Tronio hit upon an alternate route. Take some utterly untutored person who knew nothing about the theology of this, fit them out with a new-born elemental even more ignorant and helpless, and use them as the instrument of the murder, losing the elemental but keeping Tronio’s demon untouched. For an added benefit, the human could be used over and over, reloaded like a crossbow with a fresh elemental-bolt. One of their several mistakes was in thinking such a tool could remain so ignorant. Or that her soul’s welfare would be as disregarded by our god as it was by them.”

Tronio thrust up from his lump to cry, “I murdered no one! It was her!” He pointed to Alixtra, who flinched. “Three times! Why doesn’t this bumpkin saint eat her demon?”

“In point of fact,” said Pen dryly, “it’s the bumpkin god Who does the eating. You need to reflect on that.”

The magistrate and the city guard captain had come alert at this accusation, staring at Alixtra in an alarm she echoed back.

“Alixtra has undertaken to give her sworn testimony on all of this matter that she personally witnessed to lord regent Nao, for the use of the high council, in exchange for commutation of those charges she must bear. As she has already been pardoned by our god Himself in Vilnoc, when He ruled that she must keep and develop her demon for our Order, I expect Nao will be”—not thickheaded enough—“shrewd enough not to argue.”

Unlike Tronio, murmured Des.

The captain and the magistrate settled back only slightly, not yet convinced, but not relishing the prospect of trying to arrest a sorceress of unknown power. There were reasons the Bastard’s Order handled its own. They did look to the chapterhouse head, who winced.

“At this time,” Pen put in, “Alixtra is in the legal custody of the Temple of Orbas, through me. Since my mandate of care for her came directly to me from the white god’s holy hand in Vilnoc, I trust you will be shrewd as well.”

The chapterhouse head seemed a conscientious man—well, all three were—but he had to be glad not to have this politically spiky ball of brambles dropped into his lap. “This seems good to me,” he said carefully. He brightened, turning to the magistrate and the captain. “Tronio is all yours now, though. Since he has lost his demon, he may safely be given over to the ordinary machineries of justice.” The recipients did not seem wholly grateful for this consolation prize.

It was dawning on Tronio that with the crushing loss of his demon, his troubles were not ending, but just beginning.

“So, Tronio,” Pen went on, “who did originate this scheme? You, or Methani?”

“Methani,” he said instantly. Sounding too relieved for it to be a lie? “He came to me several years ago with it, or the first version. I told him no, I could do no such thing, I’d lose my demon, any sorcerer would, and would want no parts of it.” Tronio frowned. “He drew the idea, he said, from the report of some Patos sorcerer who’d tried it and failed.”

“Would that be Learned Kyrato of Patos?” Pen asked, a frisson of personal horror passing queasily through him. Was Pen responsible for all this, in some remote way?

“I believe that was the name. Never met the man myself. Methani had called the fellow in and proposed it, but he refused. Only then did Methani turn to me.”

Neither you nor Kyrato, then, said Des briskly. Stop borrowing blame, Pen. Leave it to those who’ve worked harder to earn it.

“And the using of a hedge sorcerer as your long-handled tongs?” said Pen. “Your idea or his?”

“I don’t remember,” Tronio said evasively. “We were discussing it, and the idea came up between us.”

Tronio’s, then, Des judged. Though I imagine Methani was delighted.

“Did it not occur to you that it was a sacrilege?”

“Why should it be?” asked Tronio truculently. “The god disposes of excess elementals routinely, in much the same way. And great men have employed assassins in support of their powers throughout history. Only if their side loses is this even dubbed a crime, let alone sacrilege. I saw no reason why the two halves might not be put together, in a fair cause. Ragat was plotting treason, to put himself on the throne in place of his young nephew, with his son Lord Ello as his successor.” His passionate justification was becoming edged with hysteria. “There can be no crime in defending the boy-emperor from that!”

“Well,” sighed Penric, “that will be for the high courts of Thasalon to decide. That this misuse of demons is condemned by their Master has been made plain. And I don’t think it’s an accident that it’s been done so publicly, before so many witnesses. Some One must want word to get around, for the discouragement of imitators. Methani has already been judged for it, in a higher holy Court than any here. Up to you which verdict you think you have more cause to fear, but I know which one you will never evade.”

“If it had worked, it could have held key military applications for the empire!” Tronio defended.

Had Tronio been picturing himself a future general of demons? The vision made Pen shudder. “Any army that tried it,” he countered, “would be headed for a swift and messy defeat. As you have perhaps just discovered.” Which did lead to some interesting questions about certain military disasters of history… Methani and Tronio couldn’t be the first to ever hit upon this scheme.

Not now, Pen, sighed Des.

Alixtra, scowling, put in a question of her own. “And whose idea was it to threaten my five-year-old son with castration and enslavement if I did not cooperate?”

This won a surprised blink from Magistrate Pasia, his first glimpse of the complexity that might lie behind her perplexing pardon.

“Methani’s,” Tronio hastened to repeat. With enough certainty that it likely didn’t need the sergeant-saint, listening so carefully, to decide it was the truth.

“You did not think to remonstrate with him?” Pen asked mildly. “In your capacity as a divine, if not as a sorcerer?”

Tronio looked at him in vague astonishment. “The chambermaid was his servant, not mine.”

Really, he’s amazingly impervious, said Des. I believe he’ll go to the gallows still protesting his righteousness.

It was the gods’ place to judge the man’s soul, not Penric’s, he was reminded. And glad he was to leave this one to Them. Although if Tronio was this deaf to their god before his death, his chances after were beginning to look as bad as Methani’s. Maybe it all just needed time to sink in. It hadn’t even been two days since the ex-sorcerer’s world was upended, for all that it felt like a year to Pen.

You are much too charitable, said Des. She didn’t exactly sound disapproving. More… fond.

“I think,” said Penric, turning to Alixtra, “it may be just as well for you to give your sworn testimony about Tronio at this time.”

Yes, Des agreed, let her speak her truths aloud before the one who sinned against her. In the normal course of justice, Pen understood, it was the accused who had a right to be confronted by his accusers, but this time it seemed more the other way around.

“Stay to your direct experiences of him. Just as you confessed it all to me in Vilnoc will be fine. You may need to repeat or expand some of it later to Lord Nao and Princess Laris, but I’ll leave them to ask their own questions.”

“You will go with me for that?” she asked him apprehensively.

“Every step,” Pen promised. He lowered his voice. “For now, leave out Adelis’s current whereabouts. And of Methani’s reception, only what part you directly witnessed before you left with Kittio. The magistrate does not want hearsay, eh?”

She swallowed, nodded. Reassured—not baselessly, Pen prayed—she turned to the listening impromptu court of inquiry, signed herself, and began her tale. Yet again. The practice was helping her retain her composure through the most harrowing bits. The flat, controlled rage of her delivery had traveled far from the distraught despair of her earlier confession.

She’d better be controlled, said Des. She’s a sorceress now.

Yes. I’m rather proud.

The three authorities, listening, grew grimmer and grimmer, especially the magistrate and the chapter head. As all his shadowy secrets were laid bare in this pitiless new light, Tronio said little beyond a disputing mutter, though at the more condemning details he spasmed in a reflexive attempt to draw on a power he no longer possessed.

