¡The priests took him into the temple at the center of the ruins, among the great making-places of the old ones. And they showed him the metal god, who would give him wisdom. When he came back from the temple, it was that he had been wealthier than any other man, and it was that he had known the secrets of the making from the old ones. But he was mad, and talked to people who no one else could see and walked through the farm fields and mud as if they were great roads.He flipped a few more pages.
¡She walked into the ruins of Naridium, where the old men kept their make-places, and there she met a ghost. The ghost came into her, and when she returned the next morning her mind was clear, but it belonged to one of the old ones, and the grandmother was gone. Before the body died, it said that it was from the great place of change in the north, the Kaples Wethan Mekoth [trans. uncertain], and asked to be taken back to the priests in Naridium to be returned to its own land.He turned the page, and stared at his own translation.
¡But they were found out, and the Emperor had Semvee thrown in prison, and made it known that he would be mutilated and killed in the morning. Semvee was cunning, and so before he was captured [sic] he snuck into the great Kaples Wethan Mekoth in Naridium and entered the sanctum of the metal god. There he entreated the metal god with the most terrible offering. When dawn came, Semvee was the Emperor of the South, and the old Emperor was Semvee. The Emperor had himself mutilated and killed, and went back to the South with his favorite wife. Before he left, he ordered his slaves to destroy the Kaples Wethan Mekoth in Naridium. Thereafter the only remaining homes of the god were in Krotsium and Vicarium.¡°Vicod,¡± Cyrus stated flatly. ¡°I¡¯m going insane.¡± ??? Snow was falling heavily on the evening of the twenty-first of December, but the citizens of Green Bridge, undaunted, gathered in their homes and halls to make the customary observances of Mother¡¯s Night. Gentle songs drifted through the streets, sung by untrained but confident voices. Candles in windows cast their yellow light out into the snow, and green boughs of spruce and sprigs of bright-berried holly decorated doorways, mantels, and windows. Through an oddity of the old Ecclesial calendar, Mother¡¯s Night was not officially the end of one year and the beginning of a new one¡ªbut for one and all in the town and country, it was a night of dark, calm, quiet magic that set off a closing of old things and an opening of new ones. They remembered the light of summer and looked forward to the magic of winter. In his cluttered office on the second floor of Peacock Hall, Cyrus carefully adjusted his cravat and stared at himself in the mirror. Forty-seven years showed heavily in his face, the lines deeper than they had been two years ago. The few old scars he¡¯d endured in his life as an adventurer hadn¡¯t faded, but a few new ones had joined them. If he¡¯d still been wearing a week¡¯s growth of whiskers, they would be nearly white. He resolved to shave more frequently in the near year. There was a tap on the door. ¡°Come,¡± he announced brusquely. The door opened, and a small person entered; Cyrus turned away from the mirror. The newcomer was Gmork. His assistant was dressed in goblin-sized, black-dyed hose, a puffy white shirt, a rather loud tweed vest, and a blazing pink cravat. Cyrus smiled; he had picked out the clothes himself. But Gmork had added his own touch as well. Somewhere, he had found himself a felt top hat and had carefully transferred the miscellany that decorated his straw and twig cap onto the new vessel. It was an oddly poetic alteration, Cyrus felt. ¡°You look like a big-man chief, Gmork,¡± he remarked bemusedly. ¡°If you start jabbering about magic-words and nonsense, I won¡¯t be able to tell you apart from the Dean of the College.¡± The little grayskin puffed out his chest with pride. ¡°You are a good mate, Cyrus Stoat,¡± he effused. ¡°This Mother¡¯s Night is a fine idea of big-men. When King Simon conquers your tribes and we feast on your bones and flesh, we shall take Mother¡¯s Night back to the Gray Kingdom and do it every day. And look, I brought you a present.¡± Cyrus shrugged on his dinner coat and looked down at Gmork. The little fellow was holding up in both hands a small parcel, carefully wrapped in a bit of bright red cloth that he must have scavenged from someplace. It was tied with yellow ribbon, arranged in some approximation of a bow. A decomposing human toe was tucked thoughtfully in between the bow and the wrapping. Cyrus didn¡¯t let himself consider where it might have come from. He pulled the ribbon, carefully set aside the toe, and unwrapped the parcel. Inside was a shabby tobacco box, and inside the box was a small, slightly dented gold ring. It was unadorned, but it was gold; gold is never ugly. ¡°Where did you get this shiny?¡± he asked curiously. ¡°This is a shiny worth many bones, but it looks like it went in one end of a Snorl and out the other.¡± Gmork smiled broadly, obviously pleased with himself. ¡°I got it from the same guy who gave me the toe,¡± he announced. ¡°See, Cyrus, I can make like a big-man too.¡± And then he switched to Uellish, and said, carefully: ¡°Happy Mother¡¯s Night, Professor Stoat.¡± ¡°Thank you, Gmork,¡± he answered in Uellish, speaking slowly. ¡°It is a fine gift. Happy Mother¡¯s Night.¡± Then he tossed the toe back to the well-dressed goblin, who had been eyeing it hopefully. ¡°I¡¯m not hungry yet,¡± he lied. ¡°You can have this. Come on¡ªyou¡¯ll be my guest at the Snow Ball. They¡¯ll have more food there than even you can eat.¡± Cyrus gave himself another look in the mirror. He couldn¡¯t avoid seeing the bags under his eyes, or the haunted stare that came back from within them. Dead end. The words would not let him rest. I am going insane. He walked hand in hand with Gmork across the broad square and up to the gates of Bastings Hall, where well-heeled guests were already arriving in sleigh coaches. Along the way, he passed a group of singers filling the open air of the plaza with joyful song. It was one of those ancient, deceptively simple tunes that gets handed down from generation to generation for so long that the words no longer make sense; but the tune still stuck somewhere deep inside Cyrus from Mother¡¯s Nights of his childhood in Uellodon. Sentimental nonsense, he told himself, dropping an entire King¡¯s Crown into the hat before the singers. As he and Gmork slowly ascended the steps before Bastings Hall, Cyrus caught sight of a familiar tall, thin figure in sober ecclesiastical dress. Bishop Wildrick had arrived at the same time, and was making his way up the stairs alone. Cyrus tried earnestly to hide behind his diminutive manservant, but gave it up as the churchman recognized him. ¡°Professor Stoat!¡± the Bishop of Green Bridge greeted him. ¡°God has blessed us with fine, cold weather on this Feast of the First King. I am pleased to see you have come to join the light and warmth of brotherhood¡ª¡± Reaching the top of the stairs, Cyrus deliberately fell on his face, feigning an accident with his wooden leg. This had the desired effect of cutting off the blossoming sermon, as Wildrick was compelled by good form to stop and help him up again. ¡°Thank you, Bish,¡± huffed Cyrus, spitting out snow and a bit of something nasty tracked up from the horses in the street below. ¡°This damned leg will be a curse for the rest of my life. If I could go back in time to that night in March, I¡¯d tell myself to bring a flask of oil up to the rooftop and fight dirtier. Or perhaps I¡¯d just go and have a nice glass of wine instead. No sense living through all that political huff-and-puff twice. You remember the night, don¡¯t you, Bish? ¡®Freedom means you must let your neighbor fail to obey God,¡¯ and all that? Anne made such a lovely speech out there in the square. You were there, weren¡¯t you?¡± Bishop Wildrick flushed. They both knew he had been there¡ªhe was at the front of the mob that Queen Anne had been compelled to talk down. Had Anne been more vindictive or less desperate for allies, the good Bishop would be one head shorter today, and considerably decomposed. ¡°Let us enter the Snow Ball together,¡± answered Wildrick awkwardly, offering Cyrus his hand. ¡°The Academy and the Church should be friends now. Or, anyway, we¡¯ll both be hanged together as traitors if Leeland takes the North. After we both die for our principles, God can sort out which of them was¡ª¡± ¡°DON¡¯T SAY IT!¡± snapped Cyrus, a bit more heatedly than he¡¯d meant to. Seeing Wildrick¡¯s hurt look, he took the man¡¯s proffered hand and walked with him and Gmork into the open lower floor of Bastings. As they entered, smiling attendants placed wreaths of woven holly leaves on their heads, bright with red berries. Cyrus endured the lengthy gaiety of small talk before dinner, hiding as best he could behind tables laden with wine and those little appetizers that you really wished were the entire meal. Gmork provoked more than a few angry stares and whispered conversations, but Cyrus kept him close and glared ferociously at anyone who whispered too loudly. Anyway¡ªnobody wanted to start shouting on Mother¡¯s Night. Though the decorations were bright, the music cheerful, and the people around him sociable, Cyrus could feel a tension both around him and within him. Lurking beneath the gaiety and color was the gray, unyielding certainty that slowly, day by day, their city and its leaders slipped closer to a reckoning. And within Cyrus, the mounting desperation and futility of the past months created a wash of cognitive dissonance in his mind. He forced himself to draw a beer, and toasted the health of his little assistant. The goblin, for his part, looked as though he had walked into a waking dream and wanted never to cease dreaming. After an excruciating hour, the guests were led to long, white-draped tables, decorated with spruce boughs and more holly. Cyrus drifted through the meal, and the toasts, and the songs. He kept the wine glass drained, and the servants kept it full. Queen Anne made some sort of speech. And then the servants circulated through the halls bearing large bowls, mischievous twinkles in their eyes. In each cup was a small mound of fresh snow from outside. The servants set the cups down before each guest, in the place where dessert would have gone. Queen Anne rose to her feet. ¡°Friends,¡± she began. But before she could continue with another speech, a large, round ball of snow hit her squarely in the chest, spreading across her heavily jeweled gown of white silk. Heads swiveled, and horrified faces looked in the direction the snowball had come from. Cyrus realized they were looking at him. Could he have thrown the ball, he asked himself? No¡ªsurely he hadn¡¯t consumed that many glasses of wine. Then he looked to one side, and found Gmork there, his hands covered in dripping snow. The goblin didn¡¯t say a word, but gave Cyrus a look that said: Isn¡¯t this what you¡¯re supposed to do with snow? And Cyrus gave him a look back that said: Only if you want what¡¯s left of your body to be buried in it. And then, to Cyrus¡¯s enduring amazement, a snowball hit him directly in the face. He wiped off the frigid slush and looked around. He found that the faces around him had turned away from Gmork, and were now looking in a new direction. They were looking at the Queen. Her next snowball knocked Gmork¡¯s hat off his head. Cyrus later could not quite explain what possessed him in that moment. It was, however, without hesitation or compromise that he scooped up a handful of snow from his bowl and threw it, with all his strength and with surprising accuracy, directly into the face of the Chief Librarian of Triad University, sitting across the table several chairs away. Snowballs were soon flying all over the room, knocking down decorations, spilling wine glasses, coating faces and bodies. Guests shouted and whooped, some hiding behind chairs or pillars, but most manfully taking their lumps and flinging them back with exuberance and glee. The servants rushed out into the courtyard and came back with large buckets full of fresh snow, and the fight raged on. Queen Anne briefly lent her tiara to Ernbert Ablecock of the Charter Council, who wrapped a bit of purple drapery around himself and stood on the table, shouting that he was King Leeland; his cloak was soon white with snow. Smiles¡ªreal, genuine smiles that defied gloom, pessimism, and doubt¡ªlit the face of every person in the hall. Cyrus, however, witnessed the snowballs floating through the air with an eerie sense of detachment. Something was tickling his wine-soaked brain. As he watched, the balls seemed to draw toward each other in patterns and orbits. He slipped away from the mundane reality of an unexpected snowball fight, and saw the white missiles instead as planets turning in the void around a fiery, angry star. He suddenly rounded on Gmork. Pulling the goblin out of the melee, he hissed sharply in his ear: ¡°We must find Herberta!¡± ??? ¡°I don¡¯t understand, Professor,¡± said the confused astronomer. ¡°You want me to show you Professor Tentimes¡¯ star? Now? Why?¡± They stood in the frigid, clear night air at the top of Redbun hall. The flat roof of this section of the building was cleared of snow, and a number of telescopes of varying shapes and sizes were set up, pointing here and there. It was several hours after he and Gmork had fled the Snow Ball, but Cyrus still absently wore his crown of holly. ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± said Cyrus. He was dead sober, but his mind was oddly detached. ¡°I don¡¯t know why I need to see it. I don¡¯t have a logical explanation. But everything else has been a dead end. The snowballs were stars.¡± He trailed off lamely. This was embarrassing. Cyrus Stoat had lived a life dedicated to the discovery and application of reason and fact. To know a thing, but not know why, would normally have infuriated him. In his altered state, though, he simply accepted it with a bit of sheepishness. Herberta went over to one of the largest telescopes and peered through the finder. She carefully adjusted the controls to direct the main lens to the southern sky. ¡°There,¡± she said. ¡°Put your eye to the small lens at the bottom. Don¡¯t touch the cylinder or you¡¯ll lose it.¡± Cyrus looked in. At first, he could see only blackness. Then he relaxed his eye, and a starfield came into view. It was brilliant; he had never looked through a telescope before, and was unprepared for the intensity of the magnification and the sense of having slipped away from the earth. Herberta had focused the instrument on a particularly vivid pinpoint of light. It seemed to flicker, as stars do, and was oddly irregular, as if the light source were perhaps an asymmetrical shape. Its magnificence took his breath away, but nothing about it screamed out the answer to who had killed Rolland Gorp, or why. Cyrus stared at it for many minutes. He felt certain that he was supposed to look at this star¡ªbut beyond that, nothing came to him. There was a meowing sound behind him, and the low rumble of a cat¡¯s purr. He stood up and looked over his shoulder. Gmork and Herberta were crouched by a wooden file box, passing something into it. Curious, Cyrus stumped over, navigating the icy roof carefully on one good leg. An old, mottled brown and white tabby cat lay in the box, gratefully accepting food scraps from the two goblins. Cyrus wondered at this; giving away food was not common behavior among their kind. ¡°Whose cat is this?¡± he asked. ¡°Nobody¡¯s cat,¡± answered Herberta. ¡°She lives right here in this box. She comes inside, sometimes, when it¡¯s really cold. The astronomers bring her food and fresh water every night when they come up here to work. But they¡¯re all home with their families tonight, so I brought some food.¡± She went back to passing in scraps of cold roast chicken and crumbs of bread. ¡°Cat in a box,¡± he muttered wryly. ¡°Reminds me of a particularly obtuse Svegnian philosopher. He had this thought experiment with a cat in a box that was both alive and dead¡ until you looked at it¡¡± His mind stopped. Then it remembered. Professor Pie was trying to use magic-words to tell how a thing could be real and not-real at the same time. How the light-stuff in lightning affects tiny things like crumbs of crumbs bread. Dead end, came the dry voice. It was emotionless, but somehow more urgent, more intense. Dead end, Cyrus Stoat. He struggled to remember what Sheria had said to him last night in Bramble Square. What was it? When your logic reaches a dead end¡ Follow the bright path, he thought, dredging up his very shabby vocabulary in the fey-tongue. But then he caught a glimpse of it, like a winding thread of bright light stretching out before him, from this rooftop to¡ª ¡°Gmork,¡± he said softly. ¡°Would you please go over to Peacock Hall and pack up our belongings for a trip. Do it tonight. Tomorrow we¡¯re leaving for Weisseberg. We¡¯re going to find Rolly¡¯s notes, and Rolly himself is going to tell us who killed him.¡± Chapter 6: A Peculiar Bear Green Bridge, December 22nd The cargo sledge lurched forward suddenly, and Cyrus very nearly fell off his perch on top of a wooden crate at the rear. Gmork reached out a hand to steady him, but not before Cyrus¡¯s dignity had slipped off into the snow and been trodden on by the following team of horses. The driver on the sledge behind him guffawed loudly. Cyrus pulled his hat down over his ears and his scarf up over his nose and mouth. He drew the heavy fur cloak tighter around his shoulders and hunched over on the crate, crinkling his toes in his boots to keep the blood flowing. His gaze drifted longingly over the warm, bright little homes in the Green Bridge trade quarter. The journey to Roosterfoot promised an endless parade of discomfort and annoyance. ¡°How long will it take to reach the big-man cave at Weisseberg?¡± asked Gmork, his voice muffled. The goblin was wrapped in so many layers of furs and blankets that he looked like an oversized child¡¯s ball¡ªor perhaps an especially untidy pile of laundry. ¡°Four days to Roosterfoot,¡± answered Cyrus, giving the city¡¯s name in heavily inflected Uellish. ¡°Then some more days to Enderly. I don¡¯t know how long, exactly; it depends on whether we can hire dogs in Roosterfoot. If we can, and if no big-men from the man-king stop us and beat us with sticks and iron bars and take our food and tie our legs into knots and leave us to die making pretty pictures in the snow, then we might reach Pillowback Pass in two more days. Once we cross the pass, we must find a big-man in Enderly to guide us to Weisseberg.¡± Gmork reflected on that quietly. Then he spoke up again. ¡°I think in two days I will be a frozen goblin. Before I die, I will make my limbs into a terrible and fearsome pose. Place my corpse where I can frighten children until I melt in the spring.¡± Cyrus snorted. ¡°You¡¯re not getting out of this job so easily, Gmork. Herberta sent you with enough coats and blankets to keep this caravan and all of its guards warm, and enough food that I had to buy a place for our own crate to hold it all.¡± The pile of coats and blankets next to him on the crate shivered visibly, and then fell silent. The Leadfeather sledge caravan and its contingent of heavily armed and armored guards passed out of the south gate of Green Bridge and turned onto the Roosterfoot Road. Cyrus looked back over his shoulder, wondering if what he was feeling was real or just another dream. He wondered if Marius were sleeping finally, and whether Veridia was¡ He stopped himself. Re-chewing that old cud would do nothing productive. He shook his head, trying to clear away the lingering feeling of uncertainty and unreality. Remembering Sheria¡¯s words and his own brief, vivid flash of that glowing thread, he pondered: Have I already lost it? Was it ever really there? Follow the Bright Path, he thought in his head, using the fey-speech in his thoughts. No sudden vision appeared, but he felt a little more settled. To pass the time, he pulled out the Balthan volume that had already caused so much trouble, and his own Uellish translation of it, and set about re-reading them one sentence at a time. ¡°What is that you¡¯re reading, scholar?¡± asked a light voice next to him. He looked up sharply. One of the guards was riding next to the sledge, his face about even with Cyrus. It was a fair face, though partially obscured by a heavy fur hood and a scarf beneath the chin. He could see the lower rim of an iron-plated helm peeking out under the hood, and a heavy, wicked-looking crossbow was slung on the man¡¯s saddle. He also carried a long spear set in a cup on one stirrup, and a short, stabbing sword was belted to his waist. Cyrus started to say something condescending about an obscure Old Brassen transcription of moldy Uellish folktales that no one in all the Neighbor Kingdoms could find interesting outside of a handful of scholars¡ªbut then remembered that he wasn¡¯t quite sure how the world worked anymore. Instead, he said: ¡°I¡¯m looking for clues in a thirteen-hundred-year-old book to solve a three-month-old murder. I¡¯m not quite sure I¡¯m doing it right, to be honest.¡± The man smiled. He looked young¡ªperhaps twenty¡ªand bit on the small side for a caravan guard. ¡°If it¡¯s been three months and it hasn¡¯t yet been solved,¡± the guard replied, ¡°then your ancient book probably stands as good a chance as anything the Billies are doing right now.¡± Cyrus raised an eyebrow. ¡°You know much about solving murders?¡± The man shook his head, still smiling. ¡°Not in the real world. But I like to read mysteries. I always take a job to Green Bridge if I can, to visit the booksellers on Nonsenstreet. But hey, that book doesn¡¯t look thirteen hundred years old.¡± Cyrus shook his head, smiling despite himself at the guard¡¯s ingenuous questions. ¡°What¡¯s your name, boy?¡± he asked. The man stiffened slightly, and Cyrus was suddenly sure he¡¯d given offense. ¡°Sorry,¡± he said hastily. ¡°That was rude. What¡¯s your name, sir?¡± ¡°Bear,¡± replied the guard shortly. Cyrus looked him up and down curiously; he didn¡¯t look like the sort of fellow that earned ¡®Bear¡¯ as a nickname. ¡°Don¡¯t ask,¡± added Bear wryly, seeing Cyrus¡¯s gaze. ¡°It¡¯s not as good a story as your murder mystery.¡± ¡°Cyrus Stoat,¡± offered Cyrus in return, doffing his hat briefly in the frigid air. He realized, too late, that he¡¯d forgotten to add the bit about ¡®Tenured Professor of Applied History at Triad University.¡¯ ¡°I¡¯m afraid my companion and I will be infesting this caravan as far as Roosterfoot.¡± He jerked his head in the direction of Gmork¡¯s temporary dwelling beneath the pile of furs and blankets. ¡°A man of letters will be a pleasant change from the usual conversation of guards and drivers,¡± remarked Bear. ¡°Once you¡¯ve talked about gambling, whores, and drinking at the last town and gambling, whores, and drinking at the next one, there¡¯s not a lot left. They usually just start over again.¡± ¡°I¡¯m afraid it¡¯s the same with scholars,¡± answered Cyrus, ¡°except it¡¯s gossip, politics, and drinking. I can¡¯t remember the last time I had a substantive conversation about history with one of my colleagues.¡± There was a thoughtful silence from Bear, as the sledge moved quietly through the deep snow behind its team of six. ¡°If it¡¯s not too much trouble, would you read some of those stories from your book as we ride?¡± he asked eventually. ¡°I¡¯d like to know what kind of stories people told thirteen hundred years ago.¡± Cyrus was surprised to find that he was nodding his head and flipping open his book of translations. ¡°I think you¡¯ll find most of them feel quite familiar,¡± he began. ¡°But every now and then you get one that sounds like it¡¯s from another planet.¡± ??? The hours rolled past as the sledges slid, and Cyrus read, and Gmork shivered. They halted as the sun began to dim in the afternoon, setting up a small but tidy snow encampment in one of the many merchants¡¯ campsites on the Roosterfoot Road. Over their simple evening meal, Bear continued to ply Cyrus for stories from both the Balthan volume and his own knowledge of the history of the Neighbor Kingdoms. Cyrus admitted to himself that it was flattering to have an attentive listener, and talked until Bear reluctantly departed to stand his watch. All the travelers¡ªguards, drivers, and passengers¡ªkept themselves wrapped in heavy, shapeless fur garments and hats against the biting cold. Soon enough, Cyrus slipped into a down-filled and fur-lined sleeping roll, huddled next to Gmork for heat. Two more days passed in this fashion, as the frozen countryside of central Uelland drifted slowly by them. Bear rode next to Cyrus and Gmork¡¯s perch on the back of one of the sledges, ignoring the quizzical looks from the other mounted guards. Cyrus soon exhausted the Balthan volume, and turned to rambling tales of the Old Ecclesia, Horace Carelon, the Purge, and the endless, vibrant characters and conflicts that dominated the slow dissolution of the old Empire of the Dusk. ¡°Where will you go after Roosterfoot?¡± asked Bear suddenly, just as Cyrus was finishing the story of Emperor Bel-Khendo the Confused and his thirteenth wife, Katherine of Gorgevon. (It is wrongly supposed, he had explained, that Bel-Khendo had eighteen wives and that Katherine was dead at the time the Emperor married her. In fact, he only had thirteen wives; the error arose when a prolific third-century scribe with especially poor handwriting wrote the number ¡®3¡¯ with a few extra curves so that it resembled an ¡®8¡¯. The Old Ecclesia was forced to make up the remaining five wives rather than admit to a widespread copy error, and the deception turned into accepted history, repeated and compounded most recently and egregiously by the late Robert Franco of Triad University. The bit about Katherine being dead at the time they were married was, however, widely accepted as accurate.) ¡°Where will I go?¡± he mused. ¡°I have business in Enderly. More precisely, I have business in Weisseberg¡ªbut I haven¡¯t a clue how to get there, so I shall have to hire a guide in Enderly. Before I can do that, though, Gmork and I must make our way to the Haalstern Mountains and over Pillowback Pass.¡± Bear¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°In January? You plan to cross the Haalsterne into Enderly in January?