The younger sorcerer had been watching Penric for some time in puzzled dismay. As Alixtra drew her account to a close with a note that Bosha had been with her at Methani’s continuously until she’d left with her son, he turned to Penric.

“You didn’t give me your true name when we met night before last. How much more of what you told me was false?”

“Well, I did take my seminary training at Rosehall. I could hardly have confided my real mission at that time. If Tronio had not left before Blessed Iroki and I arrived, the events of the night might have gone quite differently.” And, from Pen’s point of view, perhaps more disastrously, even if he and Iroki had managed to corner Tronio in some quiet nook and they had left him unconscious as well as stripped of his demon. Count our ambiguous blessings?

The magistrate put in, “So Blessed Iroki was with you the whole time, Learned Penric?”

“Ayup,” said Iroki from his place by Lady Xarre’s feet.

“We were together still looking for Tronio, down by the cisterns, the very first time I met Minister Methani,” Pen clarified. “Who was already a raving revenant by then. We were not, at first, even sure who he was. Or had been.”

“He was right fresh,” said Iroki. “Never saw a ghost so new before. Or so crazed.”

“I never saw you there, Blessed,” said the young sorcerer.

“Once we met the sundered ghost,” said Iroki, “and were sure Tronio wasn’t to be found, Learned Penric had me escort Lady Tanar home soon as I could. We didn’t tell her anything we’d seen, so’s not to upset her, but it was plain that party was no place for a young woman.”

This was accepted with understanding nods. Lady Xarre said, “I thank you so very much for that consideration, Blessed.”

He ducked his head in calm assent.

“Alixtra and Bosha,” said Tronio roughly. “They were together. Not using her demon, no, but Bosha’s a known poisoner. Someone must have helped hold Methani down. The two of them, then!”

The sergeant looked to the saint, and the magistrate to them both.

“Nope,” Iroki said simply.

Alixtra said coldly, “We had a more important task before us.”

Tronio set his teeth at the veiled insult.

The magistrate then took over for a short cross-examination of all involved, save Lady Xarre, whose frowns still made him twitch. To Pen’s relief, his focus was on the earlier uncanny assassinations—maybe some higher-ranking magistrate in the city had been appointed for the inquiry into Methani’s death. Alixtra’s answers were precise and brief. Tronio tangled himself further and further in coils of self-exculpation and increasingly wild accusations of others, which were listened to attentively but without much expression by the magistrate and the sergeant. No one further taxed the saint, who observed it all with the interested air of a man watching a holy-day play on a temple portico.

At length, the magistrate had his scribe circulate to each witness to sign the lengthy deposition. Iroki was much apologized-to for the imposition; he caught his tongue between his teeth as he laboriously scratched out his name. Pen signed it neatly, reflecting that court shorthand would be a fascinating new writing system to learn more of. Alixtra’s signature was firm and plain. Tronio at first refused, but then managed an angry scrawl. The scribe put her busy quill away, ordered the papers in her writing box, and closed it up.

“There is enough here,” said the magistrate, rising, “to hold Learned Tronio and to present the case to my own superiors.”

Yes, Pen could imagine he’d want to boot all this upstairs at his earliest chance.

“I must have a lawyer,” said Tronio. Late off the mark, to be sure—had the man imagined himself far above such mundane needs, before?

“You’ll have the chance to engage one later.” At the magistrate’s gesture, the captain took over the task of marshaling the new prisoner out. Alixtra’s shoulders sank, like a cat coming off its tense and bristling arch, as he left the courtyard.

Pen delayed the chapterhouse head, making to follow, with a touch to his arm.

The fellow gulped and turned to him. “Yes, Learned Penric?”

“Legal matters I leave to the Father’s Order. But do I understand correctly that Tronio was a member of your chapterhouse, and thus under your supervision and spiritual guidance?”

“I… on the roster, yes. He kept lodgings with us, when he was not engaged on tasks for the minister or the government. But everyone understood he was Methani’s man.”

“You are not Sighted, I understand that, but how is it your supervisor of sorcerers never brought the increasing and discernible corruption of Tronio’s demon, and by extension its rider, to your attention?”

A reproachful look passed from that eldest sorcerer to his superior, which made him cringe. Ah, so that’s how that was. “Tronio is a very senior man,” said the chapter head. “He’d been there for years before I was ever promoted to my post, and had served the imperial government for longer still. He was not a man to question. Nor one to brook remonstrance from juniors.”

“And now he is fallen, and has besmirched the white god’s Order in Thasalon in the process. I expect you’re an able administrator, but as a senior divine your care of those in your chapterhouse must be more than material. I’ll be going back to Vilnoc, where I have other calls on my time, but it seems to me the Order here has some cleaning up to do quite apart from what’s fallen to the justiciars.”

“I… hardly know where to start.”

“Well.” Pen’s lips stretched in a non-smile worthy of Bosha. “I suppose you could begin by praying.”

The chapterhouse man glanced across the courtyard, so lately and shatteringly god-touched. There being no possible answer to this that wouldn’t make it worse, he sensibly shut up. “I am advised, sir.”

He retreated after the magistrate’s party.

A long, fraught silence held among those remaining for a few moments, until it became certain that none of the invaders would be circling back. Across the courtyard, a few Xarre servants began to move about the disheartening business of picking up.

Pen, staring at the entryway and learning to breathe normally again, asked Iroki, “So. Blessed. Just what exactly did you pray for last night, out by that fishpond?”

Iroki shrugged. “Asked the god to let me finish this job for Him quick as may be, so’s we could both go back to my river.”

“Nothing more… specific?”

“Nope. Not a fool. Better to leave it to Him.” Iroki hesitated. “I’d’ve asked too small, y’see.”

“Ah,” said Pen.

Chapter 18

Fortunately, the violence of the guardsmen’s invasion had not penetrated as far as the Xarre kitchens. Breakfast being long lost, Lady Xarre settled her awkward honored guests for a by-now-late luncheon in the farther and less trampled end of the courtyard. Immediately after, Pen went up to Bosha’s chamber to compose a careful note to Princess Laris and Lord Nao. The proliferating disruptions to high Thasalon politics had to be pressing both today; likely not a good idea to just show up at their door. Not least because he was unwilling to trap Alixtra and himself on the wrong side of the city walls while all was still so unsettled.

He summarized the events of the morning and humbly begged for their instruction on any further testimony required from him and Alixtra. Whether he’d humbly obey such orders if and when they arrived, he left to be decided. But it was best they receive an eyewitness account before the distortions of rumor had a chance to work up to them. He dispatched the sealed letter by a trusted Xarre liveried man for delivery directly to the hand of either Nao or Laris, to wait for a reply if any. Which would leave him waiting as well, glad for a chance to catch his breath.

Which he didn’t quite get. A soon as he emerged, he was drawn in to treating the injuries of the Xarre servants, a request from the lady he could not refuse. At least it spared him from being sent to the kennels to deal with worse. He took the opportunity to set Alixtra at his shoulder to observe some of the subtler aspects of uphill magics. This was followed necessarily by a wander around the grounds and stable to find allowable vermin in which to dump the accumulated chaos, also instructive to her he hoped.