¡± He shrugged. ¡°Caravans make the trip from time to time, I understand, when there¡¯s enough money at stake to make speed worth the discomfort. I¡¯ve never been that way myself, but I haven¡¯t the time to go around north to Growlgub or south to the Vilgun Gap. I have a murder to solve and a class to teach. We¡¯ll hire dog teams in Roosterfoot, if we can; if not, it will have to be sleighs.¡± They rode in silence for a time, as Bear pondered that. ¡°Let me be your guide, Professor,¡± he said eventually. ¡°I¡¯m not promised for the return trip to Green Bridge. Hire me on as a guide.¡± Cyrus looked up sharply. ¡°Do you know Enderly?¡± Bear nodded. ¡°I grew up in a little village in between Enderly and Vilgun.¡± That can¡¯t have been long ago, thought Cyrus to himself. ¡°When I started with the caravans, it was the Vilgun-Enderly-Growlgub route,¡± Bear continued. ¡°I know the area, and I know how to find someone who can take us to Weisseberg¡ if you¡¯re set on it. It¡¯s not easy to get to, and¡ it¡¯s been abandoned for a long time. The people who live around there think it¡¯s haunted.¡± Cyrus snorted. ¡°I¡¯ll give you four silver bottoms in Roosterfoot and six once we return there safely from Weisseberg. But not another word about ghosts, Mr. Bear. I¡¯ve already had quite enough ghost stories for one lifetime.¡± ??? As the Leadfeather caravan drew near to Roosterfoot, the little farm hamlets gradually turned into villages, and the villages turned into small towns. Though the population centers were relatively calm, the faces of the people showed long lines of worry and fear. Small, newly-constructed wooden forts dotted the edges of the villages, populated by hard-faced and heavily-armed men. Some of these wore the uniforms and colors of well-known mercenary companies, but most were clad in the irregular clothing of civilian militia. Their only unifying feature was a small badge bearing the arms of central Uelland¡¯s largest city¡ªchecked black and white, one foot of cockerel inverted¡ªand an attitude of deep suspicion to any other man bearing arms. ¡°Every job to Roosterfoot gets harder,¡± remarked Bear as they approached yet another checkpoint. ¡°The Republican Guard has taken up winter quarters in Swallow Hall¡ªjust ten miles down the road¡ªand everyone¡¯s terrified of spies.¡± ¡°These men seem edgy,¡± Cyrus observed, watching the lead driver arguing heatedly with some petty militia officer. Bear shrugged. ¡°They live here, and they don¡¯t want to see their homes razed. The Moot hasn¡¯t yet taken a side between the King and Queen, and everyone¡¯s worried they¡¯ll end up on the wrong one. They¡¯re champion wafflers, this Moot.¡± Cyrus eyed the guard speculatively. ¡°And which side do you think they should take?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve been on three caravans through Republican territory,¡± replied Bear, shaking his head in disgust, ¡°and each one was more depressing than the last. But Hobb the Wise has a bigger, better army than Queen Anne and her trade mercenaries, guns or no guns. When they get around to booting the Svegnians, Brassens and Carolese out of Uellish territory, the Republican Guard will turn their full attention up here and it will be a bloodbath. So¡ I suppose I¡¯m glad I¡¯m not a delegate to the Moot.¡± Coins changed hands at last, and the militia man waved them through. Soon after, beneath a dull, gray afternoon sky, they came within sight of the dull, gray walls of Roosterfoot. It was not a large city, but to Cyrus¡¯s eye it made up for lack of size with unattractive architecture and a dreary culture. ¡°Roosterfoot grew up slowly out of a farming hamlet,¡± he remarked to Bear and Gmork as they passed under the newly reinforced western gatehouse, ¡°and they never quite stopped thinking like bean-herders. Everything here looks like a barn.¡± The Leadfeather caravan made its way through Roosterfoot¡¯s narrow, winding streets, awkwardly turning the sledges around tight corners and occasionally cutting through heavy drifts where deep snow hadn¡¯t been cleared away by foot and sleigh traffic. The snow was at least a foot deeper than in Green Bridge; Cyrus had read a paper recently from the College of Geography that claimed it had to do with being farther from the Green River. It was colder, as well. No children played forts and snowballs in the streets, as they would have in Green Bridge, and men and women tramped about their tasks with little talk or laughter. Finally, they arrived in the modest trade quarter. The caravan sledges pulled up before a long warehouse¡ªit did indeed look like an oversized barn¡ªand began to unload while the master paid off the guards. Bear, tucking his purse back into his belt, sidled over to Cyrus, where he was inspecting what remained of their food stores in the depleted crate. ¡°We should hire dog teams and resupply quickly,¡± Bear said in his light voice. ¡°The weather comes in fast from the west around here, and I don¡¯t like the look of that sky. You can smell the snow coming on. If heavy weather comes in, we could be stuck here for days.¡± Cyrus pulled out his own purse and handed Bear four silver bottoms. ¡°Your down payment, Mr. Bear. You seem to know the area, so you go and find us some dog teams. We¡¯ll need three, I think¡ªone for each of us, and we can tuck most of the supplies in behind Gmork. Try to keep it below three bottoms each for the trip, but go up to five if you need to. I¡¯ll go see about rations; meet me back here when you¡¯re finished.¡± He thought for a moment longer as Bear departed. ¡°Gmork,¡± he said in the goblin tongue, ¡°keep your hood up and come with me. People around here aren¡¯t used to your kind. I don¡¯t have time to put you back together if a mob of big-men rip you apart and hang up your guts for festive decorations in their homes.¡± Though Roosterfoot was the central collection point for the large, rich, and productive farmland in the heart of Uelland, Cyrus found that foodstuffs came at a surprisingly dear price. By the time he and Gmork had made their way down the row of general stores branching off from the trading square, his purse was noticeably lighter. He wondered how many bribes they would have to pay to reach Enderly, and whether he should commit a bit of petty larceny to supplement his funds. When he returned to the trading square, he found Bear waiting with three locals. They were on the small side¡ªa common feature of dog mushers, he¡¯d found¡ªand were all heavily bearded. ¡°You have dog teams?¡± he asked abruptly. One of them nodded. ¡°I am Hels Carling. These are Furback the Foot and Drunk Dave. Your woman here says you want to get to Enderly quickly. We will take you for six bottoms each.¡± Cyrus stamped up to Hels Carling angrily, throwing back his cloak to reveal the hilt of his broadsword. ¡°Insult my guide again, Mr. Carling,¡± he growled, ¡°and I¡¯ll insert my wooden leg into an extremely uncomfortable location on your person until you apologize¡ªin rhyming iambic couplets. His name is Bear, and he got the name because he eats dogs and their drivers for breakfast. And I¡¯m not in such a hurry that I care to be extorted by a flea-ridden musher. You¡¯ll get two silvers each.¡± The traditional formalities of contract negotiation commenced then, and there was a meeting of the minds on three silvers for each driver, two in advance. With the afternoon light waning, Mr. Carling instructed Cyrus to return to the square before dawn to set out. ¡°We drive in any weather, snow or no snow,¡± said the small, bearded man. ¡°So, you and your¡ guide¡ and child, you all must dress warmly.¡± And with that he and his companions stumped off through the snow. Cyrus turned to Bear. ¡°Sorry about that,¡± he apologized. ¡°This lot has dreadful manners, even for caravanners.¡± He could see the young guard blush beneath his heavy scarf and fur hat. ¡°Don¡¯t trouble yourself, Professor,¡± he replied. ¡°I¡¯ve spent enough time on the trail to know how it works. I can take care of myself.¡± ¡°Come on,¡± said Cyrus, hoping to change the subject. ¡°Let¡¯s find an inn and enjoy one night of warmth before we venture out into the wind-blasted, frozen hell that is central Uelland.¡± Bear held up a hand. ¡°Pardon me, Professor, but I have friends in Roosterfoot I¡¯d like to see. You¡¯ll forgive me if I meet you here tomorrow?¡± Cyrus shrugged. ¡°Suit yourself. Don¡¯t be late, or I¡¯ll leave without you and hire another man in Enderly.¡± They parted ways. As the light dimmed, Cyrus found his limbs suddenly leaden with fatigue. He and Gmork found a small public house off the trading square, wolfed down a hot meal, and retreated to a tiny bedroom. Though his assistant sat up, alert and untired, Cyrus fell asleep instantly upon hitting the thin mattress. ??? It was snowing lightly as they set out before dawn the next day. Cyrus, Bear, and Gmork each sat in an individual sledge, legs extended forward on the narrow frame and backs up against cargo behind them. The dog teams were comprised of the broad-faced, yellow-eyed breed that was popular among caravans here in the central plains. The dogs and their drivers yapped and howled enthusiastically as they set out, heedless of the cold or the falling snowflakes. Cyrus had only rarely ridden with a dog team, and he had forgotten how fast they moved. They whipped through the snowy roads leading east from Roosterfoot, eating up the distance at two or three times the speed a horse-drawn sleigh could manage in heavy snow. The dogs seemed to run tirelessly, and as the sun rose ahead of them the little burgs surrounding Roosterfoot were far in the distance. Shortly after sunrise they passed through a series of small wooden fortifications manned by grim-faced mercenaries. Though their equipment and clothing varied widely, they wore badges of red chevron against white, with three fish surmounted by a single crown. The Queen¡¯s men, then. They asked few questions, and no bribes were demanded; plainly they had larger concerns than a few outbound dog caravanners. Beyond the forts the land changed little, but Cyrus knew they were entering contested territory. He looked around nervously, but no more soldiers were to be seen for the moment.This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it Around noon, they passed through a small farming hamlet, and Cyrus got his first view of the Republican Guard. They wore thick wool overcoats dyed red, with white sashes and silver buttons. Beneath these, each man wore a leather cuirass over his wool coat and undergarments. They had peculiar, three-cornered hats of black felt, though beneath these they wrapped their heads and faces in additional layers of wool against the vicious cold. They wore no badges at all, though the officers had small insignia indicating rank. They looked nothing like the King¡¯s Heavy Foot or the regular soldiery of the army. Compared with the mercenaries in the fort to the west, Cyrus found their dress and manner to be unsettlingly¡ uniform. The soldiers stopped them at a checkpoint. ¡°Your names,¡± stated one of them in a bored tone. Cyrus had no idea what his rank was; the insignia were unfamiliar. Carling gave the names of the drivers. The officer turned to Cyrus. ¡°Passengers too,¡± he said flatly. His tone was bored, peremptory, and confident in its authority. ¡°Bear Borson,¡± said Bear. Cyrus thought for a moment. He and the First Minister of Uelland weren¡¯t on the friendliest of terms. ¡°Marius Weasel,¡± he offered. ¡°And my son, Wigglus.¡± He gestured toward Gmork, who, as usual, was nearly invisible under a huge pile of wrappings. ¡°Cargo inspection,¡± stated the officer. ¡°Surely that won¡¯t be necessary, sir,¡± said Cyrus, winking at the man. ¡°It¡¯s a cold day, and you look like you¡¯d rather be inside enjoying a nice, warming beer.¡± He shook his purse suggestively. ¡°No,¡± replied the soldier quietly. ¡°Cargo inspection.¡± Cyrus was shocked. The passengers were forced to get out of the sledges, and the contents were turned out into the snow. The soldiers picked through their food, clothing, and gear, making a minute inventory of every item. Then, apparently satisfied with the contents of the cargo sacks, the officer turned back to Cyrus. He handed him a small, written invoice, summarizing the contents of the sledges. It had a number written at the bottom, along with the words: ¡°Customs duty.¡± Cyrus drew in a deep breath, preparing to vent his outrage, but Bear touched his arm lightly, deflating him. The young man shook his head slightly, and nodded back at the soldiers. They had moved their hands to the hilts of their weapons and were crouched slightly. Still fuming, Cyrus paid the duty and received a receipt for his trouble. The officer also handed him several rolled-up sheets of paper with small printing on both sides. ¡°Read this,¡± he said. ¡°As a service to travelers entering the Republic, the Crown has summarized the national regulations governing all persons, citizens and non-citizens alike. You are advised that this list is not exhaustive, and you are advised to seek qualified legal counsel regarding the legality of any business in which you may engage and the applicable fees, licenses, and regulations associated therewith.¡± Cyrus looked around at the tiny houses of the snow-choked hamlet. ¡°Is there a lawyer in this thorp?¡± he asked. The soldier shrugged indifferently. ¡°Don¡¯t know. Probably not. Move along.¡± And he waved them through the checkpoint. As they flew along the snow-bound road leading east, Cyrus unrolled the sheets of paper and looked at them. ¡°Welcome to the Republic of Uelland!¡± the document began cheerfully. ¡°As a visitor or resident, you are required to obey all applicable Laws and Regulations of the National Assembly. Read this list carefully and consult with an attorney if you have any questions.¡± It began with some definitions, then moved on to something about fish weights and wheat measures. He scanned down the list on the first page, flipped it over and read the back down to the section on licensing requirements for the production of printed material under ten pages, vomited slightly in the back of his throat, and threw the papers over his shoulder. The Laws and Regulations of the National Assembly fluttered into the snow behind them. ??? The landscape around them remained flat, white, and desolate throughout the day¡ªthough Cyrus knew that in the spring it would transform into rich farmland. At dusk they halted in a tiny village, paying a farmer to shelter in his barn for the evening. After their frugal meal, Bear disappeared into a corner of the barn by himself without asking for any more stories, and was not seen again until morning. Cyrus wondered if he had somehow given offense to the young man. He and Gmork bedded down in their own corner, curled up next to an accommodating cow for heat. The three sled drivers slept with their dogs. In the morning, as they ate a cold, miserable meal of trail jerky kept thawed next to their bodies overnight, Cyrus addressed a question to the group at large. ¡°When will we reach Pillowback Pass?¡± Mr. Carling looked up from gnawing ferociously on a hunk of jerky. ¡°Tonight,¡± he answered tersely. ¡°But for the weather, we¡¯d have seen the mountains in the distance when we left Roosterfoot. We¡¯re near the foothills; I expect we¡¯ll be climbing this afternoon. The pass itself is only about fifty miles away, but it¡¯s steep climbing to reach it. There are shelters we can use when the sun sets.¡± Cyrus gave a sidelong glance at his guide. ¡°Any advice, Mr. Bear? Do we go all the way to Enderly, or leave the trail sooner?¡± Bear shook his head. ¡°We¡¯ll need to hire a sleigh in Enderly. You can walk to Weisseberg in the summer months if you¡¯re patient, but in the winter, it would be death. Especially with only one leg.¡± He looked meaningfully at the stump of Cyrus¡¯s right leg. The young caravan guard still wore his fur cloak pulled tight around his body, and his scarf and fur hat covered most of his face. The inside of the barn was frigid, cows or no cows. From what Cyrus could see, Bear¡¯s face showed thinly disguised concern. What was bothering him? Mr. Carling¡¯s prediction proved to be accurate. Within an hour, the dog sleds were beginning to angle upward, and their rate slowed. The drivers took more frequent breaks to feed and rest the dogs, during which their passengers walked clumsily through the snow to stretch their legs and relieve themselves. The small farming hamlets came to an end, and they made their way through true wilderness, populated only by thinning deciduous forests that slowly shifted into dense groves of pine and fir. As the sun was setting, the weather abruptly cleared. In the last light of the day¡ªby Cyrus¡¯s count the twenty-seventh of December¡ªthey looked out from atop a high, stoney ledge over the vast white plains to the west. The tiny dots of hamlets were the only punctuation in that vast field until the eye reached the brownish splotch of Roosterfoot, marked by a haze of smoke from wood and coal fires. Beyond it¡ªfar, far in the distance¡ªthey could make out the thin line of settlements that marked the Green River. ¡°I think I can see my house from here,¡± remarked Cyrus. ¡°Looking out across the entire Kingdom of Uelland might be worth the bother of this trip all by itself.¡± ¡°What¡¯s left of the Kingdom of Uelland,¡± added Bear bitterly. ¡°The southern half is calling itself a ¡®republic,¡¯ the middle bit doesn¡¯t know what to do, and the North is cut off from supplies and friends. And our neighbors are nibbling away more of the borders every day.¡± ¡°I think you¡¯ve revealed your allegiance, Mr. Bear,¡± remarked Cyrus. ¡°I won¡¯t tell Hobb the Wise if these fine gentlemen won¡¯t.¡± He grinned crookedly at the drivers. Then he turned around and looked over his shoulder. Behind him, to the east, the vast, stony peaks of the Haalsterne were caught in the orange light of the setting winter sun. Those enormous heights¡ªforbidding, remote, clad in an awful majesty of snow¡ªwere utterly impervious to the little affairs of mortal men. A thousand Republics and ten thousand Queens could come and go, and those mountains would still glare down from their heights on whatever smoking ruin was left of the Neighbor Kingdoms. No human act, however noble or notorious, could change them. They would outlive history. He felt somehow comforted. He spotted some large bird circling high above them in the deep, electric blue sky. It was well above the tallest peaks over the pass, and Cyrus marveled that any animal could survive so high. He watched it for a moment, and concluded that it was even larger and farther away than his original impression. But then the drivers called out, and they returned to the sleds, wildlife forgotten. At dusk, they made an uncomfortable winter camp in one of the rough wooden shelters maintained by the merchant caravans that came this way. A store of dry firewood was laid by, and the shelter was well protected from snow. As they huddled around the fire for warmth, Cyrus shared a few more stories with Bear, and a few extra strips of jerky with Gmork. They bedded down in the shelters, huddled together with the drivers and dogs. Cyrus¡¯s eyes snapped open after some indeterminate dream of crawling through tunnels and getting nowhere. A loud, angry, screeching cry had pierced his slumber, thrusting him from dreaming into consciousness with no warning or transition. He scrambled awkwardly out of his bedroll. Bear, Carling, Furback the Foot, and Drunk Dave, were doing the same. By the dim light of the fire, he saw that Bear had retrieved his heavy crossbow and was cranking it, just as if he had been awake the whole time. Cyrus fumbled in the dim light for his broadsword. The horrific scream came again from above them in the air. There was a sound of rushing air and great, beating wings. A third time the cry repeated itself; it sounded like some enormous raptor. The rushing sound withdrew, and the beating of wings retreated to the north and east. Bear, crouching in the snow, pointed his crossbow into the sky, but no target presented itself. The men looked at each other silently. No one spoke for several minutes, while they listened intently for the sound of wings returning. ¡°Big bird,¡± remarked Mr. Carling at last. ¡°And I¡¯ve never heard of a hawk or eagle hunting at night. They don¡¯t see well in the dark.¡± ¡°The echoes from the mountain faces could have amplified the sounds,¡± posited Cyrus. ¡°I¡¯ve heard it before. You can shout in a narrow, rocky valley, and it sounds like ten men.¡± But he didn¡¯t find himself convincing. They bedded down again, leaving a watch this time. But Cyrus found that sleep came only reluctantly. When it returned, he was crawling through tunnels again. Dead end, Cyrus Stoat, whispered the flat voice. Follow the Bright Path, whispered another. Was it his own? ??? They were not alone in the encampment. The sound of stamping and snorting horses and men¡¯s voices raised in anger drew him awake instantly. Once again, he fumbled around for his sword, but now found that it was missing. He sat up in his roll, awkwardly drawing his fur cloak around him and settling his wide-brimmed hat back on his head. Gmork was hiding pitifully inside his own bedroll, peering out with one fearful eye. Cyrus looked out of the small shelter. A large group of men had gathered in the clearing in front of the shelter. They wore the red wool cloaks of the Republican Guard, complete with white sashes and three-cornered felt hats. The men were arguing heatedly with the sled drivers. Cyrus staggered from his bedroll and floundered out into the snow to join the verbal melee. ¡°I don¡¯t care who¡¯s paid you or where you¡¯re going,¡± shouted the squad¡¯s officer at Mr. Carling. ¡°My lieutenants and I have urgent need to reach Swallow Hall, and your teams will move faster than our horses. You will take us there.¡± Mr. Carling offered up an expression so definite and explicit regarding this proposition that, notwithstanding certain robust language that has been inscribed in these pages to date, his present ejaculation could not be repeated here without serious risk of danger to the reader. This response prompted the Guard officer to grab the short driver by the front of his shirt and draw him close, his hand drifting down to a short stabbing sword belted at his side. Bear, seeing that violence was imminent, brought his crossbow to shoulder level, as Cyrus floundered helplessly forward and fell headfirst into a large drift of new snow. Numerous dramatic and action-filled events transpired while he extricated himself, of which, we are sorry to say, Professor Stoat was completely oblivious. When he returned to the scene, he saw this: Mr. Carling was lying in the snow, bleeding from the nose. Bear was pinned face-first in the snow by two Guardsmen, his heavy fur cap and helm lying nearby. A third Guardsman held Bear¡¯s crossbow. Drunk Dave and Furback the Foot stood with their hands held cautiously over their heads, as a dozen more crossbows were pointed in their direction. The Guard officer raised Carling¡¯s head up out of the snow and glared directly into his face. ¡°You will transport my lieutenants and me to Swallow Hall immediately, Mr. Carling, or I will cut off your legs, burn your sledge, and leave you here with your dogs until they grow hungry and eat you.¡± Within five minutes, the sleds were gone. The officers departed in the three dog sleds, while the rest of the troop returned to their horses. Bear¡¯s crossbow was gone as well, but Cyrus found his broadsword under the snow with some effort. He stumped over to Bear, who was kneeling on all fours, his face down. Cyrus picked up the man¡¯s fur cap from the snow and offered him a hand up. Bear looked up, and Cyrus¡¯s eyes widened with his shock. With the fur cap off and the scarf disheveled, Bear¡¯s face was clearly visible to Cyrus for the first time since they¡¯d left Green Bridge. He had high, prominent cheekbones, a finely chiseled jawline and chin, and blond hair tied back tightly in a bun. She sat back heavily in the snow, tears running down her cheeks. ¡°Yes,¡± Bear said softly. ¡°Go on. You were going to find out sooner or later.¡± ¡°You¡¯re¡ a woman,¡± Cyrus observed in idiotic stupefaction. ¡°I¡¯m a caravan guard,¡± growled Bear. ¡°Why didn¡¯t you tell me?¡± he demanded. ¡°Would it have made a difference? Would you have turned me down as your guide?¡± He thought about that. ¡°No,¡± he concluded. ¡°You remind me of another young lady I met not long ago. She began as my guide on another journey, and now she¡¯s one of my best students at Triad. But that young woman, Miss Bear¡ªor is it Mrs. Bear?¡ªdid not feel the need to pretend to be something she wasn¡¯t.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not Bear anything,¡± said the woman miserably. ¡°It¡¯s Brea. Brea Borson. One of the Leadfeather clerks misspelled it when I first signed on, and the other guards thought it was funny, so the name stuck. I found it¡ helpful. It kept them thinking of me as a comrade, not as an oddity¡ªor an object. So, I¡¯ve been ¡®Bear¡¯ for six years now.¡± Cyrus squinted his eyes, wanting to argue more, but suddenly aware that they were alone in the middle of the Haalsterne with no transportation and precious little gear. All that was left of their food supplies was a small sack that Carling had surreptitiously let fall from his sled as he departed. Cyrus glanced nervously at Gmork, still cowering in the shelter, and wondered how long the small sack would feed a ravenous goblin. ¡°We need to move,¡± he said flatly. ¡°We can¡¯t stay here.¡± Bear picked herself up out of the snow, wiped the blood off her face, and silently started gathering up what little equipment they had left. ¡°Do we go on or go back?¡± asked Cyrus. ¡°On,¡± answered Bear tersely. ¡°We¡¯re closer now to Enderly than to the nearest settlement on the west side of the mountains. But we¡¯re going to need to do something about your leg, Professor, or we¡¯ll all starve to death before we get anywhere.¡± Cyrus struggled to step through the deep snow, and quickly concluded that she was correct. He gritted his teeth, struggling to maintain his calm. ¡°Wait here,¡± said Bear, starting to move back toward the shelter. She roused Gmork from his blankets and shooed him, reluctantly, out into the snow. Together they disappeared behind the little shelter, and he could see snow being flung out. After a minute or two, Bear returned, her arms laden with a length of stout rope and a small box. ¡°Repair kit,¡± she explained. ¡°We keep them at all the shelters. Insurance against a wagon or sledge breaking down when you¡¯re at the arse end of nowhere.