Kittio was diverted from a distressing visit to the kennels by being let to pull a wicker cart around the stable yard, pretending to be a horse. Secretly envious—child-Penric would have thought such a vehicle a wonderment—Pen briefly talked him into taking turns towing and riding it, which gave Pen his chance at the experience without having to embarrass himself by asking the wickermen. Kittio’s mother, arms folded, watched the play in deep amusement, as did the Xarre stable hand.

His messenger not being back yet, Pen offered help to Lady Xarre with her bad joints, explaining that persuading such age damage to rebuild itself required small, focused treatments spaced over weeks and months, and what he’d have time for wouldn’t provide more than slight amelioration. The process was watched over closely by Alixtra, and with baffled curiosity by Tanar and Lady Xarre’s faithful secretary.

This filled the time till supper, during which the liveried messenger finally returned. He came with a note, not a guard squad, so it was probably going to be all right. …Probably. Pen tore it open at once, scattering sealing wax on the tablecloth, and read it by the candlelight.

“You and I are charged to attend upon Lord Nao tomorrow, midafternoon,” Pen told the anxious Alixtra. She nodded apprehensively. “Blessed Iroki is respectfully invited as well, though they do not command him.” Did not dare, Pen read between the lines.

“Oh!” Alixtra looked across at the saint in hope. “Would you go with me, too, Blessed? To bear me witness?”

His protection for her would be entirely in the realm of moral suasion, but… while offending any god was not a good idea, annoying the god of chance and mischance by insult to his favored vessel was possibly the worst pick. As had been lately and vividly demonstrated. Iroki could be a better outrider for her than Penric and Desdemona put together.

“Oh, aye,” said Iroki easily.

*     *     *

At the appointed hour the next afternoon, they all three arrived at Laris and Nao’s palace, to be gated in with no waiting by the deferential majordomo. Alixtra and Iroki were garbed once more in the sober finery they’d worn to Methani’s. Pen’s Wealdean robes being both worse for wear and a false flag, he’d combined the least flamboyant coat he could find in Bosha’s wardrobe with his own trousers, since Bosha’s would have fallen short of his ankles. Tanar had contributed a silver belt for his white tunic in what reference they could manage to his calling.

The majordomo ushered them in to the same receiving courtyard with the orange trees Pen had seen before. Pen almost tripped, startled by the persons arrayed in the awning’s shade upon a circle of chairs, who all turned to watch as the majordomo announced them. In addition to Nao and his secretary, a much older man in the five-colored robes and distinctive cap of the archdivine of Thasalon, by long custom chief prelate of the Temple in Cedonia, was attended by a full-braid divine in gray with a writing-box. And, with Bosha flanking him, Adelis.

Alixtra gasped at the sight of the latter. Iroki gave her arm a reassuring squeeze.

The archdivine climbed immediately to his feet and offered Iroki an obeisance. A moment later, the rest of the men did the same, even Nao and Adelis. Pen didn’t think the archdivine was a Sighted man, though he wasn’t sure of the assistant, but he’d made no mistake in the identification. “Blessed Iroki,” said the archdivine. “The Temple of Thasalon is at your service.”

Nao cleared his throat. “My household as well.”

However daunted the fisherman from Pef might be by this high company, the saint was not; he returned a fivefold tally, aimed generally around the circle. “Thank you, Your Grace, m’lords.”

Pen directed a bow to the archdivine, who, giving him a penetrating look, held out his hand with its ring of office. Pen bent to kiss it, murmuring, “Your Grace honors me.”

With a tight grin, Adelis offered a soldier’s greeting arm-grip, putting Pen in mind of their farewell on the Vilnoc dock nearly three weeks ago. His studiedly neutral civilian dress bore a faint aroma of sea salt. “When did you get in?” Pen asked him. “You made good time.”

“So I’d thought, heretofore. We landed yesterday afternoon, and sent Gria’s aide off secretly into town to make contact with the princess and Lord Nao for instructions. His tale to us upon his return was… what can I say. Gria and I had spent the whole of the voyage working out tactical plans for every possible contingency. Except the one we found waiting for us. Just how long have you been here?”

Pen calculated. “About six days?”

“Oh? And the city’s not yet burned to the ground? I still have the most vivid memories of my arrival in that poor pirate port. Slowing down, are you?”

“Once, Adelis. It was only the once, and only the waterfront. …And the five ships,” Pen protested.

“I wait with fascination to see how much they offer you to go away this time.” Adelis’s mood seemed peculiarly elated, for all that he looked as if he hadn’t slept last night. Apart from the squinty eyes, redder than usual, he was in sunbaked good health.

Nao sat and gestured his august company to do the same. Three empty chairs awaited them. Pen placed Alixtra between Iroki and himself for what bulwark they might offer.

Bosha sank back down with an almost inaudible oof. Pen couldn’t tell how much of his distant ironic smile was Bosha and how much was whatever dose of syrup of poppies he’d taken for his hands, now bound up in soft batting to protect them. A quick glance by Sight found them very swollen and doubtless throbbing painfully, though correctly aligned for healing. Pen must seize the first chance to treat them again, which was alas not yet. But it appeared the eunuch was released from close arrest. Or else Nao thought him rendered harmless by his injuries, which seemed… optimistic.

“I know you had my letter yesterday,” said Pen to Nao. “But we’ve not received much news from town or court so far today. Minister Methani’s funeral was scheduled despite all for this morning, we did hear of that, but nothing of how it went.”

“Very privately,” sighed the archdivine, “at a minor temple near his palace. I officiated. We knew going into it that the rites were futile, but we had to try.”

“He’s stayed sundered, I gather.”

“Unfortunately, yes. Fading fast, my Sighted tell me. I read your letter, and have had a copy of Magistrate Pasia’s depositions, so I can’t say I’m too surprised. Lord regent Bordane was grim about it all, but seemed reconciled. He’d been deeply upset with the sundering when he came to me about it day before yesterday. And, ah, its cause.”

“He told you about that?” said Pen, astonished.

“Begging for my spiritual and other guidance. He wished to establish clearly that he’d had no part in or prior knowledge of his uncle’s uncanny political murders.”

Because a lord regent was not above a charge of treason if his target was another lord regent, Pen was reminded, and the assassination of Prince Ragat qualified. Hence this whole arcane demon-scheme in the first place. And maybe it wasn’t just the secular charges alone that had unnerved Bordane?

He’s smarter than Tronio, then, said Des.

He must have come to his decision of how to handle Tronio and Rach’s news very quickly, before dismissing them to work upon Bosha and turning to his appointment with the archdivine about the sticky matter of his uncle’s funeral. Unlike Tronio, he’d presumably seen at once that continued secrecy was not going to be possible. What way had he found to run through this collection of political, legal, and theological caltrops? The anticipatory assassination of enemies, or, worse, imagined enemies, seemed more his late uncle’s style, but Bordane had been freed to find his own way now.

“Lord regent Bordane,” said Nao, “has proposed a compromise for the regency council that I think will satisfy all parties, as well as restoring its proper numbers. Laris to take one empty seat, and the archdivine as a neutral party to take the other.” He nodded to the prelate, who nodded back, not exactly joyfully. The man already filled a more-than-full-time post, after all. “Laris and Bordane have gone to discuss it with the empress-mother, along with the offer of that betrothal if she would be reassured by it. Both of these had been mooted before, mind you, but blocked by Methani when he was alive. He sought a fellow regent he could control, not one that no one could.”