¡± Cyrus nodded approvingly. Trust the trade companies to be prepared for contingencies¡ªno merchant wanted his investment lost to a broken wheel in the mountains. But what was she going to do with the kit? ¡°Are you going to build me a new leg?¡± he inquired. ¡°No,¡± she said. ¡°I¡¯m going to build you a sledge.¡± And with that, she set about tearing planks off the side of the shelter. Soon there was a neat pile of lumber and nails, which she and Gmork fashioned with the rope into a workable sledge on runners, complete with a harness. The whole operation took an hour, during which Cyrus packed their remaining clothing and bedrolls as compactly as he could into the sack. When the sledge was ready, Bear directed Cyrus to sit in it facing to the rear, strapped the tool kit and their remaining bedrolls behind him, and took up the harness over her shoulders. ¡°Hauling you over the mountains to Enderly on my back wasn¡¯t part of our original deal,¡± she said with a smirk once he was strapped in. ¡°I think I should get the three silver bottoms you hadn¡¯t yet paid the drivers.¡± He wanted to be outraged, but couldn¡¯t summon it up. Instead, he fished about in his purse and handed over the silver bottoms. ¡°If I¡¯m breathing and not missing any more limbs by the time we reach Enderly,¡± he said, ¡°then you¡¯ll have earned a bonus.¡± They set off up the trail. Cyrus felt a bit guilty as Bear puffed and pulled ahead of him, with Gmork frequently pushing from behind or lending a hand with the harness. But his sense of guilt was soon erased by the biting, creeping cold that gripped his limbs as they lay motionless in the sledge. He desperately wiggled his toes and jiggled his leg, trying to keep the blood flowing. He knew what happened to men who lay still in deep cold for an extended time, and had no desire to reach Enderly in need of another peg leg. When the sun reached its zenith, they finally entered the heights of Pillowback Pass. It was a narrow, winding track, but large enough for the merchants¡¯ heavy sledges to navigate. Bear stopped the sledge and unstrapped their blankets, clearing a patch of rock and laying them out. ¡°Are we taking a nap?¡± asked Cyrus curiously. ¡°No,¡± answered the woman. ¡°We¡¯re saving your leg.¡± She helped Cyrus up and out of the sledge, then tucked him into the roll. Then, to his surprise, she removed some of her outer clothing and casually inserted herself into the roll next to him. ¡°I appreciate the sentiment, Miss Bear¡¡± began Cyrus. ¡°Don¡¯t even think about it,¡± she snapped in return. ¡°If you touch me, I¡¯ll leave you here to die. Just hold still.¡± They lay there awkwardly, sharing body heat, as circulation gradually returned to Cyrus¡¯s leg and toes. Bear smelled rather strongly of sweat from her long exertion, but Cyrus found it an acceptable price as his leg and foot tingled with warmth returning. Gmork, apparently inspired by the whole affair, lay on top of them both, looking up at the blue sky and munching jerky from their rapidly diminishing store. ¡°We¡¯d better not eat much more,¡± remarked Cyrus. ¡°I¡¯m hungry,¡± answered Bear. ¡°I¡¯ve been hauling you up a mountain. Snow doesn¡¯t fill the stomach.¡± ¡°I know. But Gmork here is hungrier. And before you say anything else about it, Bear, take my word that you do not want to be around a hungry goblin.¡± Bear cursed under her breath. ¡°Let¡¯s go,¡± she said eventually. ¡°That should be enough to keep you from passing out and turning blue.¡± They carried on and up into the pass as the sun gradually sank to the southwest. The trail switched back and forth, always climbing, until at last they reached the crest and looked down into the shadows darkening to the east. Bear paused, her chest heaving from exertion, and Cyrus looked over his shoulder. Far below them, hidden in gray shadows now that the sun had dipped below the mountains, lay the wide expanse of the Tharma river valley, marking the eastern frontier of Uelland. The mountains dropped down sharply to meet the broad river, now a fat band of white in the landscape, and then gradually climbed up into a range of woody hills some twenty miles beyond the east bank. The jagged peaks of the Gnovik range¡ªall Svegnian territory¡ªloomed up beyond them, faintly visible in the dim light. But immediately below, to Cyrus¡¯s great relief, was a long line of tiny lights from the settlements on the Uellish western bank of the Tharma. ¡°We¡¯ll descend tomorrow,¡± declared Bear. ¡°It¡¯s not safe in the dark.¡± The three travelers spent a miserable night in the brutally frigid air. They shared a single bedroll beneath all their available clothing, sheltering from the howling wind underneath the upturned sledge. As the wind grew stronger, they drew the clothing and blankets over their heads. Eventually, Cyrus slept, wondering if he would ever wake. ??? He did wake. Morning came at last, and, mercifully, the wind died down. They fed Gmork the last of the jerky. Cyrus and Bear looked the other way while the grayskin happily munched away the food, then shook the sack upside-down hopefully. No more provisions emerged. ¡°We need to make good time today,¡± said Cyrus seriously. ¡°If we don¡¯t feed him again within about eight hours, we¡¯re going to have a bigger problem than any we have now.¡± Bear looked at him speculatively, then looked down at the trail leading out of the pass. ¡°There¡¯s one way,¡± she said quietly. ¡°It will get us there quickly, but I promise you won¡¯t like it.¡± ¡°Quickly is good,¡± snapped Cyrus. ¡°Try me. Quickly is the only choice right now.¡± ¡°How do you feel about skiing?¡± He looked at her in confusion. ¡°I don¡¯t exactly have the equipment for it,¡± he answered. ¡°I¡¯m missing a required appendage.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t mean you skiing,¡± she said. She unpacked the tool kit and started removing two of the planks from the sledge, while Cyrus looked on in growing horror. ¡°You must be insane,¡± he remarked clinically. ¡°I mean actually, not figuratively. Gibbering, raving, seeing things that aren¡¯t there lunacy. We must be a mile up in this pass, and that trail looks like it runs at about a thirty-degree downslope.¡± ¡°Closer to two miles,¡± she replied, using Cyrus¡¯s broadsword to hack a pair of flexible, springy branches off a nearby fir tree. ¡°But you¡¯re right about the slope. Actually, it¡¯s steeper in places.¡± She fastened one end of each of the fir branches with nails and rope to the now-narrower sledge. She then carefully applied wax from the kit to the two planks she had removed, used some of the rope to bend them up at one end, and set about strapping them to the front of her boots in crude bindings. ¡°You¡¯re going to snap your ankles off if you fall,¡± he observed. ¡°And then we¡¯re all going to die, in our own idioms.¡± ¡°Then I won¡¯t fall,¡± she answered. ¡°I used to ski this pass with my father when I was young. I know the way.¡± She carefully tied Cyrus to the sledge, facing backward. ¡°Tell Gmork to sit in your lap,¡± she instructed. Cyrus, muttering curses, addressed his assistant. ¡°We are going to slide down this mountain,¡± he said. ¡°This is the stupidest thing I¡¯ve ever done in my life, and it¡¯s going to end with all of us splattered against a rock at the bottom of some ravine. If you have a god, now is the time to start praying.¡± Gmork looked down at the narrow, winding caravan trail leading out of the pass. ¡°This is the best thing that has ever happened to me,¡± he said, climbing on to the sledge. They set off slowly, but ¡®slowly¡¯ lasted for about ten seconds. Then they were plunging downward, snow whipping Cyrus in the head and face mercilessly, and the movement of the sledge threatening to spill him out at any moment. The little vehicle swayed back and forth on the springy fir branches, held firmly in Bear¡¯s hands. Looking backward in stark terror, Cyrus could only hold on in desperation and imagine what dangers lay in front of her crude skis. They swooped back and forth across the caravan trail when it was wide enough, as Bear used turns to control her speed. But the trail frequently passed through narrow, steep sections that would not support turns, and his guide was forced to simply plow straight downward. At times, Cyrus felt himself to be in freefall; at other times, the trail flattened out just enough for him to catch his breath and shout the most inventive curses he could formulate. Through it all, Gmork sat on his lap, gripping tightly with his legs and laughing with insane, maniacal glee. Cyrus spent the next hour of his life utterly convinced that it was going to end at any second, as the pass above him retreated into the distance and the sickening drops and turns continued unabated. Eventually he ran out of curses and simply sat quietly, contemplating the terrible mistakes he had made in his life. Finally, the speed slackened, and Bear¡¯s movements settled into a rhythmic skating. The caravan track had flatted out into a dense pine forest, with only a mild downslope to help propel them forward. ¡°Let¡¯s do it again!¡± shouted Gmork in the goblin tongue. ¡°Ask her to climb up and do it again!¡± ¡°Next time,¡± said Cyrus, ¡°I¡¯ll roll you down. By time you reach the bottom, you¡¯ll be at the center of a snowball so large it will still be there at midsummer.¡± They reached the first signs of civilization not long after: a small cluster of woodcutters¡¯ huts. Soon enough the dwellings became more regular, but rather than seek aid, Bear simply kept skating forward, pausing from time to time only to apply wax to her skis and fix her bindings. By the time the sun was setting, the hamlets had transformed into little villages. They reached Enderly by the light of a full moon and found a small inn with room in the stable to sleep. Gmork helped himself to a hearty meal of oats from the bin for the pack animals, and soon all three were unconscious in a heap next to a warm horse. Chapter 7: The Traitor A sound drew Cyrus slowly out of deep sleep. It was a distant, mildly irritating multitude of individual clinks and clangs that blended into a homogeneous pad of high-pitched jingling and thumping. The sound was punctuated at irregular intervals by distant shouts, sometimes one at a time, sometimes in groups. As he emerged foggily from sleep, he focused on the sound for a few minutes, feeling disoriented and surreal. Where was he? Why was he lying with his head against the flank of a strange horse? Was this his apartment at Triad? As memory and context began to shuffle wearily back to their desks and Cyrus put together the pieces of yesterday¡¯s events, the sound came into sharper focus as well. He turned and found Bear sleeping soundly next to him. ¡°Wake up!¡± he hissed sharply, shaking her. She did not respond. ¡°Wake up!¡± he said again, more loudly. Her eyelids fluttered open, and then she sat straight up, instantly alert. ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± she asked. ¡°People are fighting nearby. Many people.¡± They both listened for a few more moments. There was a louder, deeper boom from somewhere nearby. ¡°That¡¯s an impact from a trebuchet,¡± remarked Cyrus. ¡°Someone¡¯s flinging rocks at someone else. And whoever the parties are to this dispute¡ªit means we need to get out of here, right now.¡± He staggered to his feet, dragging Gmork up by one leg and shaking him vigorously. The goblin¡ªwho had been dozing lightly¡ªhowled in protest and tried to gnaw on Cyrus¡¯s hand, but couldn¡¯t bend far enough upward. ¡°We¡¯re leaving!¡± Cyrus whispered urgently to his assistant. ¡°Go fill a bag with horse food so you don¡¯t go hunger-mad when we leave this place!¡± He dropped Gmork, who instantly scuttled off in the direction of the feed bins. ¡°Where do you plan to go?¡± asked Bear, as they hurriedly gathered up their meager possessions. ¡°I¡¯m not pulling you back up over the pass.¡± ¡°We¡¯re going to Weisseberg,¡± Cyrus replied confidently. ¡°You said before you knew where it was. Take me there.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not pulling you to Weisseberg, either,¡± she added with a touch of acid. ¡°It¡¯s twenty miles to the northwest, halfway up a mountain. How do you plan to get there? I promise you won¡¯t be able to walk it, and if there¡¯s a pitched battle happening outside, horses and sleighs to hire will be scarce. And that¡¯s assuming we can even make it out of Enderly.¡± There was another huge crash, and the ground shook beneath their feet. ¡°Those are the kinds of details, woman, that I will address in the least reasonable manner, at the last possible moment.¡± ¡°Do you practice those lines ahead of time?¡± she muttered, stuffing the last sleeping roll into the small sack. ¡°Yes,¡± he replied without hesitation. ¡°It¡¯s what I do instead of functional human relationships. Now follow me.¡± He stumped out of the inn¡¯s stable, trailing Bear and Gmork. Outside, the cramped, snow-choked lane was devoid of people. The small, narrow houses were shut tight. The light was dim; it was still perhaps an hour before dawn. But the sounds of battle grew louder, and they plainly came from the east¡ªthe direction of the river. As they looked down the lane, a bright ball of light arced over their heads from the east, disappearing below the line of rooftops to the south. There was a flickering yellow-orange glow from that direction already. The sound of the impact was muted, compared with the loud, booming crashes they¡¯d heard earlier. ¡°Flaming pitch,¡± remarked Cyrus sardonically. ¡°Delightful. Enderly is still a barony, isn¡¯t it? Does it have a castle?¡± Bear nodded. ¡°Sir Richard has been away for two years, but his wife and sons still live there. I think the Republican Guard took it over, though, when Enderly declared for the National Assembly. All the soldiers at the castle wear red cloaks now.¡± ¡°Then that¡¯s where¡ whoever it is¡ will be flinging rocks and burning pitch,¡± concluded Cyrus. ¡°Let¡¯s not go there. We want to make for the north anyway.¡± He slogged through the streets, laboriously floundering through the deep snow with his bad leg. Bear and Gmork soon pushed ahead, breaking some semblance of a path in front of him. Cyrus¡¯s mind raced¡ªdespite his confident assurance to Bear earlier, he had no clue how they would get out of Enderly, much less how they would travel twenty miles into the Haalstern Mountains. He worked out a vague notion of hiring a draft horse from one of the outlying farms. It was not long before they were confronted with more than just the sounds of war. Crossing one of the larger streets, they saw in the dim light groups of armed men fighting desperately farther up the street. Their uniforms and livery were difficult to make out, but at least one side appeared to be dressed mainly in white. Hearing harsh, angry cries and urgent commands from the melee, he realized that some of the combatants were not speaking Uellish. ¡°Svegnians,¡± confirmed Bear tersely. Cyrus cursed. ¡°Perfect¡ªwe¡¯ve planted ourselves in the middle of an invasion. That explains why those Guard officers were in such a hurry to reach Swallow Hall. They must have seen the Svegnians massing their forces across the river.¡± Crossing the street, he stumbled in a particularly dense pack of snow and fell forward. Bear caught him before he tumbled, and laboriously stood him upright again. He nodded mutely in thanks. Their next encounter was much closer. Turning a corner to keep moving toward the north, Cyrus found himself face to face with a small squad¡ªsix soldiers, dressed all in white and moving on skis. They wore dull iron helms and cuirasses, and each man bore a spear, dagger, and crossbow. They carried heavy packs, loaded with equipment for winter mobility. The soldiers saw Cyrus at the same time, and¡ªobserving his sword and breastplate¡ªinstantly readied their spears. Cyrus had plenty of practice thinking quickly on his foot, and he had a respectable grasp of modern Svegnian¡ªacquired, it must be said, more from reading than speech. ¡°Take me to your leader!¡± he commanded in their tongue, using his most confident tone and standing erect. One man¡ªprobably the commander, by the decorations on his hat¡ªpaused a moment, squinted at Cyrus¡¯s clothes, and then turned to his comrades. ¡°Kill him,¡± the officer said. ¡°We have no time for this.¡± Two of the soldiers started forward, spears raised. This is it, thought Cyrus. This is how I die. What an embarrassment. He fumbled for his sword hilt under his thick cloak. Dead end. ¡°Handle alpha apple sandwich!¡± came a clear voice from next to him, speaking Svegnian with a native¡¯s delivery. Cyrus looked to his right in astonishment. The voice was Bear¡¯s voice. The soldiers halted, looking at the woman in surprise as well. ¡°Ignorant orange,¡± she explained firmly, still in Svegnian. ¡°Cold obelisk.¡± ¡°Addled,¡± replied the squad¡¯s leader. Then he silently skied past the three of them, watching Bear respectfully. The other five men followed him. Cyrus stared at Bear. She stared back. ¡°Do you want me to call them back?¡± she asked eventually. He considered that. ¡°No. But¡ª¡± ¡°Would you rather I was helping the Republican Guard?¡± ¡°Not that either. But¡ª¡± ¡°Shut up and listen, Professor. We don¡¯t have time for a debate about this.¡± She began tramping forward into the snow again, as the sounds of fighting grew louder to the east. ¡°My parents were Svegnian. Dad was in the army; some kind of high-ranking officer. He never told me how high up. During one of the purges, he took my mother and fled. They settled in the littlest village they could find here in Uelland and stayed out of view. Mom and Dad spoke mostly Svegnian at home when I was growing up, but they made me learn Uellish without an accent. So¡ªyes. I speak their language.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t just speak their language,¡± Cyrus observed, struggling forward in the snow behind her. ¡°You just told six professional soldiers to leave us alone, and off they went. The Svegnian army is many bad things, but on the whole they¡¯re neither stupid nor cowardly.¡± She shrugged. ¡°Dad taught me some of their military code speech. He reckoned that living so close to the Tharma, one day they¡¯d come over the river in force and I might need to talk my way out of trouble. I told that sergeant I was an intelligence officer, and to piss off.¡± He shook his head in amazement. ¡°Do you have any other mysterious secrets you¡¯d like to reveal?¡± he asked. ¡°Just to save time later.¡± She plowed forward silently through the snow. ¡°Would you help them?¡± he asked after a minute. ¡°If you could, I mean. You¡¯re Svegnian. Are you on their side?¡± She stopped and turned. ¡°You told me you grew up in Uellodon,¡± she said quietly. ¡°If King Leeland told you to kill Queen Anne, would you?¡± He shook his head. ¡°Same answer, then,¡± she replied, turning back into the darkness. ¡°You choose who you love.¡± ??? As the sky grew lighter and they made their way slowly toward the northern outskirts of Enderly, the bloodletting spread. The bodies of red-cloaked Guardsmen and white-clad Svegnians, dead and dying, appeared with depressing regularity, forcing Cyrus, Bear, and Gmork to make long detours to avoid active fighting. Always they found their way back to the north, navigating by the increasingly strong light from over the river to the east. At the outskirts of Enderly, as the small townhouses gave way to open fields and barns, they finally encountered a pitched battle directly in their path. Perhaps a hundred red-clad soldiers were gathered in a tight knot on a low rise, hemmed in by a much larger group of white-clad invaders. The Svegnians had taken up positions in a broad arc, and were simply standing back and shooting their crossbows at the ill-armed and immobile Guardsmen. The Guard, unable to charge through the snow into close combat or to flee effectively, were cowering behind a makeshift wall of snow, ice, and abandoned sleighs. Most of the horses from the sleigh teams lay on the ground, riddled with bolts; those that still lived were kicking and thrashing in blind panic. The Guardsmen desperately waved spears and sticks with bits of white cloth attached to them, but the stream of crossbow bolts continued remorselessly. Though Cyrus had no love for King Leeland¡¯s new army, he felt sickened at the slaughter. ¡°There,¡± whispered Bear, crouched down next to him in the snow. ¡°Just off to the left. There¡¯s a sleigh team still alive.¡± Cyrus looked where she was pointing. One team¡ªa pair of shaggy draft horses and a large cargo sleigh¡ªhad drawn off farther than the others, and both horses were standing nervously in the snow, flicking their tales and twisting their necks to watch the violence over their shoulders. The horses appeared unharmed. ¡°Looks like a convoy,¡± said Cyrus in a whisper. ¡°They tried to get out to the north by sleigh, but the Svegnians cut them off. This may not be the last possible moment for us to find transportation, but you¡¯ve still done a terrific job coming up with the least reasonable manner. Do you think we can slip around this war crime to reach the sleigh team?¡± ¡°How much do weigh?¡± she replied, incongruously. ¡°About thirteen stone,¡± he answered. ¡°Sixteen with clothing and gear. Why?¡± A stray crossbow bolt grazed the top of Cyrus¡¯s hat, punctuating their desperation. ¡°Get on my back,¡± instructed Bear. Well, thought Cyrus. This fits my idiom perfectly. He unbelted his broadsword and handed it to Gmork, then passed off his pack as well. After a moment¡¯s thought, he took off his wide-brimmed, floppy hat and settled it on top of Gmork¡¯s hood for safekeeping. And then Bear picked him up and slung him across her back in the way of a shepherd carrying a sheep¡ªhis head dangling over one shoulder, and his rear dangling over the other. She took one careful step forward through the snow¡ªthen another, and another. Bear kept as far away from the doomed Guardsmen as she could, but to reach the sleigh they had to cross an open space in full view of the Svegnians. Inverted as Cyrus was, he had a perfect view of the white-clad invaders. ¡°They¡¯ve seen us,¡± he reported calmly. Steps through the snow. ¡°They¡¯re pointing,¡± he updated her. More steps. ¡°I think they¡¯re having a conversation about us,¡± he said. ¡°Definitely an exchange of firmly held views. They seem most excited. I don¡¯t suppose you know their signal flag codes as well, Miss Bear?¡± She ignored him, and continued stepping slowly toward the sleigh. ¡°Yes¡ªyes, we have their attention. I can see one or two aiming at us. And now¡ª¡± He grunted as her shoulder dug into his abdomen. ¡°Now they¡¯re shooting at us.¡± Crossbow bolts began to find their way toward Cyrus¡¯s upturned rear end. Behind him, carrying his pack and sword, Gmork smiled encouragingly and waved. Cyrus¡¯s hat was slipping down over the goblin¡¯s eyes. ¡°Are we there yet?¡± Cyrus asked. ¡°No,¡± answered Bear. She continued pushing through the deep snow, one step at a time, placing her feet carefully. ¡°When I get back to Triad,¡± he remarked, ¡°I am going to write a paper about this¡ªOW!¡± He felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his right buttock. Gmork chimed in helpfully: ¡°They got you right in the¡ª¡± ¡°SHUT UP!¡± bellowed Cyrus, still with enough presence of mind to switch to the goblin tongue. Gmork looked hurt, but fell silent. ¡°Better your ass than mine,¡± muttered Bear. ¡°I need mine for walking.¡± Cyrus gritted his teeth in agony as she soldiered on. ¡°They¡¯re not shooting at us anymore,¡± he managed. ¡°Looks like something else has caught their attention.¡± After what seemed an eternity, Bear heaved him off her shoulders and into the rearmost bench of the sleigh. Gmork hopped into the middle bench, slinging the pack and sword in with him. Ahead, he heard Bear clucking to the horses, and the sleigh soon began to move forward, away and at an angle from the battlefield. Cyrus very carefully adjusted his body so that he could peer out the rear of the vehicle without putting any pressure on his injured buttocks. His eyes widened in amazement. Something was hacking its way through the massed Svegnian soldiers, coming from the direction of the town. It was several somethings; perhaps twenty. They were shaped like men, with two arms, two legs, and one head. But each was ten to twelve feet tall, and clad entirely in gleaming steel plate armor, complete with a fearsome helm. They hewed about them with colossal steel swords, each requiring two hands even for those fearsome warriors. The white-clad human soldiers leaped out of their way, abandoning their formations and any semblance of discipline to scramble out of the path of the advancing behemoths. But the creatures seemed unconcerned with killing humans¡ªrather, once they had passed through the Svegnian ranks, they simply continued on to the north, jogging through the snow as though it were a grassy field in summer. Their path took them close to where the sleigh was gathering speed toward the road to the north, and in a short time they passed very close behind, heading north and west. Cyrus could see that, although the armor completely covered their bodies, it appeared to be padded with furs and wool at the joints; he reckoned it was insulated on the inside. The giant humanoids ran with large, heavy packs as well, each carrying as much as could be laid on an ox. As they passed behind and began to recede, he saw, to his even greater surprise, that three of the armored giants bore humans on their backs. Two were about the right size for adults, and the third was a toddler of perhaps two years. The humans were bundled in heavy clothes against the cold, and did not struggle¡ªeither they were unconscious, or were willing passengers. He turned to Gmork. Bear was looking forward at the road ahead, and had missed the passage of the enormous warriors. But Gmork had seen them. His face bore an expression of absolute, sharp, and immediate terror. ??? They drove for many hours along the broad, snow-clad trade road leading north from Enderly. Cyrus lay lengthwise across the rear bench of the sleigh, trying to focus his mind on enduring the agony in his buttock. He was too distracted to ruminate on the thing he had seen on the battlefield; indeed, he was too distracted for most rational thought. Eventually, Bear stopped the sleigh at the side of the track on a rocky slope, dotted above and below with a scattering of evergreens. She listened carefully for several minutes. Apparently satisfied that no danger was near, she turned her attention to Cyrus¡¯s wound. ¡°Bite this,¡± she said, handing him a strip of leather. He did; and then she yanked out the bolt. He chomped on the leather and moaned in agony as she removed his trousers, dumped something on the wound that stung, and then bound it up tightly. ¡°Lucky for you the Svegnians are still too cheap to mass-produce barbed bolt heads,¡± she remarked, holding a bloody length of metal in front of his face. ¡°The head and shaft are smooth. If they¡¯d used any kind of decent head, I¡¯d have had to open you up to get it out.