Nao’s gaze slid to Adelis. “Once all are installed, clearing General Arisaydia from prior charges and restoring him to his post in the Western Army should be a matter of talk, not arms.”

“False charges,” Pen put in. “I can give you a sworn deposition about that if you need it. Having been a close eyewitness.” Pen winced at the inadvertent pun as Adelis’s garnet irises glinted.

“Mm, yes,” said Nao, “you were the Adriac agent who carried the incriminating documents, I understand?”

And where had he learned that? Adelis, maybe. “At the time. The root forgery that started it all came from Methani, and that letter is still in the archives of the duke of Adria. Should anyone need to examine it.”

“Good to know,” said Nao.

“I saw it myself. It was expert enough to pass the inspection of the Lodi chancellery, Cedonian paper and ink, although really, there wasn’t much to work with. It was in a scribe’s hand, with only Adelis’s signature, which could be easily copied if they had samples.”

“Quite,” agreed Bosha, with professional interest.

“That it was in a scribe’s hand should have been your clue,” rumbled Adelis. “If ever I’d sent such an incendiary thing, I’d have had the sense to write it out myself.”

“Well, I’d not yet met you, then,” said Pen. He turned to Nao. “I don’t know what else Methani’s scriptorium may be found to harbor. Those archives are in Lord Bordane’s hands now, are they not?” Along with the rest of the haunted palace.

“Yes. Mucking them out is also, shall we say, going to be a topic of discussion soon.” And not with foreign agents, his tone implied, however holy their mission.

Be glad of that, Pen, said Des. I am. The impression of a shudder.

Pen, allowing his curiosity to overcome his caution, asked Nao, “So… was Prince Ragat planning to seize the throne for himself and his son? Tronio genuinely seemed to think so, but I couldn’t tell if he knew of evidence, or he’d just let himself be persuaded by the minister. Who was noted for preemptive attacks upon persons who, if not yet his enemies, were soon made so.” A nod at Adelis, who snorted. “The physicians’ word for that is iatrogenic, a cure that creates a disease.”

“A just term,” said Nao. “I shall have to remember it. That Ragat was suspected of such aims in the court of gossip and rumor almost goes without saying. It was plain he would never be Methani’s hound. All I can say is at the time of his death, he’d not yet approached Laris with the idea. He’d certainly have had to assure her compliance before he made a move. What plans were in his private mind, and perhaps in discussions with his son Ello, well, only the gods know now.”

“I’m hard put to decide if Tronio was an honest loyal fool, or as wily as his master,” said Pen. “Though I’m not sure it makes a difference at this point.”

“For his soul, it may,” said the archdivine thoughtfully. “His body, I fear, is forfeit.”

“However it came about,” said Adelis levelly, “I must say I am ecstatic to find that my first task upon returning to Cedonia will not be to make war upon a nine-year-old.”

Nao smiled. “A number of earless men await you to lead them against better enemies.”

An accepting nod.

Nao then turned to Alixtra, who stiffened but held her ground. Pen couldn’t help noting that while the lord regent took the risk of being in the same room with the uncanny assassin, he had not risked his wife. Her choice or his? And for fear, or for anger?

Prudent in either case, said Des.

Both secretaries unshipped their writing boxes—Bosha looked vaguely envious—and the archdivine himself swore both Alixtra and Pen to their oaths. Though not Iroki, naturally. Prompted by Nao, she launched once more into her story and confession, supported as needed by Pen. Practice had made her succinct and clear, which must be appreciated by the scribbling scribes. Nao’s questions were incisive, as were the archdivine’s—Pen had heard the man had started his long career as a judge, some half-a-century ago, before rising into the Temple hierarchy. He was somewhere in his mid-seventies now.

When her tale came up to the events on Jurgo’s front steps, Adelis put in a few words as well. He seemed to regard Alixtra with that, in Pen’s view, mildly insane respect of a military man for an enemy who had almost succeeded in finishing him. As he didn’t leap up and attempt to behead her at once in revenge, she gradually relaxed. Somewhat.

Nao touched on the events at Methani’s fatal reception more lightly—he’d had Pen’s earlier verbal account, if not sworn and transcribed, and Pasia’s depositions, which had been. Alixtra hewed precisely to what she’d seen herself, ending with her departure with her rescued son. Iroki put in only a brief description of their first encounter with the sundered ghost in the cisterns—the archdivine must have plenty of confirming testimony about the revenant from his own Temple sensitives by now. The genial saint had left almost all the talking to the other two. Either he was secretly shy in this high company, or he really was the laziest man in Pef.

At this point, Nao brought the afternoon’s proceedings to a conclusion. The lord regent—both lords regent, Pen was reminded—must have half a thousand other tasks waiting on their plates as a result of the recent upheavals. Adelis as well, even if he wasn’t to be plunged into a messy civil war. Pen could write out his promised deposition about earlier events at his leisure back at Lady Xarre’s, Nao told him. He and his party were not to leave Thasalon yet. At a reproving look from the archdivine, he amended prudently, “The saint, of course, may go where he wills.”

“And please take Master Bosha back to Lady Xarre’s with you,” Nao added with a thin smile as he beckoned to his majordomo. “He’s been alleviating his boredom by drifting through my scriptorium correcting my people’s work, which is somewhat disruptive.”

I’ll bet, said Des.

“I observed a number of efficiencies and checks you might institute to improve its productivity,” said Bosha, with a helpful air.

Yes, and Pen was also reminded of Lady Tanar’s brag to Nikys about her secretary’s ferocious memory.

“Another time, perhaps,” said Nao politely. “We know where to find you, after all.”

Bosha’s crooked smile stretched in appreciation of the veiled threat. “You may be sure I’ll be waiting at my lady’s side.”

He rose with well-concealed eagerness to be gone from here. Alixtra’s was less well-concealed. With his usual abstracted amiability, Iroki accepted an open invitation from the archdivine to call upon him later. Pen recognized a certain god-hungry look in the old prelate’s eyes that promised the topic wouldn’t be politics this time.

Under the majordomo’s escort, Adelis walked with them to the palace door.

“I trust Lady Tanar continues well, after all this unpleasantness,” he said to Pen and Bosha. “Please tell her I’ll attend upon her and Lady Xarre as soon as I may. Which may not be as soon as I’d like, but I’ll do my best.”

“She awaits you eagerly,” Pen assured him.

“Well.” Adelis’s hand drifted to his disfiguring burn scars, which Tanar had not yet seen. “We’ll find out.”

Bosha smiled—all right, that one really was a smirk—and advised, “Do not underestimate her, General.”

While the Xarre wicker carts were called for, a palace servant delivered Bosha’s scant belongings from the infirmary, and he promised to send his borrowed clothes back in due course. Pen set him with himself in a cart for the return trip, giving a chance to work on his hands, for which Bosha gave thanks a trifle dubiously. The healing effects of the treatments were not, after all, instantly apparent. Apart from that Bosha was rather silent, as his extreme tension of the past days seeped away to be replaced by understandable deep fatigue.

He roused himself back to a simulation of his usual sly humor when they were anxiously met at the mansion door by Lady Tanar, who carried him off on a cloud of care that dismissed the simulation for exactly what it was. It won from him a rare smile of secret softness as he surrendered, however briefly, his accustomed armor to her.

I’m a bit glad Adelis didn’t return with us, said Des. Tanar would have had to face that dilemma of the hypothetical cliff for real. Which beloved fellow to grab first?

I trust she’ll be able to save them both, said Pen. We should not, after all, underestimate her.

*     *     *

The Xarre garden nook, in the soft if overwarm shade of a late afternoon, was every bit as idyllic as Pen had pictured. He sat back in his cushioned chair, took a sip of his lemon water, and thumbed to the next page in the book of tales he’d selected from the mansion’s library. At a yip and a young shout, he looked up to watch his companions.

Kittio had reacquired the puppy from the kennels today, and they were playing together on the nearby patch of lawn under Alixtra’s close supervision. She laughed as the puppy and Kittio tugged for possession of the stick she’d thrown. The beast had mastered chase and catch, but was having trouble with then bring back and return. When it was older, it would doubtless fetch entire legs.

Tanar was dividing her attention between a sheaf of reports from the Xarre captains, and feeding Bosha, who protested unconvincingly. Pen had rewrapped his hands this morning in new batting, replacing the old which had grown dingy in the four days he had been home, less to protect them than to dissuade the man from premature attempts to use them. A periodic tremor, lingering aftereffect of Tronio’s torture, would pass off on its own as his irritated nerves calmed, Pen judged.

“Really, I can do this myself,” Bosha said to Tanar, as she made another dive on his mouth with a grape.

“You dribble, Sura dear.”

“A preview of my repellent old age. Soon to be upon us.”

“Stuff,” said Tanar. Pen wasn’t sure if she meant nonsense, or keep eating. Maybe both.

Pen returned to his book. He’d not read three more pages when a voice broke into his admittedly lax concentration—the Xarre porter, grown familiar by now. The man’s normally routine tasks had grown much too exciting in the past weeks of these Orban visitors, but Pen thought he could remove the bandages from his healing head wound very soon now. The splints on his broken arm must stay a little longer.

He looked up as the porter said, “Lady Tanar, here is General Arisaydia to wait upon you.”

Sheets of reports scattered on the flagstones as Tanar leaped up emitting an unladylike shriek. Bosha sat back with a long exhalation through his nose, placing his hands in his lap, and produced a good imitation of a welcoming smile. Pen tucked in his bookmark and closed his volume.

With a flurry of skirts, Tanar flew to Adelis, who advanced upon her. They met midway. An attempt on Adelis’s part at a polite handclasp was overborne by her embrace, as swiftly returned, pulling her off her feet. No man, Pen thought, should have such a private expression on his face be witnessed.

Well, don’t look away, said Des. After all this, I want to watch. Pen grinned.

As Adelis put her down, her soft hands rose to capture that face and hold it for her critical inspection, turning it in the bright light. “That’s not nearly as bad as I was led to picture,” she said judiciously. “Rather striking, in an odd way. Do the scars hurt?”

“Not anymore.”

“And you can see again all right?”

He cast Pen a wry twist of his lips. “My restored vision is excellent. Possibly better than before.” He looked down at her. “Especially right now.”

“Good,” she said, nodding firmly. And that was that. A slight release of pent breath was all the sign he gave of his relief.

Not letting go of his hand, which did not let go of hers, she led him into the shade. Bosha made to rise and yield his seat to this most honored guest; Adelis waved him back down. The Xarre servant attending upon them from a discreet distance hurried off to fetch an extra chair.

The puppy, chased by Kittio, tumbled up in curiosity to sniff this new person’s sandals, followed by some exploratory licking. Adelis muffled a snort. Kittio arrived to worriedly pull the beast back by its scruff, but Adelis merely bent and gave it some expert patting, to which it surrendered instantly, rolling on its back and waving its oversized paws about in canine bliss. Kittio, reassured, stood up and smiled shyly at the big stranger.

“This must be Kittio,” said Adelis, as Alixtra hurried warily up. He eyed her warily back.

“Yes, sir. Kittio, make your bow to General Arisaydia, who is…” She foundered on the complexities.

“My betrothed,” Tanar supplied in rescue, earning a grateful look.

Kittio, who had become a Tanar devotee over the past days, brightened still more, and managed a not-too-awkward bow. “How do you do, sir.”

“Very well, thank you,” Adelis returned gravely. “And yourself?”

Kittio was a little flummoxed by this unexpected return, but rose to the challenge. “There’s dogs here. And an old pony. And wicker carts. And the cooks will give you any amount of sweets, if you ask please. And Lady Tanar has a treehouse! Not just some boards nailed to a tree, but a real house! With two rooms, and steps, and little furniture!” He waved his amazement.

“You still have that left from your girlhood?” Adelis asked Tanar in surprise.

“My mother has maintained it, for the use of occasional young guests,” Tanar told him. “And possibly in hopeful anticipation.”

“Remarkably hopeful, considering my late exile.”

“Her trust is never unfounded, as our captains can testify.” She squeezed his arm.

The puppy took off again, with Kittio in hot pursuit.

“Nice lad,” said Adelis to Alixtra. “I see your point.”

And that, too, was that, apparently.

The extra chair arrived, and Adelis allowed himself to be seated, receiving a cup of lemon water from Tanar’s hands, welcome in the heat of the afternoon. He looked around. “So where is your tame saint today?”

“Gone fishing,” said Penric. “Rather unexpectedly. A certain petty saint of the Father in the city guard, whom we met the other day, turned out to have a brother who fishes out of a little port just up the coast from Thasalon. He offered to take Blessed Iroki out on his brother’s boat. They went off day before yesterday. I gather sea fishing is a new experience for him. Villager from Pef, you know, which is pretty far upriver, past Dogrita. I’m not sure if they’re going to talk fish, or talk shop. Or both. We expect him back shortly.” Pen leaned back. “So. What news from town today?”

“Not much. Legal matters are grinding away at the usual speed for legal matters, roughly that of a crippled ox. My reinstatement has been confirmed by the full regency council, however, and I’m shortly to start settling myself in my new army headquarters.” A glance at Tanar.

“I understand senior officers’ lodgings in the capital can be quite comfortable,” she said tranquilly.

And at Adelis’s level, not limited to army issue, though Pen didn’t expect he could recover more than a fraction of his pre-exile wealth. A frugal point Tanar already understood, it seemed, though her own resources could buy them a minor palace if desired.

A nice delicacy, said Des. Did I mention I like this girl?

Several times. Which is good, as she is to become our sister-in-law.

“My sharpest legal concern is Alixtra,” said Pen. “That there not be any reneging upon her fate. I bear a responsibility for her issued… from a source above all argument.”

Adelis’s restored brows twitched up at this theological reminder. “A formal council order for her exile is to be delivered here soon, I’m told. They’re not planning to make her wait around for Tronio’s trial, as he’s broken down and is making confession. The impression I have from Laris and Nao is that the sooner she’s made Jurgo’s problem and not theirs, the better. To the point of offering swift transport to the border. Given you’ll have the blessed saint along, the Temple has made a similar offer.”

“I still have some of Jurgo’s and my own Temple’s purse left, but I think I’ll take, hm, yes, the archdivine up on that. Just to be safest.”

Adelis’s short nod acknowledged all the implications.