¡± ¡°You should have been a physician,¡± he replied, gritting his teeth against the pain. ¡°Your bedside manner is even worse than your skill in anesthetics. Didn¡¯t anyone ever teach you to put the alcohol on the wound before you operate?¡± She shrugged. ¡°They did, but the flask is small. I wanted to save it for after.¡± She showed him a small, leather pouch. He blinked and looked up at her. ¡°Where did you get a flask of¡¡± he sniffed the pouch. ¡°Is that¡ whiskey?¡± She smiled. ¡°It is indeed. Our luck has turned for a bit¡ªthe Guardsmen loaded this sleigh with a store of supplies before they made a run for it. I get the impression they didn¡¯t think they¡¯d be back to Enderly any time soon. I found the flask tucked into one of their sacks.¡± He lifted the flask to his lips, thought for a moment, and then lowered it and plugged the stopper back into the pouch. He shivered, and looked around at the gray, rugged landscape of the low hills. A few fat snowflakes drifted down lazily out of the leaden sky. ¡°Let¡¯s get on to Weisseberg,¡± he said, levering himself gingerly into a partially upright position on the bench. ¡°After all this, there had better be a giant clue waiting for me at the gate with a bottle of wine and a hot bath.¡± ??? Though the snow became thicker and the visibility decreased, Bear drove the sleigh confidently along the broad trade road. The miles passed in silence, as Cyrus sat at a canted angle in the back of the sleigh and looked gloomily out at the frozen Tharma to the east. His initial burst of intuitive confidence on the roof of Redbun Hall had vanished, leaving him tired, frustrated, and certain that he was chasing phantoms in the snow. He wanted to admit defeat, go home, and take out his frustrations on first-year term papers. Rolly would rest no more or less easily if his murderer was flushed out, and there was no reason Queen Anne¡¯s problems had to be Cyrus Stoat¡¯s problems. He could tell Bear to take the sleigh on to Growlgub, spend a week recuperating, and then make his way back to Green Bridge in time for the beginning of the spring term. He took a deep breath of the frigid mountain air and let it out. Well. He¡¯d come this far. He might as well see Weisseberg. They stopped at a tiny spring to rest and feed the horses, then pressed on as the snow came down more and more thickly. Sometime in the afternoon¡ªthe precise time was impossible to know in the gray light¡ªBear turned the sleigh onto a barely visible side track that disappeared into a thick forest of dark fir trees at the base of a huge, craggy cut in the mountains. ¡°We¡¯re going up there?¡± he asked incredulously. ¡°Is that actually a road?¡± She looked over her shoulder and nodded. ¡°It¡¯s narrow, but when I last came this way it was still open.¡± ¡°How long ago was that?¡± he queried. ¡°I was sixteen years old,¡± she supplied, not quite answering the question. ¡°Aren¡¯t you worried that trees or rocks might have fallen in the road?¡± She shrugged. ¡°You¡¯re the one who wanted to go to Weisseberg in December, Professor. If we can¡¯t cut through, the next move will be your choice. I¡¯m not taking you back to Enderly, but I could drive you on to Growlgub, or we can cross the Tharma into Svegnia if you prefer.¡±This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. The dark line of trees drew closer. ¡°What were you doing out here at sixteen?¡± he asked. She smiled, turning her head slightly. ¡°Dad thought I needed experience surviving in the wilderness. Weisseberg is a ruin, so it fits the bill. We hiked there every summer starting when I was five years old. When I was ten, he left me alone for three days, and it turned into a week when I was fifteen.¡± ¡°Your father is a remarkable man,¡± replied Cyrus admiringly. ¡°Mine thought I needed finishing school and a career in law.¡± ¡°Was,¡± said Bear, turning her head forward again so he couldn¡¯t see her face. ¡°He died three years ago. Some ailment of the stomach that the physicians couldn¡¯t treat.¡± They passed under the dark eaves of the evergreen forest. Cyrus was reminded uncomfortably of the Black Boughs, far to the west, and a close-fought battle with White Knights beneath their dark branches. The road ran deeper and deeper into the forest, and began to angle up sharply. However, to Cyrus¡¯s surprise, they found that it was clear of fallen wood and other obstructions. Indeed, the overhanging branches had been cut back to a tolerable height, and there were obvious saw and shear marks left behind. Neither of them needed to say it, but Cyrus did anyway. ¡°Someone¡¯s been keeping the road clear.¡± Bear frowned. ¡°I guarded a caravan that travelled the trade road last summer. I didn¡¯t have a chance to come into the forest, but from the road I saw no sign of anyone keeping up the path. If the castle has been reoccupied, then I think it¡¯s happened recently.¡± Cyrus grunted. ¡°Rolly is supposed to have had friends there. In theory, they have some papers that could, maybe, shed light on his murder¡ªbut I fully expect to be confronted with nothing but vague nonsense and mysticism.¡± ¡°He must have been a good friend, for you to come all the way out here,¡± remarked Bear. Cyrus stared out at the dark forest around him, thinking. ¡°He was a brother, of a sort,¡± he said finally. ¡°There were times I hated him, but he and I were alike, and I think we valued the same things, in the end. And that makes it all the harder to believe he¡¯d get mixed up in religion.¡± Bear looked at him in apparent surprise. ¡°Religion? You mean the Ecclesia?¡± He shook his head. ¡°No. The new one¡ªthe Advocates of Ash. I don¡¯t know for sure, but I¡¯ve run into one of them twice now, and both times he¡¯s claimed Rolly among their number. It doesn¡¯t make any sense to me; Rolly was smart, tough-minded, skeptical, and brilliant in his discipline. People like that don¡¯t go latching on to superstition and mysticism, because they don¡¯t need to. Religion is for people want to absolve themselves of responsibility for their own failure and misery. It¡¯s an easy source of meaning for those who won¡¯t create their own. That wasn¡¯t Rolly.¡± ¡°Hang on¡ªI think I¡¯ve heard that before.¡± She narrowed her eyes at him. He grinned sheepishly. ¡°I was paraphrasing Horace II¡¯s speech on the steps of the Basilica of Naridium before he burned it. I told you the story on the second day out of Green Bridge.¡± ¡°Wasn¡¯t he a mass murderer of priests?¡± Cyrus nodded. ¡°He was. It¡¯s one of the enduring ethical puzzles of northern history¡ªis it just to commit horrific acts of violence, if doing so leads to a good outcome? The Neighbor Kingdoms knew nearly seven centuries of freedom from religion, until King Reginald let the new Ecclesia start to trickle back in¡ªand even now, they wield only a shadow of their former influence. In those centuries without priests, we made advances in knowledge, reason, science, wealth, and culture that surpass the Holy Empire by generations. Can you imagine if we¡¯d been shackled to the Ecclesia all that time? We¡¯d still be burning mad old crones as witches and hanging astronomers as heretics. Women would still be evil by nature, and slavery would still be the unquestioned law of the land. A thousand acts of harmless, consensual pleasure would get you sentenced to corporal punishment here on earth and to eternal damnation in the hereafter. But yes¡ªin order to stamp out all that nonsense, Horace II executed nearly a thousand priests, and drove many thousands more into exile. If you can sort out the moral economy of that legacy, you¡¯re a smarter woman than I. I¡¯m just trying to make a living in the world as it is now.¡± Bear said nothing more. They drove on through the dark wood, creeping closer to Weisseberg. ??? The narrow track emerged onto a high crest above the evergreen forest and wound its way deeper into the mountains. The snow continued to fall, though it did not develop into the blizzard that had threatened earlier. The team of draft horses trotted stoically ahead of them, making swift work of the snow at their ankles. It seemed that, whatever force had kept the path open through the forest, it also had cleared the worst of the snow drifts from this high passage. The afternoon wore on, and the gray light began to fade. ¡°Are we near shelter?¡± asked Cyrus, shifting uncomfortably to keep weight off his wound. ¡°We might survive another night in the open, but I doubt these horses will thank us for making them sleep under the stars.¡± ¡°Very near,¡± answered Bear tersely. She nodded her head up to a high ridge to the west. ¡°And I think we are expected,¡± she added. He followed her gaze, and saw a tiny light, glimmering and flickering high up on the ridge. ¡°Signal fire,¡± she observed. ¡°Or a ghost,¡± added Cyrus. ¡°You said the locals think it¡¯s haunted.¡± She snorted. ¡°They do. But we¡¯re not locals, are we Professor? I¡¯ve spent weeks at a time in the ruin of Weisseberg. If there were ghosts, they were extremely discrete.¡± The path continued to climb, though it ducked below the crest of the ridge. Soon it rounded a curve at the base of a tall, steep cliff, and a narrow valley opened before them. The valley, far below, was a mass of dark green forest surrounded by towering rock walls; but perched halfway up the western slope, clinging to what looked like a narrow ledge, was a structure. It was built of stone, and it was large. An outer wall of perhaps fifty feet rose out of the steep mountainside below, sheltering an inner keep with a single squat central tower. Four smaller, dilapidated towers studded the outer wall, and a long, arched bridge of stone spanned the deep, open space between where they now stood on the eastern wall of the valley and the gatehouse on the west. In the fading dusk, a light could be seen in the keep¡¯s central tower. Bear reined in the horses and lit oil lanterns on the front corners of the sleigh. ¡°We¡¯ll need to walk them from here,¡± she stated. ¡°The bridge is too narrow for a team. Gmork and I will go first, and lead one horse each. One of them alone can pull the sleigh this little distance.¡± Cyrus slid out of the sleigh bench delicately, nearly tumbling over as his stiff, injured muscles hit the ground. He winced in pain, but settled his hat on his head and took a few limping steps forward along the path. ¡°Get back in the sleigh, Professor,¡± said Bear gently. ¡°Let us pull you. Whatever is waiting for you in Weisseberg, come to it with dignity.¡± He gratefully returned to his seat in the rear of the sleigh. Bear approached from the side. ¡°Before we cross, there¡¯s something I want you to know,¡± she said. There was tension in her voice, and her brow was furrowed. She reached beneath her heavy coat and tunic, and brought out something on a thin cord. It was a small pendant, which she laid it on top of her coat. It was a circle set in the center of crossed bars. ¡°You asked me if there were other secrets I wanted to reveal. I don¡¯t want this to be a surprise to you later.¡± He stared at her, and at the pendant. ¡°Thank you,¡± was all he could manage. They crossed the narrow bridge slowly. A low, well-crafted stone rail ran along each side of the span, but Cyrus nonetheless looked out and down with some trepidation. A strong gust of wind, and he would be flying into the deep valley below like a leaf¡ªbut without a leaf¡¯s low ratio of mass to surface area. ¡°Who built this place?¡± asked Cyrus as Bear and Gmork walked ahead, leading the horses. ¡°I¡¯ve never read of its history.¡± ¡°I haven¡¯t heard either,¡± replied Bear over her shoulder. ¡°The interior was a ruin when I was there, and I wouldn¡¯t know where to begin looking for evidence. Maybe the people who live there now can tell you.¡± ¡°Are they friends of yours?¡± ¡°I think so,¡± she replied hesitantly. ¡°We¡¯ll find out soon.¡± They came at last before the gatehouse. It loomed over them, weathered and severe. Cyrus was reminded unpleasantly of one of his old professors at the Academy. There was a thick door of oak, newly joined and painted by the look of it. The snow had been cleared away from the stone in front of the door. ¡°This is new,¡± confirmed Bear. ¡°There were no doors when I was last here.¡± ¡°Give it a knock,¡± he instructed. But before Bear could start forward, the door swung outward all on its own. Cyrus could see torchlight coming from the space behind the door as it swung out. And then he saw that there was a person standing in the doorway. The night obscured his face, but by the torchlight from behind they could see that he was somewhat taller than Cyrus and had a bald head with a fringe of hair. He wore long robes, and his frame appeared broad. Behind him were perhaps a dozen men and women, dressed in a variety of simple but warm clothing. The people behind the man in the doorway carried torches. The man took a torch from one of his compatriots and stepped forward. Cyrus saw his face, and recognized it. ¡°Welcome to Weisseberg, Professor Stoat, Miss Borson, and Gmork,¡± said the man. ¡°I am Gregory.¡± ¡°You are Grygory the Traitor,¡± accused Cyrus flatly. ¡°Yes,¡± replied Grygory. ¡°I am the Traitor. But it¡¯s ¡®Gregory¡¯ now. Please, come in out of the snow.¡± ??? Gregory led them to the small central courtyard in front of the keep, where two men helped Cyrus out of the sleigh and set him in a padded chair. Torches and lamps were lit all around the perimeter of the courtyard, and the stone was swept clean of snow. Though the gray walls were weathered and ancient, there were a number of newly constructed buildings inside. Scores of men and women were within the walls; some moved about purposefully on tasks, while others stood and watched the newcomers. Cyrus was shocked to see the short, squat-headed figures of goblins among them as well, moving and working in concert with their human compatriots. The two men carried Cyrus¡¯s chair into the main keep, where he was placed before a hot fire burning in a stone fireplace in a small side chamber. The room was sparsely furnished, but clean and free of debris. There was a wooden tub of steaming water, and a bottle of wine. Gregory and Bear disappeared to some other place in the building, but Gmork insisted on staying to wait on his master. He and the two human attendants carefully helped Cyrus out of his wet, filthy clothing and lowered him into the tub. They bathed him, then helped him out again and dressed the wound in his buttock. He was given new clothes and a fur coat against the cold. Once he was seated in the padded chair again, Gmork helpfully poured Cyrus a glass of the wine¡ªa very acceptable Black Rose, though a bit sweet¡ªand then helped himself to the rest of the bottle. ¡°Is this real?¡± he asked Gmork. ¡°Why wouldn¡¯t it be real?¡± inquired his assistant. ¡°I¡¯m not asleep, so it can¡¯t be a dream.¡± ¡°What if I¡¯m asleep, and you¡¯re my dream?¡± returned Cyrus. ¡°That¡¯s crazy talk,¡± scoffed Gmork. ¡°I¡¯m real, so I can¡¯t be your dream!¡± ¡°How do you both know you¡¯re real?¡± asked another voice softly from behind them¡ªalso speaking the goblin tongue. Cyrus and Gmork both turned; it was Gregory. ¡°This whole affair is so outrageous, I¡¯m simply giving up on how absurd it is that you speak the goblin-tongue,¡± remarked Cyrus. ¡°I¡¯ve travelled across the Kingdom of Uelland looking for a man-leaf of magic words in the hopes it will tell me why my friend got the stick-stick, and here is the Traitor of the North, welcoming me with a bath and a glass of booze, and now he greets me in the goblin-tongue. Perfectly natural. I suppose you have a unicorn waiting to fly us all back to Green Bridge.¡± (The word that goblins use for unicorn can, in principle, be rendered somewhat more precisely in the Uellish speech. However, out of consideration for the tender sensibilities of the reader, we have exchanged a certain measure of precision for a much larger portion of civility.) ¡°I do not have a unicorn,¡± replied Gregory with a twinkle in his eye. Cyrus switched to Uellish. ¡°Did you kill Rolland Gorp?¡± ¡°I did not,¡± answered Gregory solemnly. ¡°Do you know who did?¡± The priest shook his head. ¡°Do you have Rolly¡¯s notes on his research with Professor Pie?¡± ¡°I do,¡± confirmed Gregory. Cyrus sat back in the chair. At last! There appeared the smallest chip in the wall of futility that ran through the road of his life. ¡°Will you give them to me?¡± ¡°Maybe.¡± Cyrus scowled. The wall had gotten higher again. ¡°Let us have dinner first, Professor,¡± said Gregory quietly. ¡°This conversation will taste better after meat and wine.¡± He nodded at one of the attendants at the door. ¡°How is your injury?¡± he asked solicitously, as a small table was set for three. ¡°I¡¯ve just been shot in the bottom,¡± explained Cyrus. ¡°If I end this trip with a prosthetic buttock, then I will personally retake Enderly from the White Emperor and murder every Svegnian soldier within it until I find the jackass that put a bolt in me¡ªand then return the favor.¡± ¡°Ah,¡± said Gregory with an understanding nod. ¡°About as well as we could hope, then.¡± Supper was a simple stew of young goat, potatoes, carrots, and onions, served with a bit of brown bread and butter. But to Cyrus, who had eaten virtually nothing since he left Roosterfoot but near-frozen salted pork jerky, it tasted like a wedding banquet. He tucked away two bowls of the stew and a half a loaf of bread, feeling like a starved goblin. Gmork, who was on hand for comparison, nodded and smiled approvingly at his master¡¯s appetite. Little was said until dinner was cleared away, and Gregory poured a glass of wine for each of his guests. ¡°It is a rare ill that cannot be made better with a bit of buttered bread and rich stew,¡± remarked their host. ¡°Even a broken heart will yield for a time to good food and drink, I¡¯ve heard.¡± Cyrus thought about that, sipping at the wine from a simple clay mug. He thought of Veridia, and wondered if she was thinking of him. Panic welled up in his chest; he raised the mug to his lips again, but then set it down. Gregory looked at him shrewdly. ¡°Does it?¡± he asked. ¡°You¡¯ve been misinformed,¡± replied Cyrus shortly. ¡°But then, priests of the Ecclesia wouldn¡¯t know about broken hearts from their own experience, would they? Your only love is God the Father.¡± The broad cleric sighed softly and rubbed at his short, brown beard. ¡°I¡¯m afraid a priest can have his heart broken as well, Professor,¡± he said after a short pause. ¡°God can be just as fickle as a woman, if you let Him. It broke my heart to confront the reality that I had loved and trusted a thing that existed only in my own frail desire for it to be real.¡± The two men eyed each other silently across the remains of their supper. ¡°Then you¡¯ve had an awakening?¡± said Cyrus. ¡°I¡¯m afraid it doesn¡¯t change the reality that you are a traitor to Uelland. You aided an invading enemy, and then escaped justice after you were captured in Hog Hurst. As a priest, you may once have had a moral justification that some people would recognize, though certainly I would not. But now you have nothing.¡± Gregory looked steadily at Cyrus. ¡°You are correct, Professor, that I have awakened to a new reality. You are also correct that I aided an enemy¡ªwithout justice, and against my own countrymen. For this I am sorry and ashamed, and will one day make restitution, as best I can. And finally, you are correct that this makes me a traitor, by any legal definition¡ªthough it is also true that Bishop Wildrick has inflated my reputation to distract Queen Anne from his own dealings with the White Knights. But I¡¯m afraid you are mistaken on one point.¡± ¡°What point is that?¡± asked Cyrus. ¡°I have gained everything,¡± he answered softly. ¡°Ash,¡± declared Cyrus. ¡°You Advocates love to talk about Ash, but so far I¡¯ve heard no coherent doctrine or theological principle. Theology is the difference between a gaggle of self-deluded mystics and a well-organized gaggle of self-deluded mystics. You¡¯d better get to work on some letters to your distant congregations, Traitor.¡± Gregory smiled. ¡°I have no desire to imitate the forms of the Ecclesia¡¯s scripture,¡± he answered. ¡°Principles we have, and comradeship, and love. But writings will be needed too, in time. It was to begin those writings that I withdrew here¡ªand to build a community that will continue them after me.¡± ¡°I look forward to reading the Sixth Testament, when it hits the printing presses of Green Bridge,¡± replied Cyrus. ¡°In the meantime, I have some questions about Rolland Gorp, and I really must have those notes. He wanted me to have them, I¡¯m told.¡± ¡°What are your questions?¡± asked Gregory. ¡°Was Rolly an Advocate of Ash?¡± Gregory sat back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. ¡°After a fashion,¡± he answered finally. ¡°He shared our principles and our love for Her. He did not give himself to our ministry, but chose instead to do other tasks that were necessary.¡± ¡°Other tasks?¡± demanded Cyrus. ¡°What were they, and why were they necessary?¡± ¡°I believe you already know of his tasks,¡± replied the priest. ¡°It was his work with Professor Pie that occupied Mr. Gorp¡¯s faith.¡± Cyrus leaned forward. ¡°But that mathematics was some obscure research into formulas given to them by Snugg!¡± he exclaimed. ¡°Are you telling me you view a trading company¡¯s profit and loss sheets as a source of divine truth? That¡¯s absurd, even measured by the extremely low standards of your competition in the Ecclesia.¡± ¡°Rolly¡¯s work had nothing to do with Snugg¡¯s account books,¡± answered Gregory quietly. ¡°It had everything to do with Ash, and her adversary.¡± ¡°Is Pie one of yours? Or¡ªwas he?¡± Gregory nodded. ¡°He was. I do not know where Professor Pie is now, so I don¡¯t know if the past or present tense is appropriate.¡± Cyrus thought carefully. Gregory might be a cultist, but he had a sharp mind. ¡°Do you know why Rolly was killed?¡± ¡°I suspect,¡± answered the churchman carefully. ¡°I do not know. The Advocates are new to the world, Professor, but already we have adversaries. The Ecclesia is one, and they are certainly capable of murder. But we have other opponents. Our own principles have an inverse, and the inverse has an embodiment. It, like our own Ash, attracts followers who do its work.¡± ¡°What is this adversary?¡± asked Cyrus. Gregory smiled. ¡°You should know, Professor¡ªyou have already written about it.¡± He reached into his robe and withdrew a small, printed book. Cyrus saw, with surprise, that it was his own published translation of the Balthan transcriptions. Gregory flipped to a page near the back and read.