He set down his emptied glass and turned to Tanar. “We should wait upon your lady mother next, I think.”

“Yes.” She rose to capture his arm again. “I have more to tell you. In private.” They strolled away toward the mansion, walking close together.

Pen watched Bosha watching them go. The self-mocking plate armor was back upon his face, concealing who-knew-what. It made Pen hesitant to prod.

“I think,” sighed Bosha, attempting and failing to flex his hands, “I’m ready to lay down my blades and pass those duties of protection to another. My reflexes have been slowing of late. The pages can’t tell, but I can.”

“But not your quill, I trust?”

“…No.”

Future Minister Bosha? suggested Des.

Who can predict?

“So is she going to tell him about Methani?” Pen asked.

Bosha grimaced and sat back. “We debated the problem. Neither of us are keen on it, but I suggested it might be worse to let him blunder about in ignorance. She agreed.”

“I have to back you up there. Knowing Adelis as I do by now”—probably better than either Tanar or Bosha—“I think it will be all right.”

Pen marked the eunuch’s pensive stare off into nothing. His imagined prospects, perhaps. “Her heart is large, Sura,” he said quietly. “Spacious. I don’t think you’ll need to move out to make room.”

A smile without a trace of irony fleeted over Bosha’s lips, like the reverse of a cloud shadow. “Ah,” he said.

*     *     *

Iroki arrived back in time for supper, sunblown and amazed.

“How was your sea-trip?” Pen asked him.

“Whales,” breathed Iroki, eyes wide. “I didn’t know about whales. Over a dozen came to see me, out on that boat. And calves. Shouldn’t think fish babies should be called calves, but there they were. They followed us almost back to port.”

The last time Pen had witnessed anything like that expression on the saint’s face, he’d just seen their god.

“I only asked for some good fish,” Iroki added plaintively. “Only that, for the nice sea fishermen. …Five gods be my witness, I’ll never ask too small again.”

Epilogue

Pen wanted to take the road home the instant Alixtra’s exile order arrived, but there was the complicating matter of Adelis and Tanar’s wedding. The principals would have been glad to set it in two days. Lady Xarre, who had more grandiose visions for her house’s only heiress, wanted two months. A compromise was reached for two weeks’ time.

We could still go, said Pen to Des. Nikys…

Will fry you alive if we fail to stay for her twin brother’s wedding and report every detail. And I’ll bring the oil.

Pen sighed. All right. We’ll delay. But you have to note and remember all the bride dresses and whatnot for her.

Agreed, said Des happily, whose interest in fine clothing was almost equal to Bosha’s—in a being that had, technically, no body, Pen had always found this a bit baffling. You can write her a longer letter now, you know, reporting all’s well.

He’d sent his wife a brief note of reassurance the day after Adelis arrived, yes, but what he wanted was news back. Which would scarcely have time to get here before they left, true.

It did allow Pen the chance to do a few more things in Thasalon. Of chief importance was accompanying Iroki, at his entreaty, upon that visit to the archdivine. “Because you can do the talking,” he told Pen.

Pen didn’t think that was exactly what the archdivine had in mind, but he acquiesced. He seized the opportunity to discuss the problems of the spiritual supervision of sorcerers in Cedonia with someone who could actually do something about them. Once he felt he’d made his points, he abandoned the saint ruthlessly to their host and went off to view the monumental and splendid main temple, jewel of the capital. “Ask him about fishing,” he advised the archdivine over his shoulder as he made his exit. “I think you’ll find the Blessed can give you much to meditate upon in that humble task.”

To treat Bosha’s moping because he could not assist Lady Xarre’s secretary in the flurry of correspondence and invitations required for the impending nuptials, Tanar detailed him to escort Pen and Iroki to the theater, twice. A more sun-resistant servant was sent to guide her guests to the horse races held at the famed imperial racecourse in honor of the Bastard’s Day. The city-wide celebrations were quite the equal, if differently flavored, of those Pen had seen in Lodi.

Pen elected to make his devotions privately, and the fisherman-mystic had his own ways, but with Bosha they did attend the Bastard’s Order castrati choir concert held in the main temple, the acoustics of which turned the ethereal massed voices into something, well… the musical equivalent of the miracle of whales, perhaps, vast and overwhelming and to be remembered lifelong.

*     *     *

Though Lady Xarre might have commanded some grander venue, the wedding was held in the local temple usually attended by her household. Divines of the Bastard did not officiate at weddings, so Pen was off the hook for that duty, but as the only representative of Adelis’s family present, he did take on the task of the groom’s first witness. He wasn’t Adelis’s sole support, to his relief. Several army officers, old comrades from before his exile, turned up, with interested wives in the tow of those who possessed them.

Tanar, though she’d had the choice of several young woman friends, selected Bosha for her chief attendant. Now as always, Pen thought. Bosha restrained his sartorial appetites and dressed more soberly than the bride, though the result was still quietly dramatic.

The wedding luncheon was held in Lady Xarre’s restored courtyard, gorgeously garnished with flowers. Garlands looped along the balconies, which were peopled by the few servants who weren’t actually serving and the musicians.

Among the men who came for Adelis, there was one familiar boot-face whom Pen could not, though he tried, manage to avoid. General Chadro of the Fourteenth Legion, following in the train of his friend General Gria, had numbered among the army men whose military support for Laris, if events had devolved to the civil war now averted, Gria had secretly pledged. Gria quite cheerfully introduced them—though Pen was presenting himself only as Adelis’s brother-in-law, Chadro had apparently been filled in about his more covert role by his companion.

“We have so much to thank you for, Learned,” Chadro told him. He stared at Pen in some puzzlement. “Ah… have we met?”

“No, sir,” said Pen firmly.

Oh, be nice, Pen, said Des. Mira wants to come out and say hello!

NO.

Spoilsport, she pouted. Not very seriously, Bastard be thanked.

“And is this Madame Chadro?” Pen, diverting disaster, made a bow to the woman on Chadro’s arm. Much better-looking than the general, perhaps in her mid-thirties, she had the self-possessed air about her of an experienced army widow. Pen knew the type. And missed her fiercely…

Chadro brightened. “Yes, this is Oudora.”

“We’re not long married ourselves,” she put in. They exchanged fond glances.

“I’m glad,” said Pen sincerely. “You are both very fortunate.”

“I certainly am,” Oudora agreed cordially.

If she knows that, said Des, I approve.

After a few more aimless pleasantries, Pen escaped. With his life, among other things.

*     *     *

As Pen would be leaving tomorrow himself, Adelis and Tanar stole a few moments for a private farewell. It seemed too small a space in which to squeeze such a world of meaning; Pen was content to let wordless embraces bear most of the freight. Then, with much greater fanfare, the newly married couple boarded the Xarre coach to spend a few days at one of Lady Xarre’s more secluded outlying properties. For once, Master Bosha did not follow at his lady’s heels, remaining with Lady Xarre.

He and Pen ended up that evening drinking on the balcony of Tanar’s sitting room overlooking the twilight gardens, as her chambers felt far too quiet and empty.

“My one lingering concern,” Pen said, as Bosha refilled their wineglasses for the several-eth time, “is what Tanar and you plan to do if some innocent party is arrested for Methani’s murder.”

“Well,” said Bosha judiciously, “that would depend on who it was.”