¡The priests took him into the temple at the center of the ruins, among the great making-places of the old ones. And they showed him the metal god, who would give him wisdom. When he came back from the temple, it was that he had been wealthier than any other man, and it was that he had known the secrets of the making from the old ones. But he was mad, and talked to people who no one else could see and walked through the farm fields and mud as if they were great roads.¡°That¡¯s nonsense,¡± Cyrus stated flatly. ¡°It was nonsense when some ignorant peasant made it up, nonsense when Balthan first wrote it down, and nonsense when I translated it into Uellish.¡± Gregory shook his head. ¡°It only appears to be nonsense because it has been projected from oral into written thought, left to age for a millennium, and then translated¡ªas well as could be hoped, Professor¡ªfrom Old Brassen into modern Uellish. But it reflects an event that was objectively real for the oral storyteller, and is no less real for having been forced through two incompatible modes of thought before reaching your ears.¡± Cyrus scoffed. ¡°That passage describes outright magic, Gregory. A man visits a metal god, who changes reality for him alone while leaving him half-anchored in some other reality that everyone else perceives. It¡¯s an allegory for greed and madness, not a description of actual events. Only a religious maniac would interpret it as actual history.¡± ¡°You only believe what you see,¡± said Gregory with a smile. ¡°There¡¯s a story in the Second Testament in which one of the prophet¡¯s followers demands proof of a miracle of which others have told him. The prophet remonstrates the doubting man, saying: ¡®You believe because you have seen; but blessed are they who have not seen, yet still believe.¡¯¡± It¡¯s a point about faith, of course. But this is where we part ways with the Ecclesia, Professor. Those who hear a story that makes no sense, but believe it because they want it to be true, are not blessed; they are foolish, and dangerous to themselves and others. In truth, the blessed are those who refuse to believe anything until their senses and their reason prove to them that it must be real.¡± ¡°Yet you would have me believe a thousand-year-old ghost story?¡± demanded Cyrus, incredulously. ¡°Not at the moment. You asked me if I suspected who killed Mr. Gorp, and I tell you that I think it was the tools of the Metal God¡ªfor reasons that, right now, would be incomprehensible to you. But I am prepared to give you one thing you asked for¡ªand another that you have not asked for, but which will be food for your own perception and reason. Perhaps it will lead to comprehension.¡± He stood up then and went to the door. Cyrus could hear low voices speaking, and then Gregory returned. ¡°One of my friends is bringing Mr. Gorp¡¯s notes,¡± said Gregory. ¡°While we wait¡ªhow is your wound now? Did my friends dress it well?¡± Cyrus grimaced. ¡°It feels like a Snorl is chewing on my rear end,¡± he answered ruefully. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry. I¡¯m afraid we have few natural analgesics. The mountains here contain none of the right herbs for that application.¡± Cyrus tried a question that had been bothering him. ¡°Bear. Or Brea. She¡¯s an Advocate. Did you tell her to bring me here?¡± Gregory shook his head. ¡°I did not, but one of my friends did.¡± The door to their small chamber opened again, and a man came in carrying a stack of papers bound neatly with string. He wore a black doublet, and had shoulder-length brown hair and a neatly trimmed brown beard. ¡°I believe you have met my colleague, Victor Hogman, before,¡± continued Gregory. ¡°You again!¡± exclaimed Cyrus. ¡°Are you following me around the Kingdom of Uelland?¡± Mr. Hogman smiled. ¡°I could ask the same of you, Professor Stoat. Indeed, it¡¯s you who followed me here. After our encounter in Bramble Square, I left the city that very night to travel to Weisseberg and report to Gregory. I arrived two days ago. But I did ask Miss Borson to join your caravan and see to it you reached us safely¡ªso perhaps the spirit of your accusation is correct. She was with us in Bramble Square that night as well, and knew Weisseberg from her childhood.¡± Cyrus frowned. ¡°¡®Hogman.¡¯ I¡¯ve heard that name before. Albert Hogman was the chief Selectman in Hog Hurst.¡± ¡°My father,¡± confirmed Victor Hogman, with a pained look. ¡°Please excuse us, Victor?¡± asked Gregory. Hogman nodded politely and withdrew. Cyrus stared at the neat stack of papers in front of him; the top one, visible, had rows and columns of letters written on it. Indecipherable, of course¡ªunless one had the cipher and the key. ¡°You may keep them, Professor, on one condition.¡± ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± asked Cyrus suspiciously. ¡°I¡¯m not converting to your religion.¡± Gregory smiled gently. ¡°Nothing so futile as that. A coerced conversion is not a conversion. A man must choose his principles freely, right or wrong. I want you to take me to Green Bridge and deliver me to the authorities of justice.¡± Cyrus stared at him, waiting for the punchline¡ªbut it did not come. ¡°Why?¡± he asked finally. ¡°They¡¯re going to try you, convict you, and then execute you in the most uncomfortable manner you can possibly imagine. Why would you walk into that?¡± ¡°Because it is right that I should be punished,¡± he answered. ¡°Men and women in Hog Hurst died because of the help I gave to the White Knights. Victor was nearly one of them. But my punishment must be in Green Bridge, and it must be by the law of Queen Anne. A mob in some village along the way won¡¯t do. You must promise to take me safely to Green Bridge as your prisoner.¡± Cyrus shook his head. ¡°You¡¯re mad. You claim to have principles, but what you¡¯re proposing is suicide. A man who loves life does not walk to his death.¡± Gregory rose and pushed back his chair. Cyrus tried to stand up, but fell back heavily in his own chair as his right thigh refused to cooperate. Gregory circled around the table and helped him to his feet; Cyrus had to lean on him heavily. ¡°I told you also that I would give you something you did not ask for,¡± said his host. He looked directly into Cyrus¡¯s eyes. ¡°You are wounded. May I treat your wound?¡± Cyrus blinked. ¡°Your followers have already bound it and applied poultices. With any luck it won¡¯t become infected, and I¡¯ll be able to walk after a week or two. Well,¡± he added ruefully, giving the wooden leg a shake, ¡°¡®walk¡¯ in a liberal sense of the word.¡± He stopped talking and looked back at Gregory. The man was still standing close by. ¡°May I treat your wound?¡± he repeated. Cyrus didn¡¯t quite know what to say. ¡°Yes, I suppose you may,¡± he answered eventually. Gregory nodded gravely. ¡°Please, be seated,¡± he said, laying the palm of his right hand gently on Cyrus¡¯s forehead. Cyrus was suddenly dizzy. He gasped, and his vision flickered. Darkness crept in around the edges of his sight, and the world started to change¡ªas though he¡¯d inhaled far too much Juju-jug smoke for one sitting, and reality had grown uncertain and fluid. He sat down heavily in the chair, not feeling any pain from the impact on the wound. His eyes widened. He was not seeing a fat, deluded priest standing over him. He saw something else. She was bright, and she shone, and her hair was golden, and her face was beautiful beyond any words that he could summon forth, and her wings were made of fire. Her hand was still on his forehead, and he wanted it never to leave. A small, cunningly-crafted panel flipped open on her forearm, and there emerged from it a long injection needle, its barrel filled with some glowing, sparkling, golden liquid. Behind her, the world shifted, and he saw the branching web of choices, outcomes, and possibilities, all overlaid on top of each other. For a moment he saw his whole universe, and all the other ones as well. Then he closed his eyes. ??? He opened his eyes, and it was just Gregory. The priest had withdrawn his hand, and stood back several feet from where Cyrus sat. Gmork was standing nearby, his head level with Cyrus, wearing expression of concern and surprise. Cyrus shook his head, trying to remember what he had seen. But it was gone, like a dream forgotten too soon. He looked around, then up at Gregory. ¡°I¡¯m afraid I sat down and fell asleep for a moment,¡± he apologized. ¡°The journey made me weary. But I feel fine now. You said you wanted to treat my wound? I hope that¡¯s not a euphemism for something else.¡± Gregory gave a small smile. ¡°Stand up, Professor,¡± he said. Cyrus stood up. ¡°You must be tired,¡± continued Gregory. ¡°There¡¯s a man waiting in the hall who will take you to a bed where you may rest.¡± Cyrus turned, still feeling a faint wash of un-reality. Knowing he was injured, he walked carefully to the door, placing one foot in front of the other. Left foot, right foot. Left foot, right foot. ¡°Don¡¯t need anything else from you tonight, Gmork,¡± he said over his shoulder. ¡°Stay out of trouble, or these people will serve you for breakfast.¡± ¡°Uh¡ boss¡¡± said his assistant. ¡°Good night, Gmork,¡± replied Cyrus firmly. He reached the door, and went through, still walking carefully. The man was waiting in the hall outside. He was tall and muscular, and dressed in a simple black robe. He had long black hair and his face was brutally handsome, but it was marred by a patchwork of scars. Cyrus thought he looked strikingly familiar, but put it down to his present fugue-like state. ¡°This way, Professor,¡± said the man politely in a deep baritone with a strange accent. He walked briskly down the hall, and Cyrus followed after him. They went up a flight of stairs to the second floor of the keep, and the man opened a door for him. ¡°We¡¯ve made up your bed, Professor,¡± he announced, gesturing into a small bedroom lit with a single oil lamp. A wooden frame with a mattress and heavy blankets was its only furniture, but a small rug with a pair of soft slippers sat at its side. Cyrus¡¯s pack had been placed carefully at the foot. ¡°Thank you, sir,¡± replied Cyrus. ¡°May I know your name?¡± The man smiled slightly. ¡°Here I am called Brutus,¡± he answered. ¡°I trust I¡¯ll see you at breakfast, Brutus.¡± Brutus kept smiling. ¡°Of course, Professor,¡± he said. And then he closed the door and Cyrus was left alone. He walked over to the bed and sat down. He felt more tired than he¡¯d ever felt in his life. He slipped out of the fur coat, hung it on the door, and put his feet into the slippers. Then he looked down at the slippers. There were two feet in them. He stood up again. Very carefully, he bent over, running his hands down his thighs, calves, and ankles. He touched his toes. Then he straightened up. He felt his right buttock; there was no pain. He removed his pants, and turned around to look at the flesh. There was no mark of injury. His flesh was whole. His leg proceeded down from his buttock, through a thigh, a knee, a calf, a shin, an ankle, and a foot, to the ground, just as it always had done¡ªuntil that morning he¡¯d awoken and found it wasn¡¯t there anymore. Cyrus concluded that he had finally gone irretrievably mad, and lay down to sleep it off. ??? ¡°I¡¯ll take you to Green Bridge,¡± he said to Gregory at breakfast. Bear and Gmork sat nearby, watching him carefully. ¡°Thank you,¡± said Gregory. ¡°What did you do to me?¡± Cyrus asked. He didn¡¯t feel he could inject any more detail into the question. There was no way to put words to what had happened. ¡°I treated your wound,¡± answered Gregory. ¡°You got carried away and put the whole leg back.¡± Gregory shrugged slightly. ¡°It¡¯s all part of the idiom.¡± They ate their porridge. Brutus took the bowls away, and Victor Hogman returned with milk and brown bread. ¡°What are you going to do in Green Bridge?¡± asked Cyrus. ¡°I am going to die,¡± answered Gregory. Chapter 8: The Absent Monologue Green Bridge, June 5th Merrily thrust boldly at Cyrus¡¯s unarmored chest, the tip of her sword lancing toward him like all the fury that Hell hath not. He parried lightly in the economical Quarte of an experienced swordsman and struck back, using his superior weight to close the distance between them and force her backward. She deflected him contemptuously in Sixte and stepped to his right, bringing the basket of her sword up and toward his forehead in a quick, controlled punch. He ducked under it, reversing their positions, and kicked backward at the inside of her knee. Merrily didn¡¯t resist the blow, but instead used his force to roll herself out of it, coming to her feet facing him again. She teased her blade to his right, daring him to overcorrect; instead, he called her bluff and lunged directly at her. To his surprise, Merrily dove forward past him, brushing aside his blade in a delicate Prime, and used her off hand to push against his back. He found himself tripping over her extended leg and fell heavily on his chest. He rolled aside, but her blade was at his throat. She¡¯d known which way he would roll. Cyrus looked up at his opponent. Merrily¡¯s lithe frame and broad shoulders were tensed with power, ready to slice his throat at the slightest wrong twitch. Her eyes blazed with anger and her chest heaved with raw emotion¡ªbut the blade at his throat might have been held by a statue. He laid down his own dull practice sword and reached up one gloved hand. Taking her blade delicately between thumb and forefinger, he drew it away from his throat and stood up. Her grip was surprisingly stubborn. ¡°I yield,¡± he said calmly. Merrily lowered her practice blade. Around them, in the training yard at Peacock Hall, other pairs carried on sparring. The warm air of an early June afternoon was filled with the clangs of iron on iron, and the rows of apple trees along one side of the yard produced an incongruously sweet scent. Only a few students and instructors looked his way¡ªand they tried to pretend they didn¡¯t. Lately, a great many people at Peacock Hall tried to pretend that Cyrus Stoat was invisible. Merrily didn¡¯t pretend. She might want to kill him, by all appearances¡ªbut he was still real to her. ¡°You pass,¡± he announced dryly. ¡°Congratulations. All that now stands between you and your fourth year at the College of Applied History is my written final exam. Also, Mrs. Hunter, I¡¯d take it as a personal kindness if you¡¯d recall that it¡¯s poor form to kill your sponsor on the practice grounds.¡± Merrily tucked her practice rapier into the leather sleeve at her belt, and the look of uncontrolled rage drained away from her green eyes. She brushed from her face a lock of brown hair that had escaped its imprisoning bun. ¡°You¡¯re still slow,¡± she remarked. ¡°Is the leg giving you trouble?¡± Merrily¡¯s eyes looked hollow, and there were dark circles beneath them. ¡°I¡¯m not slow,¡± he retorted defensively. ¡°But you¡¯re fast. I¡¯ve honestly never seen anyone improve as quickly as you have this year; you¡¯re becoming a fencer fit for Robert of Gorham¡¯s rapier. Have you been seeing a tutor in swordplay?¡± She shook her head. ¡°You are slow. It must be difficult, learning how to use your leg again after¡ well. After what happened. But you¡¯re slow. Even Greensmith would beat you right now, and he¡¯s dreadful with Sabre.¡± ¡°I need more time,¡± he muttered to himself, looking around the yard. There were his students and colleagues, doing just what they should do. Miss Maliss sparring with Professor Glibgrub; Mr. Hornhugger with Professor Crisby. The apple trees in blossom. And here was his right leg, magically reappeared from whatever midden-heap the surgeons had tossed it in two years ago. Its existence had tormented his mind for five months, since that night at Weisseberg; he couldn¡¯t so much as walk to the loo without being reminded that absolutely nothing made sense anymore. He¡¯d even considered having the damned thing amputated again, just to set the world right. He glanced up to see Merrily watching him closely. ¡°Well,¡± he continued unconvincingly, returning to the present. ¡°Top marks for swordplay this year, Merrily. But don¡¯t get complacent¡ªI think you¡¯ll find my exam more than enough challenge for your mind, even if I¡¯ve become too old and feeble to exercise your body.¡± She cocked her head at him curiously. ¡°What?¡± he asked. ¡°You called me Merrily,¡± she said, bemusedly. ¡°Right here, inside Triad.¡± He shook his head in disgust. ¡°It comes with the madness, Mrs. Hunter,¡± he explained, as they both walked toward the arched gateway out of the yard. ¡°When the roof of rational objectivity has rotted away, all manner of little niceties slip through the cracks in the rotten floorboards of cognition. Soon enough I¡¯ll be calling you Daisy and trying to ride you.¡± She gave him a look that he hoped was pity. ¡°What ever happened to that rapier?¡± he inquired. ¡°The one you stole from Robert Franco after he¡ª¡± ¡°It¡¯s tucked away,¡± she interrupted. He gave up on prying; Merrily had grown even better at evasion than at swordplay. The clang and clash of students taking their practical examinations in close combat produced a steady clatter around them. Nearby, Hornhugger twisted his practice blade skillfully beneath Professor Crisby¡¯s blade, flinging it out of her hands and through the air toward Merrily and Cyrus. Without a moment¡¯s hesitation, Cyrus reached out his hand and grasped the hilt of the airborne weapon before it could strike his student. Merrily looked up at the blade in surprise, and then at Cyrus. He winked at her. ¡°I¡¯m only slow on my feet,¡± he explained with a sudden, roguish smile. Then he extended the blade, hilt-first, back to Crisby. Hornhugger glared ferociously at him¡ªor was it at Merrily? Cyrus couldn¡¯t tell. Didn¡¯t matter; he was mad. He¡¯d slipped into some mad otherworld that was different than everyone else¡¯s world. It was a world in which he had two legs. ¡°Well done, Hornhugger,¡± he remarked loftily as he drifted past. ¡°But you¡¯ve left your pants unbuttoned. Good lord¡ªwhat is that peeking out of them?¡± Gerald Hornhugger looked down swiftly¡ªan instinctive reaction that no male human can resist¡ªand Crisby took the opportunity to punch him in the nose. Hornhugger collapsed; Crisby gave him a swift kick in the ribs for good measure, then picked up his fallen practice sword. ¡°B-minus, Gerald,¡± declared Cyrus grandly. ¡°Better luck next time.¡± ??? He returned to his apartment. He stared at the wall. He looked at the stack of exam books he¡¯d hand out tomorrow. He stared again at the wall. He started to go see Veridia. No; Veridia didn¡¯t want to see him. He started to go see Rolly. No; Rolly was murdered, and Cyrus Stoat had failed to solve his murder, and next week Obilly Smallhat would be tried, convicted, and hanged by the neck until dead. He considered going to see Vicod, but concluded that with his present run of luck, he¡¯d find Vicod had transformed into a frog. Instead, he stared at the wall. Gmork brought him supper. He gave the supper back to the goblin and drank a cup of tea in its place. He sent Gmork home to the little den he and his fellows still shared beneath the old Snugg warehouse. ¡°Tomorrow I shall go and see Gregory,¡± he announced to the Hexastrid he¡¯d rescued from Rolly¡¯s office. The plant, true to its idiom, said nothing in return. ¡°I shall go and see Gregory before they dismember him, and demand he put my leg back the way it was,¡± he continued confidently. ¡°And you¡¯ll see then, sir¡ªthat will fix everything. Everything will be better. Veridia will love me, and I¡¯ll see Marius again, and Wigglus, and Rolly, and everything will be alright again.¡± He sat on the bed and wept, and then smiled. Tomorrow everything would be alright again. He lay down and stared at the wall. ??? At first light, Cyrus walked purposefully across the square to William Hall. He paid his respects to the Billy on duty in the jail cells and made his way down to see Obilly Smallhat. The Billies had given up trying to keep him out; it didn¡¯t really matter anymore, and Queen Anne had discretely instructed that Cyrus be left to his own devices. A small mercy to both the goblin and the man, it was felt. Captain Vigg didn¡¯t call on him anymore. Smallhat¡¯s cell in the basement was just a few feet away from the new home of the Traitor of the North. Cyrus was surprised to see a trio of figures standing in the dim light outside the cell, speaking with its occupant. He recognized them immediately¡ªMiss Borson, Mr. Hogman, and the strange man Brutus. Cyrus shrugged, greeting them only with his eyes. If they wanted to comfort their prophet in his last days, that was their own time wasted. Bear looked back sorrowfully, but none of the three spoke to him. The ashes of that bridge had already stopped smoking. Gregory couldn¡¯t fix anything. Cyrus wouldn¡¯t ask Gregory to fix anything. If he did, it would only make everything worse. He looked in at Smallhat. The goblin was seated in a wooden chair at a small table, with an oil lamp providing light. The tabletop held a rack of lead pencils, a short, neat stack of papers, and several books. Smallhat himself was reading from one of the sheets of paper, which he carefully placed on top of the short stack when he saw Cyrus. The remains of a hearty meal were near at hand. ¡°Good morning, Mr. Smallhat,¡± Cyrus greeted him. ¡°Good morning, Professor Stoat,¡± replied the prisoner cheerfully. ¡°I¡¯m glad to see you. I¡¯ve finished the decryption.¡± Cyrus nodded. ¡°Just in time,¡± he observed, and then instantly regretted it. ¡°Sorry,¡± he added. The goblin shook his head and smiled. ¡°It¡¯s alright, Professor. Don¡¯t be sorry. I know what¡¯s coming. I¡¯ve been glad for this work to do while I wait. The lawyer you hired for me has delayed things as long as he can, but now that I¡¯m finished with Rolly¡¯s notes I¡¯d just as soon get it over with.¡± Smallhat stood up and brought the stack of papers to the door, reaching up to push them through the low slot into Cyrus¡¯s hands. Cyrus looked down at the papers. The formulas and notes were no more intelligible to his eyes after being decrypted twice through two different schemes, but Herberta and Professor Hypote seemed to comprehend them. At any rate, the symbols and numbers apparently held meaning enough to produce widened eyes and confused gasps. ¡°Thank you,¡± said Cyrus. And then he repeated, ¡°thank you. You didn¡¯t have to help me with this. I would have understood if you¡¯d said no.¡± ¡°He was my friend too,¡± replied Smallhat. ¡°And Professor¡ªbefore you give those papers to Herberta and Professor Hypote, you should know that Rolly left a note for you. It was encrypted in the very last pages. It seems he was in a bit of a rush when he wrote it, but I¡¯ve cleaned it up for you.¡± Cyrus flipped to the bottom of the stack and read.
My dear Cyrus, It seems I am dead. If this were a good Thom Verasee novel, I would leave you a note with some brilliant clue to lead you to my murderer. Unfortunately, the future is a cipher unknown to me; I have neither the scheme nor the key. I cannot tell you anything about my death. I trust you are clever enough to find a brilliant clue all on your own. If not, then you must make up for it by living a life so brilliant as to make the solution to my death unnecessary. Professor Pie and I have been unable to complete the calculations in the transcriptions that Miss Snipe gave us. The sums balance, but they are incomplete; the smallest do not reconcile with the greatest. Wherever Snipe got those formulas, there must be more there that can help us understand. The ancients were confident that their machines worked, but the sums we have do not produce the results they describe. Pie is trying to reach Carelon with his copy of our research; I begged him to stay, but he is terrified. Ash will lead him to the answer, if it is correct, and you as well. It may be that you will find my trust in the Advocates and faith in their goddess puzzling. If you have received these notes, then they will have told you something of their creed. Do not mistrust them, Cyrus. They are not the Ecclesia, but something far better and wiser and more real. Have faith in your senses and your reason, and Ash will lead you to the Bright Path. The feyess Sheria can tell you more, if you will listen. I regret that I cannot be there to see your face when you finally understand; that will be the finest joke of all. Beware the Metal God. Its promises are real, but its wisdom is false. In the end, your own choice is the only one that matters. Now it is time for me to meet you and Vicod at the Purse. This letter has grown maudlin, and I shall end it now. I expect you will never read these words; I stand a greater chance of personally visiting Professor Tentimes¡¯ new star than dying dramatically for my craft and faith. Ah well. Raise a glass, my friend. Yours, truly, R. GorpCyrus carefully put the sheet of paper in this pocket and wiped his eyes. He looked in at Obilly Smallhat, who returned his gaze sympathetically. Tears were in his own eyes. ¡°I¡¯ll come see you again before the end, Obilly,¡± Cyrus said. ¡°Thank you, Cyrus,¡± answered the goblin. ??? He left William Hall without looking back. A thin miasma of coal smoke drifted in from the shoreside workshops, casting an ominous taint over the bright, warm June morning. In the broad square between Bastings and Triad, a large stage was being constructed in one corner. Already, a heavy block was placed in the center of the platform. The stage was for Queen Anne¡¯s coronation in two weeks; the block, he assumed, was for a pair of executions. He wondered if they¡¯d combine the events into one big festival. Crossing the square, Cyrus passed under the tall arch of the Triad gates. He went to his office and carefully copied out Smallhat¡¯s decryption of Rolly¡¯s final message. He tucked the copy in his shirt pocket and left the original next to a pile of old rubbings from the Ghorpol Ossa expedition, brushing aside the cold, thin rod of black metal that had come back from the expedition in his pocket. Then he retrieved his exam books, rotated the Hexastrid slightly to better catch the sun, and made his way to the lecture hall on the ground floor. He did not bother to lock the door. His second- and third-year students were gathered already, fully occupying the steeply raked rows. The smell of anxious humanity in the room was palpable. He looked them over as he walked in. They were a fine group, he concluded. Above average; bright, even. Next semester they¡¯d break into small groups with individual professors, and then in their fifth year move on to independent field study. This was the last time he would have them all in one place. His gaze fell on a small knot of students speaking together in one corner. Hunter, Greensmith, Le Hen, Maliss, Hornhugger; the core of the group¡¯s thinkers. He had guided them, but they had done the work. Even Hornhugger, irritating as he was, had a bright spark. Perhaps that was why he quarreled so with Merrily. Cyrus would miss having them quarrel together in his lecture hall. Dean Snoring and Professor Glibgrub passed by in the hallway outside. They glanced in, but seeing him they looked away quickly. This time last year, they¡¯d have come in to say a few friendly words on the latest crop of rising students and wish the exam-takers luck. I am a freak, Cyrus thought. His chest grew tight, and his breathing short. I am an anomaly. I have no business being. They want me gone. ¡°You have three and a half hours,¡± he announced, handing out the stacks of thinly bound exam books. ¡°Points added for style and persuasiveness; points off for poor penmanship, amateurish grammar, and substantively wrong arguments. The third essay tests both your knowledge and your moral quality. I expect the best of both from each of you.¡± He looked over at the tall pendulum clock in one corner. The students quickly took their seats. ¡°Begin,¡± he announced. He stared at the wall. Three and a half hours passed slowly for Cyrus, and very quickly for everyone else. ??? Over the rooftops of Farley Island and the river beyond, the sunset was magnificent. Cyrus stared pensively at it, his forearms resting on the stone parapet of the rooftop astronomy deck at Redbun. Far below and behind him, the river channel that separated Farley Island from the mainland city to the east also separated him from the worst of the new smokes and smells¡ªbut the haze of coal smoke over the city was plainly visible. Oddly, the thin smoke seemed to elevate the beauty of the clear air beyond the walls and the orange orb of the sun, lowering beneath the western forests. Why do I find the sunset beautiful? he asked himself. What purpose of mine, as a thinking animal, does that serve? It¡¯s just the nearest star, burning away while we spin helplessly about it; but it is beautiful. Why? The conventional answer¡ªthat the idea of beauty had developed to reinforce man¡¯s social behaviors and mitigate his most violent tendencies¡ªwas somehow unsatisfying. Cyrus glanced around at the assortment of telescopes and other instruments set up on the deserted observation deck, and wondered if the astronomers had worked out an answer. Robert Franco had an answer. The attraction of beauty was a consequence of Man¡¯s eternal soul, and its desire to return to God. In the unsullied world of nature, he¡¯d said once at a lecture, we see a dim reflection of the glory of Heaven. At the time, Cyrus had written a sharply worded rebuttal on the dangers of magical thinking. He felt his leg, wondering if he would wake up soon. Anyway¡ªFranco was gone. There was no point anymore in debunking his views on history and religion. Beatrice Snugg¡¯s dying thrust with her poisoned knife, two years ago, had sent Franco on from this world to find out in person if he was right or wrong. And if the body had never been found¡ªneither had Robert Franco ever been seen again. His bones lay in some sewer or ditch, gnawed by rats; the only justice in this world for a fanatic and a murderer. What God did with him was God¡¯s business.This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. The sound of steps behind him drew Cyrus back from his reverie. He turned to see a man and a goblin there. The man was Professor Hypote, and the goblin Herberta. ¡°I¡¯m afraid this is the last secret sunset rooftop rendezvous,¡± announced Cyrus wryly. ¡°I prefer a dark alley or a sewer, but you mathematicians have such strange work habits.¡± They walked close to him. ¡°You have the last pages, then?¡± asked Hypote, with no preamble. ¡°I do,¡± confirmed Cyrus. He withdrew them from a shirt pocket, reaching awkwardly under his breastplate. Hypote took the papers eagerly, glanced at them, and handed them to Herberta. ¡°We¡¯ll start working on these tonight,¡± Hypote said. ¡°I expect it will take us several weeks to integrate the new elements.¡± Cyrus looked down. ¡°They¡¯re incomplete,¡± he muttered. ¡°What?¡± demanded Hypote. ¡°Rolly said they were incomplete. He left me a note.¡± He pulled out his copy of Obilly¡¯s decryption and read.