“Be serious.”

“I wouldn’t volunteer to change chairs with him, no.”

“I wasn’t suggesting you should.”

“Good.” Bosha drank. “So far, although several men’s movements at that party have been thoroughly investigated by the magistrates, none were proven to be absent or alone during the right time period. Even me.”

“You’ve been following matters closely?”

“Very. I have reliable sources.”

Pen decided not to ask just what, or who. Or how.

Bosha went on, “The imperial government has not, historically, been above fabricating a suspect for a high crime when none were otherwise forthcoming, quite knowingly. But the regency council may be content this time to let it run out as an unsolved mystery, or at least, not press to such extremes for a sacrifice. Otherwise, I should certainly be voted the most goat-worthy candidate—ah, from their point of view. I am exceedingly grateful for your saint’s good word, by the way.” He drank some more.

“I suppose,” said Pen, “that once Alixtra is safely over the border, there could be no harm in letting suspicion rest on her, instead.”

“Mm,” said Bosha, considering this neutrally. “I should not be averse to bearing some lingering public doubt, mind you, as long as it does not advance to charges. Or execution. I don’t think it would do the least harm to my reputation as Lady Tanar’s… Lady Arisaydia’s personal factotum.” A sly smile plastered over the momentary verbal lapse.

“I shall pray so,” said Pen.

The night was not so very far advanced when Pen poured Bosha into his bed; the secretary was still healing, and Pen had an early morning appointment with a borrowed Temple coach. Saints and divines, he reflected, were not the only people to make of their lives a gift to the Bastard. The white god loved his great-souled children, in whatever varied guises they might be found. Pen made a fivefold tally, tapping the back of his thumb twice to his lips, before quietly closing the door and returning to the gallery and his own welcome bedchamber.

*     *     *

Of course they were lumbered with the puppy.

To Pen’s dismay, Lady Xarre’s kennel master was quite willing to give it up. The little beast was the runt of its litter, and too friendly, he told them, so he’d been considering culling it anyway.

Kittio wanted to name it Tanar, in honor of the lady of his worship. Pen persuaded him to the more neutral Xarre, instead, as he thought the other would give him a crick in his ear, although, since the lady and the puppy were not to be living in the same household, more direct verbal embarrassments would not arise. Adelis would have been amused; Master Bosha, possibly not.

The well-appointed Temple coach, with its glossy team of four horses, moved them—the saint plus them, officially—along much more briskly and comfortably than their earlier conveyance. Its pace was welcome, as they would be traveling this old military road the entire three-hundred-mile width of the peninsula to the opposite coast, to circumvent the mountain range and meet up with the shore route into Orbas at the eastern border.

Young bladders and intermittent coach sickness necessitated more frequent pauses, cutting into their speed, till it was discovered the latter could be treated by letting Kittio ride on the roof. The boy, with his puppy on a short leash, was overseen in turns by his mother or by Iroki, who though not subject to the nausea of motion also preferred the open air. These quieter interludes inside the coach gave Pen the chance to give Alixtra some broader tutoring than the focused practicalities of their prior journey, and to start to plan her curriculum as a trainee divine in the Bastard’s Vilnoc chapterhouse.

On the third day of their travels in one of these more private moments, Alixtra confided shyly, “Arra said her first word to me last night.”

“Excellent!” said Pen in delight. “What was it?”

She laughed a little. “It was just No. But it was very distinct.”

Pen grinned. “That sounds about right, really. I think that was Rina’s, let me see, third word. The first was Kitty. The second was Mama. Sadly, Papa took a little longer.”

Alixtra said wryly, “No was one of Kittio’s first words, as well. I think children pick it up so quickly because it’s the one they hear the most often.” Her lips quirked in thought. “I felt my demon as an animal, at first, or some monstrous haunting. Thinking of Arra as a strange kind of child… works better.”

“As she is to become a person in time, yes. One of the duties of a Temple sorcerer is to pass their demon along, at the end of their life, as a better, fuller person than it started. Making the sorcerer a sort of foster parent and teacher rolled into one—quite literally, the demon’s modeler, as clay is molded by the shape of the hands that work it. Of Tronio’s many sins, the fatal corruption of what had probably been a perfectly good Temple demon back when it was first entrusted to him is not the least.”

“I was so worried, on the way over, that you meant me to face Tronio with my shaky new magics, and I didn’t think I stood a chance against him.”

“Well, I had no idea how things were going to go, or what the white god expected of us, so I tried to prepare you for the worst first. Now I think He didn’t send you to deploy your magic on His behalf at all—that was my task—but to do exactly what you did, which I could not, which was to bear witness upon Tronio and Methani.”

And to deliver inspiration? suggested Des.

Maybe. But we shouldn’t say that aloud.

True.

Pen frowned in consideration. “Really, I have no idea what the white god plans for you, His newest servant, in the long run. Except that it might be much longer than we can imagine. I certainly couldn’t have anticipated all that I would do, and learn, and become, at the same stage in my career.”

“Do the gods foresee it all? Are we just Their puppets, then?”

Pen brightened. “Ah, you’ve hit upon my favorite seminary debate! Predestination or parsimony? We students used to argue it long into the night back at Rosehall. Let me explain the sacred nature of free will…”

*     *     *

At the rocky ford that marked the border of Orbas, they bade a fond farewell to their Temple coach and its attentive postilions. Pen expected that he would now need to negotiate with the rapacious local coachmen who picked up parties lacking their own coach, whose Cedonian hirings turned back here. But his notes home, though they could have reached Vilnoc little before him, had borne fruit. An Orban Temple coach, if not so luxurious, waited to convey the saint and his retinue the half-day’s leg on to Jurgo’s summer capital.

Pen watched out the window with scarcely less eagerness than Kittio as they topped the last rise and the town and its harbor came into view. His own first sight of the place, from this same road, had been all sunlit mystery and apprehension. Now…

He hadn’t been back to the valley of his birth in the cold canton mountains in nearly a decade. It seemed far less home, now, than Vilnoc had become. The Orban port was no longer a place of strangers, but of friends. And more. He was never lost in its winding streets, nor barred by ignorance from its secret treasures.

Pen deposited the saint, Alixtra, Kittio, and Xarre upon the Bastard’s chapterhouse head, Learned Sioann, with ruthless speed. She could handle it all, he was sure. Temple couriers would see Iroki back to his beloved river on the morrow. Pen would be back then, he promised Alixtra and Sioann, to discuss the needs of the house’s newest residents in detail. He knew some lay dedicats here who would be delighted to help look after a boy and his pet, oh yes. Rest. Eat. Settle in. I’ll see you soon…

Duke Jurgo too, Pen decided, could be put off until tomorrow. Leaving his luggage to be delivered by a dedicat when one could be found, Pen walked through the familiar streets, his weary stride lengthening, to, at last, his familiar door. The cheerful color of its paint against the whitewashed stucco always reminded him of some rich autumn fruit, ripe persimmon perhaps.

Nikys met him in the entry with the most gratifying shriek of welcome imaginable. His arms were instantly full of her, rounder than ever, perfectly healthy and—Des, alive to his far-too-knowledgeable medical worries, offered up a glance from their second sight without his even having to ask—so was Llewyn-to-be. Idrene arrived with Rina who, Pen found to his relief, still remembered him, if in a slightly suspicious manner.

“You have so much new correspondence piled up on your writing table.” Nikys told him. “It’s practically falling over.”

“It can wait,” he told her, and hugged her harder.

~FIN~

Author’s Note:

A Bujold Reading-Order Guide

The Fantasy Novels

My fantasy novels are not hard to order. Easiest of all is The Spirit Ring, which is a stand-alone, or aquel, as some wag once dubbed books that for some obscure reason failed to spawn a subsequent series. Next easiest are the four volumes of The Sharing Knife—in order, Beguilement, Legacy, Passage, and Horizon—which I broke down and actually numbered, as this was one continuous tale divided into non-wrist-breaking chunks. The novella “Knife Children” is something of a codicil-tale to the tetralogy.

What were called the Chalion books after the setting of its first two volumes, but which now that the geographic scope has widened I’m dubbing the World of the Five Gods, were written to be stand-alones as part of a larger whole, and can in theory be read in any order. Some readers think the world-building is easier to assimilate when the books are read in publication order, and the second volume certainly contains spoilers for the first (but not the third.) In any case, the publication order is:

The Curse of Chalion

Paladin of Souls

The Hallowed Hunt

In terms of internal world chronology, The Hallowed Hunt would fall first, the Penric novellas perhaps a hundred and fifty years later, and The Curse of Chalion and Paladin of Souls would follow a century or so after that.

The internal chronology of the Penric novellas is presently

“Penric’s Demon”

“Penric and the Shaman”

“Penric’s Fox”

“Masquerade in Lodi”

“Penric’s Mission”

“Mira’s Last Dance”

“The Prisoner of Limnos”

“The Orphans of Raspay”

“The Physicians of Vilnoc”

The Assassins of Thasalon

Other Original E-books

The short story collection Proto Zoa contains five very early tales—three (1980s) contemporary fantasy, two science fiction—all previously published but not in this handy format. The novelette “Dreamweaver’s Dilemma” may be of interest to Vorkosigan completists, as it is the first story in which that proto-universe began, mentioning Beta Colony but before Barrayar was even thought of.

Sidelines: Talks and Essays is just what it says on the tin—a collection of three decades of my nonfiction writings, including convention speeches, essays, travelogues, introductions, and some less formal pieces. I hope it will prove an interesting companion piece to my fiction.

The Vorkosigan Stories

Many pixels have been expended debating the ‘best’ order in which to read what have come to be known as the Vorkosigan Books (or Saga), the Vorkosiverse, the Miles books, and other names. The debate mainly revolves around publication order versus internal-chronological order. I favor internal chronological, with a few adjustments.

It was always my intention to write each book as a stand-alone, so that the reader could theoretically jump in anywhere. While still somewhat true, as the series developed it acquired a number of sub-arcs, closely related tales that were richer for each other. I will list the sub-arcs, and then the books, and then the duplication warnings. (My publishing history has been complex.) And then the publication order, for those who want it.

Shards of Honor and Barrayar. The first two books in the series proper, they detail the adventures of Cordelia Naismith of Beta Colony and Aral Vorkosigan of Barrayar. Shards was my very first novel ever; Barrayar was actually my eighth, but continues the tale the next day after the end of Shards. For readers who want to be sure of beginning at the beginning, or who are very spoiler-sensitive, start with these two.

The Warrior’s Apprentice and The Vor Game (with, perhaps, the novella “The Mountains of Mourning” tucked in between.) The Warrior’s Apprentice introduces the character who became the series’ linchpin, Miles Vorkosigan; the first book tells how he created a space mercenary fleet by accident; the second how he fixed his mistakes from the first round. Space opera and military-esque adventure (and a number of other things one can best discover for oneself), The Warrior’s Apprentice makes another good place to jump into the series for readers who prefer a young male protagonist.

After that: Brothers in Arms should be read before Mirror Dance, and both, ideally, before Memory.

Komarr makes another alternate entry point for the series, picking up Miles’s second career at its start. It should be read before A Civil Campaign.

Borders of Infinity, a collection of three of the five currently extant novellas, makes a good Miles Vorkosigan early-adventure sampler platter, I always thought, for readers who don’t want to commit themselves to length. (But it may make more sense if read after The Warrior’s Apprentice.) Take care not to confuse the collection-as-a-whole with its title story, “The Borders of Infinity”.

Falling Free takes place 200 years earlier in the timeline and does not share settings or characters with the main body of the series. Most readers recommend picking up this story later. It should likely be read before Diplomatic Immunity, however, which revisits the “quaddies”, a bioengineered race of free-fall dwellers, in Miles’s time.

The novels in the internal-chronological list below appear in italics; the novellas (officially defined as a story between 17,500 words and 40,000 words) in quote marks.

Falling Free

Shards of Honor

Barrayar

The Warrior’s Apprentice

“The Mountains of Mourning”

“Weatherman”

The Vor Game

Cetaganda

Ethan of Athos

Borders of Infinity

“Labyrinth”

“The Borders of Infinity”

Brothers in Arms

Mirror Dance

Memory

Komarr

A Civil Campaign

“Winterfair Gifts”

Diplomatic Immunity

Captain Vorpatril’s Alliance

“The Flowers of Vashnoi”

CryoBurn

Gentleman Jole and the Red Queen

Caveats:

The novella “Weatherman” is an out-take from the beginning of the novel The Vor Game. If you already have The Vor Game, you likely don’t need this.

The original ‘novel’ Borders of Infinity was a fix-up collection containing the three novellas “The Mountains of Mourning”, “Labyrinth”, and “The Borders of Infinity”, together with a frame to tie the pieces together. Again, beware duplication. The frame story does not stand alone.

Publication order:

This is also the order in which the works were written, apart from a couple of the novellas, but is not identical to the internal-chronological. It goes:

Shards of Honor (June 1986)

The Warrior’s Apprentice (August 1986)

Ethan of Athos (December 1986)

Falling Free (April 1988)

Brothers in Arms (January 1989)

Borders of Infinity (October 1989)

The Vor Game (September 1990)

Barrayar (October 1991)

Mirror Dance (March 1994)

Cetaganda (January 1996)

Memory (October 1996)

Komarr (June 1998)

A Civil Campaign (September 1999).

Diplomatic Immunity (May 2002)

“Winterfair Gifts” (February 2004)

CryoBurn (November 2010)

Captain Vorpatril’s Alliance (November 2012)

Gentleman Jole and the Red Queen (February 2016)

“The Flowers of Vashnoi” (May 2018)

. . . Thirty years fitted on a page. Huh.

Happy reading!

— Lois McMaster Bujold

Lois McMaster Bujold

Photo by Carol Collins

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Lois McMaster Bujold was born in 1949, the daughter of an engineering professor at Ohio State University, from whom she picked up her early interest in science fiction.  She now lives in Minneapolis, and has two grown children.  She began writing with the aim of professional publication in 1982.  She wrote three novels in three years; in October of 1985, all three sold to Baen Books, launching her career. Bujold went on to write many other books for Baen, mostly featuring her popular character Miles Naismith Vorkosigan, his family, friends, and enemies.  Her books have been translated into over twenty languages.  Her fantasy from Eos includes the award-winning Chalion series and the Sharing Knife series.