Professor Pie and I have been unable to complete the calculations in the transcriptions that Miss Snipe gave us. The sums balance, but they are incomplete; the smallest do not reconcile with the greatest. Wherever Snipe got those formulas, there must be more there that can help us understand. The ancients were confident that their machines worked, but the sums we have do not produce the results they describe.He left out the parts about Pie¡¯s flight to Carelon and the putative goddess. ¡°The smallest do not reconcile with the greatest,¡± muttered Hypote. He turned to Herberta, and a look passed between them. ¡°Does that mean something to you?¡± queried Cyrus. ¡°Something,¡± confirmed Herberta. ¡°But maybe not everything. The formulas describe¡ how things work. Matter, energy, and¡ something else. We don¡¯t know what to call the something else, but in the formulas it binds the other two. I think Mr. Gorp was talking about how they all come together. The formulas for how the three phases work on things that we can see and touch are very different than formulas for very small things¡ªthings so small, we can¡¯t ever see them.¡± ¡°We thought the last pages would reconcile the two systems,¡± added Hypote. ¡°What machines was he talking about?¡± asked Cyrus. ¡°It¡¯s a theory we have,¡± explained Hypote. ¡°Some of the pages don¡¯t just contain formulas in the abstract¡ªthey also show how the mathematics would be applied to a physical instrument. Like a very complicated printing press, but motivated by pure energy, not kinetic force.¡± ¡°Could you build this device?¡± asked Cyrus tensely. This would certainly explain Snugg¡¯s interest in the formulas. Herberta shook her head. ¡°It¡¯s impossible. Even if we could translate Rolly¡¯s notes into diagrams and work with metal at tiny scales, we haven¡¯t any source of energy that could make its parts work as they¡¯re meant to.¡± ¡°Nothing is impossible,¡± Cyrus responded automatically. ¡°Just very, very improbable.¡± Automatically? He wondered where the thought had come from. They looked out in silence at the setting sun over the forests beyond the river. The world felt tenuous and flimsy. ¡°Perhaps these last pages will bring us closer,¡± said Professor Hypote eventually. ¡°Thank you for trusting us, Professor Stoat. This work will create a revolution in Natural Mathematics when we publish. Mr. Gorp and Professor Pie will be included as authors, of course.¡± He and Herberta turned and walked toward the stairway. Cyrus nodded, and went back to looking out over Green Bridge. The sun dipped below the horizon and the lonely rooftop began to grow chilly in the dusk. The lane below emptied of students and professors. Cyrus drew his cloak tightly around him, but felt no desire to leave. There was a step behind him. He turned. A figure stood by the stair; female, by the hips and chest. She was slim, with broad, strong shoulders. A hint of dark hair peeked out from the hood. She wore leather pants, a chest-piece of boiled leather, and a cloak and hood. A mask covered her lower face. ¡°You, again,¡± stated Cyrus flatly. The woman did not answer, but instead drew a rapier from her belt, holding it lightly. She dropped into a fencer¡¯s crouch. ¡°Don¡¯t you want to deliver a monologue first?¡± he asked casually. ¡°Reveal your motivations and master plan before you kill me? I¡¯ve heard it makes the whole business much more satisfying. Erotic, even. All the best villains do it.¡± She advanced slowly, her eyes on his hands. Professional. He unbuttoned his own cloak and let it fall to the rooftop, placing his right hand on the hilt of his old steel broadsword. Cyrus knew, intimately, just how badly mismatched his old heavy blade would be to a light rapier. That lesson had cost him a leg, two years ago. ¡°Did you kill Rolland Gorp?¡± he tried, drawing the broadsword. She said nothing. The distance between them continued to shrink, until she was nearly in range for a lunge. He held the thick steel sword before him, point down slightly, and crouched. Fine, he thought. Maybe this is how I die. It would be a mercy; like the man who visited the Metal God looking for wisdom and came back mad. She flicked the rapier at him. An opening statement. He tapped it aside lightly and pointed the broadsword at her chest, arm extended. She feinted toward his right shoulder, and he refused to acknowledge it, dropping down to parry her real thrust and answer with a riposte. The debate began in earnest. His opponent was younger, lighter, and faster. Her thrusts were quick and aggressive, and she used her body to move him around the space on the rooftop. But Cyrus had nearly thirty years of hard-won experience in the rough and tumble of Applied History, and he was a dirtier fighter than most. When she got too close, he kicked; when she dashed past him, he thwacked her back. Occasionally he permitted a blow to glance off his steel breastplate just to close the space and use his superior weight to bully her backward. She forced him up against one of the larger telescopes, pushing the rapier close to his neck; he fell back, spinning the heavy instrument on its stand to strike her head from behind. But she followed up with a quick strike as she fell forward, nearly pinning his shoulder. He rolled out of the way just in time. As they fought, Cyrus began to detect a familiar rhythm to his attacker¡¯s thrusts and blows. She had been trained, clearly, and trained by someone with a familiar style. She began a sequence of lightning-fast thrusts and feints, forcing him into a defensive retreat that left his right arm weary from rapid parries. He had been attacked in this way before. It was two years ago, on another rooftop. And he¡¯d lost. His retreat across the platform quickened, and he knew he was losing control of the duel. There was a smaller telescope somewhere behind him; but where? Not wanting to trip over it, he angled away from the stair, toward the parapet at the roof¡¯s edge. The flurry of thrusts continued without mercy, but suddenly Cyrus found he knew where they were going. His parries became more efficient, and his retreat slowed. The unfamiliarity of his leg disappeared. His body remembered how to move. He parried a lunge and riposted at his attacker with the tip of his heavier sword. She dove forward past him, brushing aside his blade in a delicate Prime, and used her off hand to push against his back. He found himself tripping over her extended leg and fell heavily on his chest. He rolled aside; her blade struck the stone rooftop. She had not known where he would roll. ¡°Merrily!¡± he shouted, rolling to his feet. ¡°Stop!¡± But she did not stop. She rushed at him. He thrust her rapier aside with his broadsword, but she plowed into him, striking his body in a tackle that pushed him backward toward the edge of the roof. He struggled, but his balance was gone. In a panic, he let go of his sword, gripped her by the shoulders, and threw her behind him. She tumbled over the stone wall at the edge of the platform. He fell heavily against the stone, twisting around to extend his arm downward. His hand grasped something soft; it was the cloth that covered her lower face. The rest of the woman plunged downward, falling back-first into the open space. The rapier drifted away from her. Cyrus looked full into her face, seeing the fear, anger, and the hopeless knowledge that she was already dead. It wasn¡¯t Merrily. It was Kelestine Maliss. The woman¡¯s body faded down into the darkness below him; slowly. Too slowly. But her descent was inevitable. Cyrus forced himself to watch her fall all the way down, and then faintly he saw her strike the cobblestones. Two human figures on the street below, their features indecipherable, quickly picked up the sad, limp form that had been Maliss and carried it away at a fast trot. Cyrus sat down with his back against the stone wall of the parapet and wept. He howled, and screamed, and his face was soaked with tears. His breath came in gasps, and he tore at his hair. It went on and on. After the storm of weeping had passed, and his breath came in a ragged rhythm, he stood up painfully. It was night, and the astronomers would be here soon. He retrieved his sword and cloak, and slipped away down the stairs. ??? In Cyrus¡¯s office was a bottle of strong whiskey that he kept handy for medical and personal emergencies. He fished it out of the desk and, not bothering to find a cup, simply took a long pull from the bottle. Then he took another, and another. The door opened. Vicod Rayth came in. ¡°I¡¯ve killed Maliss,¡± Cyrus announced without waiting for a greeting. Vicod stood as still as a tree. ¡°I know,¡± he said. ¡°Were you one of the people on the street?¡± asked Cyrus, his words slurred. ¡°No,¡± answered the black-skinned professor. ¡°My office window faces Redbun. I saw the whole thing. You¡¯re lucky, from a certain perspective, that Dean Snoring put me up with the graduate students and junior faculty. Otherwise you¡¯d be without a friendly witness. Cyrus, I¡¯m so sorry. I didn¡¯t know Maliss well, but I knew she was intelligent. It is the College¡¯s great loss.¡± Cyrus started to take another pull from the bottle, but Vicod took it firmly from his grasp. ¡°You¡¯ll want a few wits left, Cyrus,¡± he said gently. ¡°I¡¯ve brought you an important visitor.¡± With that, he left, taking the bottle with him. After he disappeared through the door to Cyrus¡¯s office, a woman came in. She was tall, with long black hair that emerged from under a hood. She wore a simple black dress, but she wore it with a sense of confidence and purpose that suggested it might be a suit of plate armor. The woman flipped back her hood and revealed Anne Linsey Gray, Queen of Uelland. Her head was unadorned, and her black hair was loose. Cyrus, stunned, stood up so hastily he knocked over his chair. Queen Anne waved him down, seating herself in one of the two austere wooden chairs before his desk. He retrieved his own chair and sat down across from her. ¡°Professor Rayth told me about Miss Maliss,¡± she said softly. Her bright, emerald eyes held genuine empathy. ¡°I am truly sorry, Professor. No one should have to kill his own student.¡± Cyrus looked down. Tears threatened again. ¡°Thank you,¡± he managed. ¡°I confess, Professor, that I am not here to comfort you. Quite the opposite, and I¡¯ve come at a bad time. But you and I need to speak plainly¡ªnow.¡± ¡°I am at your disposal, Queen,¡± he replied, straightening up in his chair. She looked at him shrewdly. ¡°I¡¯m going to have a crown put on my head in two weeks.¡± ¡°Congratulations, Your Majesty,¡± he replied. ¡°The design complements your character perfectly. Mrs. Snugg did a superlative job at improving on the current version. I¡¯m certain history will remember it as Queen Anne¡¯s Crown or somesuch.¡± She regarded him coolly. ¡°I didn¡¯t come here to be flattered by you, Professor Stoat, though I thank you. I came here because I do not want my reign to begin with a miscarriage of justice.¡± He sat back in his chair. ¡°I presume you¡¯re referring to the impending trial and execution of Obilly Smallhat, not the impending trial and execution of Gregory, the Traitor of the North.¡± ¡°I¡¯m referring to them both,¡± she answered. ¡°There is popular demand in Green Bridge for both Smallhat and Gregory to die. I cannot ignore popular demand, because my legitimacy as Queen currently depends on it.¡± He smiled. ¡°Beatrice Snugg trained you well, madame. I¡¯m afraid that is the sad reality of monarchy. There are no absolute rulers; there are only rulers with larger or narrower foundations in the opinion of the people who count.¡± ¡°There are,¡± she replied, ¡°a great many ¡®people who count.¡¯ The northern nobility are a hollow shell. It¡¯s the merchants, the burghers, the landowners, the farmers, and the tradesmen that I need; their support is the only reason I can be taken seriously. Roosterfoot will be in the hands of the Republic any day, if it isn¡¯t already. I rely more than ever on the good graces of men and women who want me to be their Queen¡ªand also on their tax payments, unless Uelland is to be a permanent debt slave to Snugg and Company. If the people who count decide that a goblin and a priest must die, I must weigh it.¡± ¡°But you think one or both them are innocent,¡± he surmised shrewdly. ¡°And you don¡¯t want the suffering and death of an innocent on your hands.¡± ¡°Are they innocent?¡± she asked. He made a tent with his hands on his tabletop. ¡°Gregory is undoubtedly guilty of treason; he freely admits it and hasn¡¯t sued for mercy. The only relevant question is whether killing him will create more friends than enemies, on balance. The Advocates have grown in number, but they¡¯re hardly popular. Thanks to Wildrick¡¯s haranguing, I suspect most people you¡¯d find on the street would celebrate his death.¡± ¡°But he has performed a miracle.¡± She nodded at his two legs, visible beneath the table. Cyrus rubbed his face. Of course she¡¯d bring that up. ¡°Madame,¡± he began, now feeling quite sober, ¡°I have built my life, my career, and my view of the world on the foundation of logic. For a leg to grow back two years after it was severed has no logical explanation. Something happened in Weisseberg that I cannot explain. Any excuse my mind can summon shrivels in the light of the briefest consideration. It is factually correct that I had no right leg for two years, and now I do have a leg; that no human in recorded history before me has ever regenerated a leg; and that Gregory did¡ something¡ immediately before the leg returned. Logically, there is no escaping the conclusion that these things must be related. But for his intervention, I would still have just one leg. ¡°There is an old saw in the study of human societies: Any piece of technology that seems normal to us today would appear as magic to a sufficiently primitive person. A pendulum clock; a printing press; the written word; even an oil lantern would be magical to a human tribe who had not yet discovered fire. We want desperately to understand the world we perceive, and when we encounter a thing that we cannot explain we find a story to explain it anyway. Magic is the usual answer, or that species of magic that we call ¡®religion¡¯; but you and I know that there is nothing magical or divine about a clock. It is merely complicated. What happened to me is extremely complicated, and I cannot explain it. But that does not mean it was magical, or an act of God. ¡°None of this changes the fact that Gregory admits to aiding an invading enemy, and that his actions contributed to many deaths in the village and environs of Hog Hurst. He is certainly not the only priest of the Ecclesia who is guilty, but he is the one that people have chosen as the focus of their blame¡ªso they don¡¯t have to kill all the rest of them. Whatever he calls himself now, and whatever he did in Weisseberg, the priest must die.¡± There was a long silence in the room. Queen Anne looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. ¡°And the goblin?¡± ¡°He¡¯s innocent,¡± said Cyrus firmly. ¡°There¡¯s a witness that saw him go into the room before the murder and then come out. And he fled the city after reporting it.¡± ¡°I know you¡¯re smarter than that, madame,¡± answered Cyrus sharply. ¡°There¡¯s no witness to the murder itself. Filtch may be old and feeble, but he¡¯s covering for someone. Any juror who hears his story should be left with enough doubt to bake a doubt cake, if cakes were made of doubt. Or, at least, he should unless there were a Billy whispering in his ear what the correct outcome must be. As for the flight: Smallhat was and is in an unfamiliar place, surrounded by mostly suspicious¡ªand sometimes hostile¡ªpeople of an entirely different species, who view him as ugly and alien. You can hardly blame him for wanting to get back to his own kind. But most importantly, he has no motive whatsoever for the murder. Rolly was one of his only human friends.¡± ¡°Sometimes we kill the people we love,¡± she said softly. ¡°What¡¯s wrong with you!¡± he shouted suddenly, forgetting caution entirely and rising to his feet. ¡°Why are you so driven to hang this grayskin? You came here to ask me if you¡¯d be perverting justice, and my answer is yes. Yes! It is wrong! There are no practicalities or exigencies that will make it right. Kill one innocent for political expedience, Queen, and you will be no better than your husband, or than Hobb the Wise. Is this not what you expected to hear from me?¡± She looked up at him gravely. He sat down again. ¡°Some of the people who count the most need very much for this matter to be resolved,¡± she replied. Cyrus scowled. ¡°Snugg. Nicola Snugg wants him dead.¡± Queen Anne made no move and said nothing. ¡°Why? She doesn¡¯t need the political cover. She¡¯s already seized the coal mines in the Gray Kingdom. With Simon gone, the goblins are in total disarray. Nobody up there is going to stop her from wiping out the goblins if they make an issue of it, and nobody down here is going to stop buying the coal. Why would she need Obilly Smallhat convicted of a murder?¡± Queen Anne rose to her feet, and Cyrus automatically stood up in response. ¡°If you find out, I hope you¡¯ll tell me,¡± she answered coolly. ¡°The Crown¡¯s debts to Snugg & Co. are substantial. We cannot afford to alienate our most significant creditor.¡± She paused, half-turning away from him toward the door. ¡°Perhaps you should ask Miss Snipe,¡± she added. ¡°Veridia doesn¡¯t want to see me,¡± he replied bitterly. ¡°Try, Professor,¡± the Queen insisted. ¡°Miss Snipe and Mrs. Snugg are leaving Green Bridge tomorrow and will be gone for quite some time. Tonight may be your only chance.¡± ¡°What? Why? Where are they going?¡± The Queen turned to face him again. ¡°They¡¯re going to Devi Valley,¡± she answered. And then she left. ??? The coach creaked and rattled alarmingly as it hurtled through the night. The light of the streetlamps showed streets mostly deserted, and he had given the driver something extra to take chances. Cyrus, swaying and jolting in the cramped box, paid no attention to the discomfort. His mind raced, swirled, and doubled back on itself. He was going to face a dragon, and all he had to fight with were his own sorrow and regret. He forced himself to face it. He loved Veridia. He loved her more than he¡¯d ever loved anyone; more than he loved himself. And yet he had done all the wrong things. He¡¯d left when he shouldn¡¯t have. He¡¯d been proud when he should have been humble. He¡¯d shouted when he should have listened. He enumerated the library of sins in his mind, cataloging them and calling them what they were. There was no escaping his actions. ¡°Choices, Cyrus Stoat,¡± she¡¯d said that night. ¡°Choices and consequences¡ªyou can¡¯t go back and undo either.¡± The coach arrived at the Snugg factor house. He got out, and it pulled away into the night. The warehouse was awash with light and action. A long line of wagons stood on the street before it, and men and women were loading supplies and equipment. Mercenaries were assembling in their units, wearing the Snugg livery and outfitted with firearms and heavy field packs. A row of very large crates, each bearing the mark of a serpent in the shape of an ¡®S¡¯, was lined up farther down the street. The contents of these could not be seen, but judging by the movements of one that dangled from a loading crane, they were heavy. Cyrus approached the stairs at the corner of the warehouse, leading to Veridia¡¯s small apartment on the upper floor. An armed guard stopped him. ¡°You¡¯re not with the crews,¡± the man said. ¡°Move back.¡± ¡°I need to see Veridia Snipe,¡± replied Cyrus insistently. ¡°I¡¯m Cyrus Stoat.¡± ¡°That¡¯s too bad,¡± said the guard. ¡°I know everyone who¡¯s allowed to see Miss Snipe, but I don¡¯t know you. So¡ªunless you¡¯ve got a crew boss who wants to talk to me, or you want a bayonet up your¡ª¡± ¡°Let him through,¡± came a woman¡¯s voice from above. He looked up. It was Veridia. His heart stopped briefly, and then started up again. She stood on the stairs, looking down at him. In the crook of her left arm was a bundle of blankets that wiggled slightly, and in her right hand she held a sheaf of papers. By the light of the lamps on the landing above, he could see that she was dressed in her dark business suit, and her hair was pinned back. She did not descend farther from where she stood, ten feet above him. Two dim figures could be seen on the landing above her, looking down as well; clerks from her office, perhaps. Cyrus walked to the base of the steps and looked up. Follow the Bright Path, he thought in the fey-speech. Where did the thought come from? But once again, he caught a glimpse of that bright thread¡ªand instead of disappearing, it remained. His world split and fragmented, and he saw the multitude of branching choices and outcomes. Far off in the distance of five dimensions, there was a version of the world where Veridia loved him, and Merrily and Jonathan were happy, and he and Vicod sang every night, and the world around him was happy and peaceful and free. In the background there was presence, a spirit that lifted and magnified him and the people around him and filled them with joy and music. He found it was a world he desired more than anything he had ever imagined. But first he had to make this world right. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he said. ¡°Veridia, I¡¯m so sorry. I love you.¡± The workers and mercenaries nearby stopped what they were doing and looked at him curiously. He ignored them. ¡°I should never have left,¡± he plowed on. ¡°There are many, many things I should never have done, and many more I should have but never did. I can¡¯t change that. But I love you, and I love Marius, and I always have. I don¡¯t know when exactly I started, but I¡¯ve never stopped. Everything around me is gray and ugly without you, and everything I do is just another way to try to forget that I¡¯ve lost you. You¡¯re beautiful, and you¡¯re smarter than me, and you work harder, but none of those are the reason I love you. I love you because you¡¯re Veridia Snipe, and that is who I love.¡± ¡°This is really not a good time¡ª¡± she began. ¡°Veridia, I need you to help me,¡± he interrupted her. ¡°Everything I¡¯ve done since Ghorpol Ossa has been wrong. All those stupid and wrong things I did¡ªI need you to forget about them for fifteen minutes and talk to me as if it were still September, before I made every mistake a man can possibly make. There¡¯s a life in the balance, Veridia, and it¡¯s not my life. You can help me save the life of someone who doesn¡¯t deserve to die, and who could turn out to be a great and beautiful person. Help me¡ªplease.¡± He saw the path clearly. A bright, golden thread ran through all the Veridias and all the Cyruses and all the Merrilys and Jonathans and Obilly Smallhats¡ ¡°No,¡± she said. The path vanished. ¡°No?¡± he asked, dumbfounded. How could that be the answer? ¡°No,¡± she said firmly. ¡°It¡¯s too late, Cyrus. You made your choices, and I made mine. You can¡¯t turn back the clock. Our lives go on, but they go on apart. I don¡¯t have time now to have the rest of this conversation, but you can fill in the holes. Go, now.¡± She turned and walked back up the stairs, joining the figures at the top. They went inside her office. The guard shooed him away. He walked slowly into the night. ??? Merrily found him sitting on the street against a brick wall. He didn¡¯t weep; he didn¡¯t have any more tears. He simply stared at the flickering lamp on the other side of the street, waiting for it to go out. She came to him out of the darkness, wearing a cloak and hood against the cool June night. Slung over one shoulder was her hunting bow, and a quiver of arrows was on her back. She wore tight leather breeches and a hardened leather vest. Her brown hair was tied back in a bun. She crouched down and looked at him closely. He stared back at her with hollow, empty eyes. They looked at each other for a long minute. Then she extended her hand to him. ¡°I know who killed Rolland Gorp,¡± she said. Chapter 9: The Man With the Metal Face Green Bridge, June 6th ¡°I know who killed Rolland Gorp.¡± Cyrus stared up at Merrily in disbelief, curiosity lighting a tiny spark of life in his eyes. ¡°Did you kill him?¡± he asked. His heart fell at the thought of how she might answer. She shook her head. ¡°No.¡± He took her outstretched hand and let her pull him to his feet. She swayed slightly, and her face was pale, but her grip was firm. ¡°Who did?¡± She stared at him closely, tilting her head slightly as if looking through his eyes, into¡ something. ¡°Mr. Filtch killed him.¡± Cyrus scoffed. ¡°He¡¯s a feeble old man. How? Why? Do you have evidence?¡± ¡°You can ask him yourself,¡± answered Merrily cryptically. ¡°Tonight. He¡¯ll tell you.¡± Cyrus could feel something returning, where moments before there had been a void. It was something that made him question, analyze, consider¡ªcare. ¡°I doubt he¡¯d talk to me, and I don¡¯t know where he lives¡ª¡± ¡°I¡¯ll take you,¡± she interrupted him. She backed a few steps away, up the dark street. One hand was pressed slightly to her abdomen, as if in pain, but her movements were insistent. ¡°Merrily, this doesn¡¯t add up,¡± he protested. ¡°There are parts missing. How do you know all these things? Why haven¡¯t you told me before now?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve asked questions. I¡¯ve found answers. Follow me, and I¡¯ll show you,¡± she insisted. Though her face was a mask and she spoke quietly, tension screamed out in her voice. She swayed again, and then held herself upright. Something was fighting something else inside her. Cyrus was briefly enraged at the conceptual placeholders his ignorance forced him to employ. What were these ¡®somethings¡¯ inside him and her, that fought themselves and saved each other? She trotted up the street, and he started to follow. Then a thought struck him. ¡°Merrily. Wait. Keep your secrets if you wish, but I want none for myself. I¡¯m going to get Captain Vigg. I want a law man with me in case this goes badly, or in case Filtch says what you think he will. If you¡¯re serious about getting answers, you¡¯ll wait until we can do it the right way.¡± ¡°There¡¯s no time!¡± she hissed. He shrugged, turning away. ¡°Then a murderer will walk free, and Obilly Smallhat will die in his place. Consider what part you will have played in that outcome.¡± Not turning to look back at her, he walked in the opposite direction¡ªtoward Farley Island. After a few steps she caught up with him. He looked at her from the side; her eyes were troubled, but her gait was confident. She had drawn an arrow and set it to her hunting bow. ¡°Filtch isn¡¯t the only one who owes me answers tonight,¡± he remarked. Merrily was silent. ??? At William Hall, the man at the shabby front desk rubbed sleep from his eyes and blinked confusedly at Cyrus and Merrily. ¡°It¡¯s past eleven o¡¯clock at night, Mr. Stoat,¡± he explained patiently. ¡°Vigg ain¡¯t in ¡®til the mornin¡¯. Been many a year since Vernon Vigg stood a night watch.¡± ¡°He¡¯ll want to hear what I have to say,¡± insisted Cyrus. ¡°Or, rather¡ªwhat Mrs. Hunter here has to say.¡± Merrily looked at the floor, her head cocked to one side as though she were suppressing some explosion within. ¡°No doubt he will. In the morning. Vigg ain¡¯t one for bein¡¯ woke up.¡± Cyrus leaned forward on the table, trying and failing to ward off a clich¨¦. ¡°It¡¯s a matter of life and¡ª¡± ¡°Get him.¡± The interruption came from Merrily, standing close beside him. Her gaze locked the Billy in a prison from which he could not escape. She had not spoken loudly, but in a voice of command that permitted no negotiation. ¡°The Queen requires it,¡± she added. The Billy stood up and walked to the door of Bastings, leaving the desk unattended. ¡°C¡¯mon,¡± he muttered. ¡°He lives just a block from here.¡± As they made their way out into the night, Cyrus gave Merrily a sidelong glance. ¡°When did the Billies start taking orders from you on behalf of Queen Anne?¡± he asked. Merrily glanced quickly at him in the darkness. ¡°The Queen and I have an arrangement,¡± she answered. ¡°She needs things done. Sometimes I do them. The Billies know not to interfere.¡± ¡°You have too many masters, Merrily,¡± replied Cyrus darkly. She said nothing. Vernon Vigg¡¯s home was a small, snug, two-story affair wedged in between two larger townhouses near the southern shore of Farley Island. A tiny yard was faintly visible in front, and a well-tended flower garden. ¡°Prosaic,¡± remarked Cyrus. ¡°I¡¯m a bit disappointed.¡± The Billy pounded vigorously on the door and waited. After no reply was immediately forthcoming, he pounded again. Cyrus picked up a small stone from the garden and flung it at the shuttered window on the second floor. Eventually a resentful shuffle was heard on the inside of the door, and it opened to reveal Captain Vigg, dressed in a tatty nightshirt and cap. He held in his hand a single sputtering candle. ¡°Corporal Blowch,¡± he observed. ¡°And Cyrus Stoat, and Merrily Hunter. Is the city on fire? Has there been an armed revolt?¡± ¡°It is not, sir, and there has not,¡± answered the uncomfortable-looking Blowch. ¡°Mrs. Hunter informed me that the Queen¡¯s business requires your attention, sir. I¡¯ll leave it to Mrs. Hunter to elaborate, as I¡¯ve left the desk empty at William.¡± And with that, he stumped off into the night. Vigg looked expectantly at Merrily. ¡°I know who killed Rolland Gorp,¡± she said quietly. ¡°I was taking Cyrus to question him, but he insisted on coming to see you first.¡± ¡°Did he, now,¡± mused Vigg. ¡°There was a time when we thought Professor Stoat capable of handling this investigation himself. And who is the perpetrator of this crime, who you¡¯ve now flushed out of hiding?¡± ¡°Filtch,¡± she answered shortly. He stared at her. ¡°The janitor? I see, Mrs. Hunter. The janitor, who must have seen eighty winters and can barely stand up straight, stabbed Rolland Gorp to death, falsely implicated a goblin, and covered up all contrary evidence linking himself to the crime?¡± ¡°He did,¡± she answered. ¡°And if we don¡¯t go and see him tonight, you¡¯ll lose your chance to get to the truth.¡± ¡°Why is that?¡± asked the captain, holding the candle closer to her. He scrutinized her face, but she stood upright, erect, proud. ¡°Because if you wait, he will be gone.¡± Something unspoken passed between them, Merrily and Captain Vigg. After a moment, the lawman nodded. ¡°Wait here while I make myself up like a Billy Goat,¡± he said resignedly, and reached for his uniform coat. ??? At the bridgehead, Vigg¡ªnow wearing a rumpled dress uniform¡ªabruptly commandeered the two Billies on guard duty. ¡°With me,¡± he ordered the two surprised men. ¡°We¡¯ve a generous assortment of lies to sort out tonight; whose lies they are remains to be seen.¡± The two men wordlessly seized their oaken staves and followed behind them. Vigg himself carried a short, stabbing sword in a dusty and stained scabbard at his hip, along with the traditional oaken staff. Merrily walked ahead of them through the dim streets, her way lit by the June full moon overhead and the sputtering oil lamps along the street. Cyrus walked behind her, and then the policemen. She led them swiftly along the broad avenues of the central landward districts. A memory struck Cyrus. It was the same path the would-be revolutionaries had followed from the Cathedral of Saint Bob two years ago on their path to destiny, in the person of Queen Anne. The evening began with Cyrus riding beside the Queen¡ªhe even let her borrow Daisy for added effect¡ªand ended with him on a rooftop, being stabbed in the femoral artery by the late Robert Franco. Whatever happened afterward, Cyrus was not a witness to it. He rubbed his right leg in irritation. Old Franco may have taken the leg away, but Gregory had done far worse bringing it back. The thought of it brought an odd surge of sympathy for his former adversary. And then, ahead of him, Merrily stopped abruptly. Cyrus looked around. They were standing outside the cathedral. Its pretentious buttresses and self-righteous arches loomed over them like a disapproving lawyer with his fly unbuttoned. Under the pale light of the full moon, the gaudy building managed to achieve a measure of dignity that Cyrus felt it surely didn¡¯t deserve. ¡°This isn¡¯t where Filtch lives, is it?¡± Cyrus asked, looking around curiously. ¡°This is an expensive neighborhood.¡± ¡°What do you know about the history of the Cathedral of Saint Bob?¡± she asked tensely. He scratched his head and looked at the full moon above. ¡°Construction began in I Reginald:2. Finished in I:Maude 20. It¡¯s rather small, by Imperial standards; they wanted to get it up in a hurry. First Bishop was a fellow named Crocklin¡ª¡± ¡°Do you know what the site was before the Ecclesia bought it?¡± she interrupted. He looked at her in confusion. ¡°I don¡¯t, honestly. I¡¯m sure I could find the answer, but why don¡¯t you enlighten me, Merrily, and explain why it¡¯s relevant.¡± ¡°It was a block of flats,¡± came a voice from behind them. They all spun around. There stood Bishop Wildrick, dressed in his nightclothes and carrying a rusty oil lantern. His thin frame was erect, and his face stern. ¡°But before it was a block of flats¡ªhundreds of years before¡ªit was the Church of the Joyful Commandment of the Third Testament. It was the seat of the Ecclesia¡¯s Minster in the north of Uelland, until Horace II had it torn down and its treasures sold to finance his campaign of exile and murder. When the Ecclesia set about building the Cathedral of Saint Bob, we placed it on the site of the old Church of the Joyful Commandment as a testament to the enduring power of God¡¯s holy vessel on Earth.¡± He paused. ¡°May I ask what brings you to the doors of this Church of God this night? Not a history lesson, I presume.¡± There was a silence among them all, though Vigg and Cyrus looked pointedly at Merrily. At last she spoke. ¡°There is a murderer in your cellar, Bishop,¡± she said quietly. ¡°You are mistaken,¡± he answered. ¡°I went to the cellars just hours ago to retrieve holy elements for the Compline. There were no murderers there.¡± ¡°You went to the wrong cellar,¡± she answered. Looking nervous, and a bit desperate, she went on. ¡°The cathedral is built on top of the old Church of the Joyful Commandment. But Horace only razed the upper structure; the under-temple remains. Houses were built on top, and over the years the entrances were lost or forgotten. The builders of the modern cathedral excavated and replaced the upper levels of the under-temple, but not its lower floors. Filtch¡ is there. I know how to get in.¡± Bishop Wildrick looked in consternation at the three Billies. ¡°You cannot search the cellars of our cathedral. I forbid it. The Ecclesia has an understanding with Queen Anne¡ªour priests and congregations supported her against General Logwall. No church in Green Bridge may be invaded or searched by the Crown.¡± ¡°Whatever understanding you have with the Queen, Bishop, does not extend to harboring a murderer,¡± replied Captain Vigg sternly. ¡°There is legal process!¡± demanded the Bishop. ¡°You may not enter without a special warrant from the Queen¡¯s Bench!¡± Merrily slung her hunting bow across her back and approached Wildrick, who eyed her cautiously. She leaned in next to him and whispered something in his ear. The Bishop¡¯s face blanched, even under the flickering yellow light of the oil lantern, and he drew back to stare her in the face. There was horror in his eyes. They stared at each other for a long moment. Then the Bishop wordlessly turned and walked next door to the large, ornate rectory. Cyrus watched Merrily closely. She did not look at him. After a minute, the Bishop returned. He carried in his hand a key. ¡°I will bring you inside the church, and I will come with you. We will go only where Mrs. Hunter leads. When you have found what you are looking for, we will leave immediately.¡± And with that he ascended the broad, sculpted steps to the Cathedral of Saint Bob. They followed. ??? The open space of the nave faded into darkness above them, lit only by moonlight coming through the stained-glass windows and by their feeble lamps. The glass panels cast dark blue and green hues on the floor and on their bodies like a wash of cold water. Looking at Merrily, Cyrus saw the face of a corpse. Wildrick led them to a narrow, spiraling stair set into one of the massive piers at the west end of the entrance. They descended in single file; first the bishop, then Merrily, then Cyrus, and finally the three Billies. At the bottom, Wildrick turned, holding up his lamp to look questioningly at Merrily. ¡°Second deep,¡± she said. ¡°East end.¡± ¡°The second deep houses departed priests, awaiting resurrection,¡± muttered Wildrick darkly. ¡°We should not lightly disturb their rest.¡± ¡°Does anything about this excursion seem ¡®light¡¯ to you, Bishop?¡± asked Cyrus incredulously. ¡°If any of the residents object, I¡¯ll explain the urgency of the situation.¡± Wildrick led them to another stair, and they descended further. The crypt below the cathedral was surprisingly clean. Cyrus, who had spent more time in crypts than most people, appreciated the attention to detail. The sarcophagi were neatly ordered, their effigies retaining pristine sculptural craft. There was no dust to be seen. He remarked on this to the bishop.Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work! ¡°We clean it every week,¡± Wildrick answered. ¡°Very quietly, and preceded by the Rite of Memory. When God raises them up, we¡¯d like to give a good impression of the mortal administration.¡± The sepulchral stone faces drifted past in the darkness. ¡°Do you really believe that?¡± asked Cyrus. ¡°It¡¯s been a millennium since the Fifth Prophet, and the origins of the older scriptures are entirely lost. At some point, when God keeps failing to show up, don¡¯t you have to ask whether you might be viewing the whole business from the wrong perspective?¡± ¡°This from a man with two legs,¡± remarked Vigg dryly, behind him. ¡°Pay attention, Cyrus,¡± hissed Merrily softly. ¡°Now is not the time for a theological debate.¡± There was a silence in the cold darkness as they shuffled forward. ¡°Faith is a choice, Professor,¡± whispered Bishop Wildrick. But in the dim light of the oil lamp, his face seemed troubled. They finally reached the far wall of the long, broad crypt. The stonework was simple and unadorned. ¡°Now what?¡± asked Cyrus of Merrily. ¡°How do we get to the under-temple?¡± She approached the sarcophagus on the north wall and put her hands under the edge of the lid. Cyrus waited for the Bishop to object vehemently, but he did not. He simply watched. Merrily heaved on the lid. It swung open with surprisingly little effort, and Cyrus saw that it was set with clever iron hinges, well-oiled and concealed beneath the lid. She propped it open with a stout rod resting on the inside of the stone box. Wildrick, Cyrus, and the Billies hurried forward to look inside. Instead of a wooden inner coffin, there was simply a blank, open space. A thick rope, secured to an iron peg, led down into the darkness. They all peered into the well intently. ¡°You don¡¯t seem surprised that Bishop Crocklin isn¡¯t at home,¡± observed Cyrus to Bishop Wildrick, nodding at the empty stone vessel. The thin churchman looked away, keeping his expression neutral. ¡°I know my own church, Professor,¡± he replied. Merrily swung her leg up and over the wall of the sarcophagus, grimacing visibly. She paused for a moment to press again at her abdomen. ¡°What¡¯s wrong, Merrily?¡± asked Cyrus. ¡°Pulled a muscle at exams,¡± she muttered. He smiled; this was the old Merrily. An unconvincing liar. She lowered herself into the darkness, and one by one the others followed. ??? At its base, the shaft opened into a narrow chamber with squared walls, littered with the remains of ancient furnishings now nearly unrecognizable in their decay. A portal led into a narrow passage that ran toward some larger space, from which a pale light emerged. But Cyrus¡¯s eye was drawn first to a figure slumped against the wall in the passage. He approached it cautiously; it did not move. Cyrus lifted the head to see the face. He drew in a sharp breath. It was Gerald Hornhugger. His eyes were lifeless. He was, Cyrus reflected in a detached horror, the second of Cyrus¡¯s students to take an exam that morning and die before midnight. Captain Vigg knelt down next to him and looked closely at the body. Then he gently pulled the torso away from the wall and looked at his back. The shaft of an arrow protruded from between Hornhugger¡¯s shoulder blades, its head buried deep in his back. A pool of blood was still fresh and sticky against his shirt. ¡°Been dead for just a few hours,¡± remarked Vigg. He tugged at the shaft, but it was firmly lodged. Shining his lamp on the floor, he picked up a stick of wood; it was the other end of the arrow shaft. Vigg stood up and walked over to Merrily, who held her ground calmly. The Billy captain held the shaft next to the others in her quiver and peered at them. Merrily didn¡¯t move. ¡°This is one of your arrows,¡± he stated flatly. ¡°Now hang on, Captain,¡± interjected Cyrus. ¡°There are dozens of fletchers in Green Bridge, and they have many customers. Just because this arrow¡ª¡° ¡°I killed Gerald,¡± said Merrily. Her voice was flat, and she leaned against the stone wall of the passage. ¡°Well,¡± remarked Cyrus. ¡°That was unhelpful to your defense.¡± ¡°Merrily Hunter, I arrest you for the crime of murder,¡± said Captain Vigg sternly. One of the Billies seized Merrily¡¯s hands and held them behind her back; she cried out involuntarily in pain. The other removed her hunting bow. ¡°I killed him because he was going to kill Professor Stoat,¡± she continued through clenched teeth. The Billy behind her held her wrists up, forcing her down slightly. Vigg looked at Cyrus. ¡°We all need to go take a trip back to William Hall,¡± the law man said firmly. ¡°How do you know Hornhugger was going to kill me?¡± demanded Cyrus, holding up one hand to Vigg. ¡°Did he tell you?¡± She lowered her head. ¡°Because Robert Franco¡ªRobert of Gorham¡ªtold him to. And he was going to do it. He would do anything that Father said. I tried to stop him, and we fought. I killed him.¡± ¡°Wait. Father?¡± asked Cyrus in astonishment. ¡°And¡ªRoberto Franco? He¡¯s died two years ago! What does Franco have to do with anything? And where is Filtch?¡± ¡°If you want to know who killed Rolly,¡± Merrily said, raising her head and speaking with obvious pain, ¡°then you must go forward.¡± Her emerald eyes, now strangely dim, stared down the passageway, toward the silvery light beyond. Cyrus looked at Captain Vigg. Captain Vigg looked back at Cyrus. Neither spoke. Then Wildrick, lurking behind them, stepped forward. He held his lamp high in front of him. ¡°I would like to know who is in the cellars of my cathedral,¡± he announced firmly, ¡°and who he has killed.¡± And with that, the bishop walked slowly forward. Cyrus and Vigg followed, and the two Billies. One policeman held each of Merrily¡¯s arms, and she walked between them with difficulty. They emerged into a broad, airy space, some two hundred feet long and half as wide. A bar of pale white light emerged from an opening at the far end of the chamber, illuminating a smooth block of stone adorned with the Unbroken Circle. It was, perhaps, some deep shaft from the surface world that permitted moonlight to descend at certain times of the year. Fragments of ancient, decayed wooden benches were scattered in the space before the altar, some few still retaining a semblance of their original shape. Statues were set in regularly-spaced alcoves in the walls, though by the dim light Cyrus could not make out their features. The space was empty of people. Lining the walls near the entrance, and extending out some ways into the floor, were stacks of crates, chests, and open barrels. From the barrels emerged the heads of spears, pikes, swords, and a variety of other warlike implements. Moving into the room, Cyrus flipped open the lid of a chest, and found that it was packed with neatly stacked crossbow bolts. Vigg, nearby, opened another; it contained a full suit of boiled leather armor. They both look up in surprise at Bishop Wildrick. He returned their gaze steadily. ¡°Our brothers in Uellodon were slaughtered like pigs,¡± he said plainly. ¡°Never again. When the Republican Guard comes for the Ecclesia in the North, they will find that God¡¯s soldiers wear harder armor than faith, and wield sharper weapons than prayers.¡± ¡°Poetic,¡± remarked Captain Vigg dryly, ¡°though I¡¯m not certain Queen Anne will appreciate your sense of style. But this cache of arms didn¡¯t kill Rolland Gorp all by itself. Who did?¡± He turned back to Merrily. The two Billies who had been holding her arms lay on the ground, their forms lifeless. Merrily stood alone, looking around in apparent confusion. Behind them, Bishop Wildrick gasped, and backed away toward the wall. Captain Vigg drew his short sword. ¡°I killed Rolland Gorp,¡± came a man¡¯s voice from behind Merrily. He stepped out from behind her. He was slim, not scrawny; his form was lithe, but bent, twisted. He walked with a slight limp, which he made seem as graceful as a dance. In one hand he held a long knife, covered in blood. In the other he held a steel rapier with an ornate guard and hilt. ¡°Who, by God¡¯s balls, are you?¡± demanded Cyrus. The shadows covered his face, but the man certainly didn¡¯t move like Filtch. ¡°Robert Franco,¡± came Bishop Wildrick¡¯s voice. The bishop, apparently recovering his courage, had come to stand beside Cyrus and Captain Vigg. ¡°Franco¡¯s dead,¡± snapped Cyrus. ¡°Beatrice Snugg poisoned him.¡± ¡°Indeed,¡± said the man before them, stepping closer. As he approached, they saw that his face was terribly scarred; it was scarred in the way that Filtch¡¯s was scarred. But this man carried himself with a terrible, deadly grace, not the shuffling, ignorant persona of the janitor. ¡°Robert Franco is dead,¡± the scarred, twisted thing continued. ¡°I am finished with him. Sometimes I am Demiter Filtch, and sometimes I am other men. I was Henry Howling once¡ªand for a time before that I was Robert of Gorham.¡± He smirked at Cyrus. ¡°The Dark One may have given you back a leg by witchcraft, Stoat, but I can take it away again if you like.¡± He cast aside the knife and extended the blade toward Cyrus. Cyrus instantly recognized the weapon, and his heart sank. Only one person could have given it back to him. Merrily backed away from both Robert and Cyrus slowly, creating an equal space between the two men. ¡°You are a murderer, whatever lies you tell of yourself,¡± snarled Cyrus. He drew his own broadsword. Vigg was right; there was only one way this ended. ¡°And you, Merrily Hunter, you are worse than a murderer¡ªyou are a murderer and a hypocrite.¡± ¡°I am an instrument of God¡¯s will,¡± replied Robert softly. ¡°I snuff out all that is an affront to Him, so that only the pure and the good remain. I put an end to the demon Snugg and her gold, her mercenaries, her soft temptations that drew men from the love of God and into the love of things. I put an end to the demon Gorp and his filthy lies of a new star beyond God¡¯s firmament. And I will put an end, once and for all, to Cyrus Stoat and his web of false history. I am an instrument of God¡¯s will, and so is Merrily Hunter.¡± Merrily sank to her knees, clutching at her belly. Blood was welling up between her fingers. ¡°You are an abomination, Robert of Gorham!¡± rang out Wildrick¡¯s voice, suddenly strong and vibrant. ¡°You were meant to be a holy man! When your order sent you to us, they promised us someone who would strike down the wicked and protect the innocent. Instead you have stirred up the city against the Ecclesia and brought us to the edge of destruction! Your killings have no purpose and no justification! You have never deserved sanctuary in this house of God, and I renounce it now. You are not welcome here.¡± Cyrus risked a glance at Merrily. She had collapsed onto her back, still clutching one bloody hand to her belly. Her breathing was shallow, and a line of blood trickled from each corner of her mouth. ¡°Drop the sword¡ªwhoever you are,¡± commanded Captain Vigg, slowly circling around to Robert¡¯s flank, putting the man in a line between himself and Cyrus. He was crouched low, in a surprisingly agile posture for a man of his considerable girth. He held the short sword close to his body, point extended. Robert looked at him with a faint smirk. Then he dove to the side and down, tumbling into a graceful roll that drifted past Vigg¡¯s too-slow thrust. Robert came to his feet behind him, and in a flash the point of the rapier emerged from the front of Vigg¡¯s chest, just below the sternum. Captain Vigg looked around in confusion, and then sank to his knees slowly as the blade was withdrawn. Cyrus closed the distance to Robert in a bound and swung heavily with his broadsword, bellowing in rage. The sword was blocked in a flash by Robert¡¯s Sixte, and a steely note rang out through the ancient hall. The scarred, twisted face smiled up at him gleefully. ¡°You¡¯ve gotten uglier in your old age,¡± remarked Cyrus, kicking at his opponent¡¯s knee. But the knee moved before he could make contact, and Robert scuttled away. He crouched and lunged directly at Cyrus, executing a swift sequence of attacks and feints that forced Cyrus to overcorrect to his upper left. Cyrus dodged backward to recover before the sequence could end with the rapier in his chest, kicking over a barrel of spears in front of him to slow Robert. ¡°The poison of the demon Snugg did this to me,¡± growled Robert, ¡°but no poison can banish the strength of God from His chosen servant.¡± He circled slowly around the fallen barrel. ¡°You¡¯ll find that this body strikes more than fear into the hearts of men, Stoat.¡± He flipped a spear into the air with one foot, catching it and flinging it at Cyrus in one swift, fluid motion. Cyrus instinctively tried to turn, but he was too slow. The spear struck him in the chest, ripping his cloak from his shoulders but glancing off the steel breastplate he¡¯d habitually worn outside his shirt for over two decades. Cyrus looked up and managed a smirk. ¡°You¡¯ll have to work harder than that to strike anything into my heart, you degenerate antique.¡± In the corner of one eye, he saw Bishop Wildrick kneeling over Merrily; the bishop had removed her leather vest and was pressing something to her abdomen. It was coated in red. Robert flew at him, and Cyrus was forced back to the defensive. Robert used his twisted body like a spider, rolling back and forth to attack Cyrus from the flanks. He used his hands to move himself with facility equal to his feet. Cyrus labored to keep up with the flurry of attacks, his heavier sword slowing him down and preventing him from riposting effectively. More than one of Robert¡¯s thrusts glanced off his breastplate, and Cyrus focused on protecting his unarmored flanks and thighs. Losing mobility against this man would mean losing his life. He maneuvered himself up against a stack of chests, then jumped backward and used his arm to flip himself over it, placing the stack between himself and Robert. It gave him a moment to catch his breath; he found his chest heaving. The twisted, scarred thing on the other side of the stack grinned at him, also panting. ¡°You¡¯re old, Robert,¡± Cyrus said, starting to circle around the boxes again. ¡°You¡¯ve lived in the shadows, stabbing men who couldn¡¯t defend themselves, or didn¡¯t know they should. How long can you keep dancing around with me like this?¡± He lunged forward, presenting a feint high to Robert¡¯s right and inviting a parry in Sixte. Robert didn¡¯t accept the invitation, but instead counter-attacked immediately. But Cyrus expected it, and brought the blade of his heavier sword down across his opponent¡¯s body, shifting his weight to avoid the counter. Cyrus¡¯s broadsword dragged heavily across Robert¡¯s chest, leaving an ugly red line beneath his ragged shirt. And yet Robert moved as if he hadn¡¯t felt the cut, bringing the ornate hilt of his family¡¯s blade up and into Cyrus¡¯s chin. A flash of jarring pain and dizziness hit Cyrus, and he stumbled backward. He raised his own sword instinctively into Seconde, barely blocking the finishing thrust that should have impaled his abdomen. He brought his right foot up, kicking Robert firmly between the legs. That ought to buy some time, he thought. And it seemed he was right; Robert ducked slightly, grunted, and backed away. But then he stood up again, smiling despite the bloody gash across his chest. ¡°I had them removed, Stoat,¡± he said. ¡°They are a weakness of the flesh that no man who loves God should tolerate.¡± He raised the rapier again, crouching and advancing forward with surprising swiftness. Cyrus was once again forced to the retreat, and Robert¡¯s ferocity seemed to have grown with his injury. Cyrus found it was all he could do to protect his flanks and legs, deflecting numerous blows onto the breastplate. He hastened his retreat, but the rubble on the floor made movement hazardous. Robert began a flurry of attacks at his head, and Cyrus desperately and clumsily waved his broadsword up and down, unable to look where he was going. Something grabbed at his feet, and he fell backward, twisting his ankle. A cry of pain escaped him, and he landed on his back; the stone floor struck his head heavily and the breath whooshed out of his lungs. He gasped, without air, like a fish on the deck of a boat. Stars danced in front of his eyes, and his vision began to narrow into a long tunnel of black. Robert stood over him, grinning, breathing heavily. The point of his rapier found Cyrus¡¯s neck. ¡°Dead end, Cyrus Stoat,¡± he said. Yes, thought Cyrus. This is how. There was a sound, and the last thing he saw was the shaft of an arrow protruding from Robert¡¯s left flank. He closed his eyes, and the blackness became complete. ??? There was no time. He drifted outside of time, outside of perception. There was only an interior awareness, an echo of self that jumbled his thoughts and memories and fantasies into one sickly mass. He heard voices from people he should know but didn¡¯t, all speaking at the same time, and silence enveloping all of them. He felt sensations that were contradictory, from organs he didn¡¯t know he possessed. And then there was a light. It was pale, white, silvery, and it came from a figure. Her face was beautiful beyond any reckoning, and it was somehow familiar to him. Her arms were slender, and her wings spouted fire from their tips. She smiled, and said a single word. The sickly mass of jumbled self and memory vanished, and he knew himself. He could feel her moving inside him, knitting him back together¡ª He blinked, and he was looking at the pale moonlight filtering down from the shaft above the altar. His head ached with roaring pain, and his ankle was badly twisted. Nothing seemed to be knit together after all, but he could see and feel and move. Before the altar, he could see Merrily. She was standing straight up, in no apparent pain, with her back to him. At her feet lay the crumpled form of a man, limp. But beyond her, just visible at the edge of the moonlight, was a third figure. It was tall, and its shape was male, though it had long hair. Its body looked strong; muscular, even. It was wearing what appeared to be leather body armor, and a long black cloak. In its right hand was a knife, dripping with blood. But Cyrus¡¯s eye was drawn to its face; for it had none. Where the face should have been was a metal surface, curved slightly. No marks or indentations marred its surface. It was simply blank. If it was looking at Merrily, or the body on the ground before it, or at Cyrus, he could not tell. And then it rose silently, gently, and impossibly, straight up and through the shaft in the ceiling. No ropes lifted it, and no platform raised it. It simply floated upward, and was gone. Cyrus struggled to his feet and limped over to Merrily. He took her by the arm and looked in her eyes. There was a long, fresh scar on her left cheek that hadn¡¯t been there before, but it had scabbed over, as if it were several days old. Her shirt was wet with blood, but no more was coming out. He glanced down at her chest; there was a large hole burned in her shirt, still smoking slightly, and by the moonlight he could see the flesh beneath it. There was a faint scar there as well. He looked down at the limp body on the ground. It was Robert. His eyes were open, but lifeless. Merrily¡¯s arrow could be seen in his side. Cyrus raised his eyes to her face again. There were tears, now, but the pain was gone. She put her arms around him and held him, and he held her in return. She began to sob. Looking over her shoulder, Cyrus saw Bishop Wildrick, kneeling next to Captain Vigg. Wildrick was administering the Last Rites. Cyrus gently led Merrily back toward them, and she sat down next to Vigg. Vigg¡¯s face was pale, and his eyes distant; his breath was shallow and irregular. ¡°I have given a statement to the Bishop,¡± he said. ¡°He will swear, and testify, if need be, on what I have told him. Robert Franco admitted to the murder of Rolland Gorp; he had no accomplices. He killed my officers when we tried to arrest him.¡± His eyes turned to Merrily. ¡°And he killed Gerald Hornhugger,¡± he added. His voice was coming with some difficulty. He reached up a hand to wipe the tears from her eyes. ¡°Why?¡± asked Cyrus. There was no time to waste; Vigg would understand the question. ¡°You asked me once what business I was in, Professor Stoat,¡± said the dying man. ¡°I gave you the wrong answer then. I would like you to believe, in the end, that it was of justice.¡± He closed his eyes. ¡°God bless you and keep you,¡± Bishop Wildrick said quietly. ¡°God make his face to shine upon you, and be gracious to you. God turn his face toward you and give you peace.¡± He folded Vernon Vigg¡¯s hands across his chest and brushed his eyes closed. There was a dull, low musical tone in the air, and then another. The three looked around in confusion for a moment. The tones continued. ¡°Those are the bells,¡± said Wildrick. ¡°The cathedral bells. Someone is ringing the cathedral bells.¡± He stood up, picked up the oil lamp, and made quickly for the portal. ¡°Come on!¡± shouted the bishop over his shoulder. ¡°Come on! They¡¯re ringing the bells!¡± Cyrus looked at Merrily, and they stood up. She wordlessly retrieved the rapier from Father¡¯s still body. Then she turned to follow Bishop Wildrick. ¡°Wait,¡± Cyrus said, grabbing her arm. She turned back, looking at him. Tears clouded her green eyes. ¡°Who is the man with the metal face?¡± he asked. ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± she replied. And he could see that it was true. Chapter 10: Into the Sunrise Green Bridge, June 6th Cyrus could see that there was more to the story that was happening around him. A great many events had transpired, to which he was not a witness. The questions whispered through his mind, out of any natural order. Some blade had pierced Merrily; whose blade? When? Something had mended the wound; what thing? How? Merrily had given Robert of Gorham¡¯s rapier back to the man who was once Robert of Gorham¡ªand called him ¡®Father.¡¯ Why? And something had killed Robert Franco¡ªor whatever he called himself¡ªwho had seemed unkillable. Was it Merrily¡¯s arrow shaft? Or the long, wicked knife of the man with the metal face? Whose blood was on his knife? The answers were not his to see. He promised himself he would get some of them, at least, from Merrily, just as soon he could get an hour alone with her. But not now. Now, Green Bridge was burning. The flames were already high and hot in the neighborhood around the Cathedral of Saint Bob, roaring like monsters around Cyrus, Merrily, and Bishop Wildrick as they peered out of the broad oaken doors. Cyrus, who had never been near a great urban fire, was suddenly filled with panic¡ªand in a flash understood the instinctive foundations that led to myths about dragons. The gouts and blasts of flame from the stricken houses leapt up into the sky as though some creature had breathed them out of the earth. Something drove him to understand why this could be, even as something else drove him to escape. A crowd had gathered in the nave of the cathedral, drawn by the frantic pealing of the bells, high above them. They were men, women, children; dirty, scared, huddled together in the center of the dark space. Many were praying, prostrating themselves before the altar and its great, golden Unbroken Circle mounted high on the wall above. The light coming through the stained-glass windows was no longer a corpselike blue. It was hot, red, and full of deadly motion. Already the temperature inside the great stone building had risen. ¡°Bishop,¡± said Cyrus urgently, turning away from the doors, ¡°we have to move these people out of here. It¡¯s not safe in this building.¡± Bishop Wildrick looked at him with some confusion. ¡°The Cathedral of Saint Bob is stone, Professor,¡± he replied. ¡°It will not burn. They will be safe here.¡± ¡°No, they will not be safe here,¡± answered Cyrus, loudly and sharply. ¡°The walls may not burn, but the roof, the spire, and the interior wood will. I¡¯ve read the account of the fire at Tarehoge Castle in Brasse, given by the single man who survived it. The floor will burn, and the doors, and the stairs. The lead tiles on the roof and the fittings for the windows will melt and drip down onto the people inside like a rain of fire. The air will be filled with smoke, and the lucky ones will choke to death before the flames reach them. If they stay here, these people will die¡ªslowly, and in horrible agony and terror.¡± The bishop¡¯s face filled up with fear. ¡°Where will we go?¡± he asked. ¡°The city is burning.¡± Cyrus thought for a moment. ¡°Farley Island,¡± he said. ¡°It¡¯s closer than the outer city walls, and the streets are broad. The fire is less likely to spread to the island, and if it does, the women and children can escape by boat.¡± Bishop Wildrick quickly shuffled over to the large crowd and began shouting instructions. Cyrus turned to Merrily. ¡°He needs to reach William Hall,¡± he muttered. ¡°Only Wildrick can stop Obilly¡¯s execution now. Filtch may be dead, but the Crown will push on with the trial as long as Nicola Snugg demands it. But if Wildrick gives testimony to the Billies and is prepared to do so at the trial, the Queen will have no choice but to call it off.¡± He paused, thoughtfully. ¡°I still don¡¯t understand Snugg¡¯s angle in this,¡± he ruminated. ¡°Nicola Snugg doesn¡¯t gain anything from the prosecution of Obilly Smallhat, but she¡¯s set on it like paint on a canvas.¡± Merrily looked at him steadily, drawing close. Her hair was a mess and her leather vest torn, but her eyes were bright and full of life again. She looked more alive than she had for the last year, in fact. ¡°She was one of us,¡± Merrily whispered. She nodded her eyes down, toward the catacombs. Cyrus¡¯s eyes widened, and he leaned his head forward incredulously. ¡°One of ¡®us¡¯? Who is ¡®us¡¯? You, and Hornhugger, and¡ªand, I suppose, Maliss¡ªand Nicola Snugg? Who else if ¡®us¡¯? And what did ¡®us¡¯ do?¡± The flames roared outside. Embers and bits of ash were filtering down from the roof. Bishop Wildrick approached hastily with the crowd behind him. The bells had stopped ringing; brown-robed acolytes descending from the great tower had joined the throng. ¡°Now is not the time,¡± she hissed. ¡°I have to go. I have to get to Jonathan!¡± ¡°Now is the time!¡± he retorted in anger. ¡°I¡¯m finished being put off answers! This cathedral can come crashing down on my head, but I need to know why Rolly died!¡± The Bishop drew close. ¡°Will these people die as well for your curiosity, Professor Stoat?¡± asked the churchman. ¡°What are you talking about?¡± snapped Cyrus angrily. ¡°We need your help, Professor. I need your help. Both of you,¡± he added, turning his gaze to Merrily. ¡°I know the way to Farley Island, and the congregation will follow me, but I am old, and the fire is hot. If I should fall, someone must lead them on to safety.¡± Cyrus turned from Wildrick to Merrily, and then back. He could see the same torn frustration on Merrily¡¯s face. He looked at the crowd of frightened people filling up the nave. He looked at the children. He looked up at the rain of ash drifting down from the ceiling. ¡°Follow me,¡± he said finally, gritting his teeth. She nodded her agreement. ??? More people joined the crowd as they moved through the broad avenues. They shuffled forward quickly, keeping away from the edges of the street where the wooden houses were billowing smoke and flame. The heat was intense, and Cyrus wrapped his cloak around his head as a small protection. But he refused to run; running would panic the crowd behind him and cause a stampede. More would die that way than from the flames. Instead, he strode forward calmly, projecting an air of patient confidence that, he hoped, would spread. Bishop Wildrick did the same to his right, and Merrily to his left. The other brown-robed priests followed their lead. The Bishop carried a book of scripture with him, and read from it loudly as they walked. His voice was hoarse, but strong. ¡°The word of the Lord!¡± shouted Wildrick after the first passage. ¡°Thanks be to God!¡± responded the priests scattered in the crowd. Wildrick carried on with the next reading, his voice growing stronger, and the responses grew stronger too as the priests settled into a familiar pattern. Eventually the crowd began to join in, and the walk became a mobile service of worship, set against the backdrop of the angry heat and flames of the city around them. People fleeing the burning districts continued to join them, following the crowd¡¯s example and settling into a steady march. Cyrus was reminded of another march from the cathedral, two years ago. It had not ended, then, the way anyone had imagined. They were walking on now from where they had stopped, that night. Thethrong made steady progress through the streets, and came to a part of the city where the fire had not yet spread. Cyrus unwrapped his face and welcomed cooler air, though it was filled with smoke and ash. Beside him, lit by the full moon, Bishop Wildrick¡¯s face appeared pale and haggard. But he continued bellowing out the reading, looking down into the book and only occasionally raising his eyes to the street. Glancing into the shadows, Cyrus saw in the moonlight figures moving through the side streets. At first he thought they were more refugees from the city, come to join their crowd. But then he saw they had torches, and carried naked blades. They were thrusting the torches into wooden houses, thatch rooves, and any other flammable surface they could find. He saw bodies in the street, as well; common folk of the city, and even some Billies, felled not by heat or smoke, but by crushing and stabbing wounds. Cyrus turned to Merrily. ¡°Arsonists,¡± he observed. ¡°There are arsonists and murderers loose in Green Bridge.¡± She nodded, her face a mask of agony. ¡°Is this ¡®us¡¯?¡± he asked her pointedly. ¡°No!¡± she exclaimed, turning to face him in shock. ¡°Father¡ªsorry.¡± She shook her head, as if trying to clear away some daze of confusion. ¡°Robert wanted to save these people, not burn them to death. I don¡¯t know who¡¯s doing this!¡± The sharp reports of gunfire began to echo from the darkness around them. Snugg¡¯s mercenaries were out there somewhere. Ahead of them, a group of men were setting fire to a building at the side of the street. There were six of them, and they bore torches and an ugly collection of bludgeoning and cutting weapons. Their clothes were dark and utilitarian, and they wore half-masks that covered their lower faces. Each man had a red armband on his right arm. As the fire caught and began to spread through the unfortunate structure, Cyrus saw that a family was escaping through a window in the back of the house. It would be trivial for the six men to spot them and kill them. Cyrus shouted loudly, drawing the attention of the arsonists. The men turned and saw Cyrus, Merrily, Bishop Wildrick, and the crowd behind them. Their eyes lit with fire and blood, the arsonists drew weapons and came on at a run. The people stopped and shrank back, and Bishop Wildrick ceased reading from the scriptures. He and the other priests gathered at the front of the crowd, standing with their arms linked. Cyrus drew his broadsword, planting his feet firmly. Behind him, Merrily instantly unslung her bow, drawing and loosing an arrow in one smooth motion. One of the masked arsonists dropped to his knees, her arrow sticking out of his belly. And then the men were on them. What they lacked in skill, they made up for in numbers and enthusiasm. The attackers swung their maces and iron swords at him quickly and furiously, forcing him to parry with his own sword and cloak. Cyrus was already tired from his struggle with Robert Franco, and his arm felt like lead. But then Merrily was with him, dancing back and forth along the flanks of the small mob, stabbing at their unarmored backs with Robert¡¯s rapier. She felled one, then another. Cyrus desperately parried a blow from a mace aimed at his head, kicking at the stomach of another man to his right. Merrily¡¯s attack had drawn one of the assailants away, leaving Cyrus with just two to contend with. Time is difficult to track in a fight, but they flailed at him mercilessly, and for what felt like an eternity he fought defensively, deflecting their blows and absorbing them with his breastplate as best he could. He maneuvered backward along the street, creating space as a defensive barrier. The light from the burning house behind him reflected in the eyes of the two men. They were wild, angry, exuberant. They were young and strong and fast as well. But Cyrus¡¯s arms ached, and his legs ached, and his back ached. I¡¯m getting old, he thought incongruously. A glancing blow from the mace crunched into his side, beyond the protection of the breastplate, and he staggered in the other direction, crying out in pain. The other attacker slapped away his broadsword, which clattered off the cobblestones. Behind him, a gout of fire erupted from the burning house, roasting his back and forcing him to dive in the other direction. The two men followed after him, just as uncomfortable from the heat as he was. Cyrus rolled on his back, and one of the men raised his thick, heavy mace to bring it down on Cyrus¡¯s head. And then the point of the steel rapier emerged from his chest. He crumpled to the ground as the rapier was swiftly withdrawn, then made another appearance in the chest of his companion. Merrily came up from behind the dying men and gave Cyrus a hand getting to his feet. ¡°You¡¯ve learned from a true master how to stab a man in the back,¡± he remarked. ¡°Would you rather I¡¯d let them crush your skull in?¡± she asked sarcastically. Her face was spattered with blood, and the rapier was dripping with it. Behind them, Bishop Wildrick was approaching again, and the crowd behind them. The bishop was chanting something about God smiting the enemies of the chosen people. ¡°Is any of that yours?¡± Cyrus asked, indicating the blood on Merrily. She shook her head, deep concern and fear creeping back into her face. He could read the concern clearly enough. ¡°Where is Jonathan?¡± he asked. ¡°He¡¯s at the Snugg factor house, I think,¡± she replied anxiously. ¡°He was going to leave tomorrow for Hog Hurst. Snugg is doing something up there that he¡¯s supposed to take care of. I don¡¯t know the details. But he¡¯s¡ somewhere¡ nearby,¡± she trailed off. There were tears in her eyes. Cyrus looked out again at the dim shapes of men in the darkness, torching the city in the night. He listened to the sound of distant gunfire. He looked back at the frightened faces of the men, women, and children standing behind them. ¡°Go,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯ll stay with these people until they reach Three Fish Bridge. Go to Jonathan. Save him, if you can.¡± She embraced him quickly, and started to turn back toward the crowd behind them. The Snugg factor house was in the opposite direction from their travel. ¡°But Merrily,¡± he added, catching her with his voice. ¡°This is important. Find me, when you are finished. I need to know the truth.¡± She smiled, and nodded. Then she disappeared back into the crowd. Cyrus turned and caught up with Wildrick. The bishop gave him a sidelong glance. ¡°She left?¡± he said. Cyrus nodded. ¡°She¡¯s gone to her husband,¡± he answered. Wildrick sighed. ¡°As it should be,¡± he said. ¡°We should all die with the people we love.¡± He picked up the book and again began to read loudly. They walked on. The road opened ahead of them into the broad space of Queen Anne¡¯s Square. Here, two years ago, the young Queen had made her first public appearance in Green Bridge, convincing Bishop Wildrick and a horde of armed, angry religious zealots to lay down their weapons. Here they were today; the same bishop, many of the same people who had walked behind him then. They were walking behind him again. And there, ahead of them, was the Queen. She stood at the head of the bridge, dressed in her ceremonial armor. She was on foot, now; no horse should be brought near this much fire. The new crown was set on her steel helm, and a drawn sword was in her hand. Around her were a scattering of Billies and Snugg mercenaries, standing guard at the head of the bridge. At the edges of the square lurked other men and women, wearing dark cloaks and hoods. Each of these carried a torch and a steel sword, and the glimmer of a pendant could be seen on their necks or chests. Their postures showed them to be, at least for the time being, the allies of those guarding the bridgehead. ¡°The Advocates of Ash have joined the party,¡± muttered Cyrus to Bishop Wildrick. The bishop nodded, looking uncomfortable but saying nothing. There were bodies in the square. Some of them were Billies. Some wore the armor and badges of mercenaries. Here and there was a dark-cloaked Advocate. But many of them¡ªhalf, he judged at a glance¡ªwore simple, dark, functional clothing. Their lower faces were covered with half-masks, and they wore red armbands. Hand weapons of all sorts were scattered among the fallen, as well as the torches of the arsonists. Cyrus and Bishop Wildrick picked their way through the corpses carefully, the crowd following behind them. Cyrus could feel the eyes of the mercenaries, Billies, and Advocates watching him as they approached the young Queen. She stood, straight and tall, before him. Cyrus knelt quickly, dropping to one knee in an action that still felt somehow alien with two legs. Bishop Wildrick knelt as well. ¡°Rise,¡± she said, taking his hand and pulling him up gently. ¡°These people¡ªare they seeking refuge?¡± He nodded. ¡°We¡¯ve come from the Cathedral. We picked up quite a few along the way.¡± He paused, and looked at her gravely. ¡°Your Majesty, Captain Vigg is dead. He was killed by the man who murdered Rolland Gorp. Vigg gave a statement to Bishop Wildrick before he died that exonerates Obilly Smallhat, and Wildrick is prepared to swear to it at trial if necessary. The murderer himself is dead as well.¡± Queen Anne¡¯s eyes, visible through the face of her steel helm, widened in surprise. She turned to face the bishop. ¡°Is this true?¡± she asked. Wildrick nodded in confirmation. At the edge of the square, the desperate shouts of men rang out, and the clash of arms. They all looked quickly in that direction; a group of the Advocates at the edge of the square were skirmishing with attackers wearing red armbands. Billies and mercenaries ran over to assist. ¡°Get these people over the bridge,¡± commanded Queen Anne, nodding at Three Fish Bridge behind her. ¡°Ma¡¯am,¡± Cyrus said softly, ¡°there are saboteurs about. Some of them may have joined this crowd. Are you prepared to defend Farley Island?¡± She nodded. ¡°The island is safe. Many of the Billies are out on the shoreside, trying to rescue who they can and confront the arsonists. But there are Advocates and mercenaries on Farley Island. The island is small enough that we can put down a fire, or a fire-starter, before it gets out of hand.¡± Bishop Wildrick gestured for the crowd to follow, and started over the bridge. The mercenaries and Billies parted to let them pass. ¡°Thank you, Majesty,¡± said Wildrick hoarsely to the queen as he passed. ¡°The Ecclesia will not forget this. I will not forget.¡± Anne nodded in return, but said nothing. The great throng passed by and moved out over the long bridge, to safety on the shores of the island. The men and women bowed and curtsied in gratitude and respect as they filed past the Queen. Many faces were wet with tears. Before he followed them, Cyrus moved out into the square, picking his way carefully over the bodies. He was looking for something, and he soon found it: a black-clad man with a red armband, badly wounded but alive, and struggling to breathe. Blood covered his chest; it seemed to be coming from a wound just below his heart. Cyrus knelt and gently pulled down the half-mask. The dying man gasped in air and looked up gratefully. ¡°Water?¡± asked Cyrus. The man gave a weak nod. Cyrus pulled out his flask and tipped a bit of it into the man¡¯s mouth. He swallowed, then coughed. Blood came flowing out of his mouth. ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡± Cyrus inquired. ¡°Francis Fipkin,¡± answered the man. ¡°Why are you and your friends burning the city, Mr. Fipkin?¡± ¡°We are burning¡ the old order,¡± he managed, his breathing shallow. ¡°The People¡±¡ªhe said it with a capital P¡ª¡°have been oppressed for millennia. They do not know what freedom is, so they resist it.¡± He coughed again and drew a breath. His voice steadied, and he seemed to put all his remaining energy into his words. ¡°The Republic is freedom. It is the end of the old order of kings and merchants, and the beginning of a paradise of the People. It is the death of mystics and money, and the birth of equality and equity.¡± ¡°And you¡¯re burning Green Bridge to deliver us all to paradise, are you?¡± inquired Cyrus sadly. Fipkin smiled. ¡°The old order must end before a new one can begin,¡± he answered. ¡°Are those your words?¡± asked Cyrus. ¡°No,¡± answered the man, shaking his head weakly. His voice was fading, and his eyelids were drifting closed. ¡°I am nobody. Those are¡ words from a better man than¡ me.¡±Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. ¡°What better man?¡± The eyelids closed, and Mr. Fipkin took a small, shuddering gasp. ¡°Hobb¡¡± breathed out the revolutionary; and then he stopped. Cyrus laid the man¡¯s head down and rose to his feet. He looked across the square, choked with dead and dying. Before him, Green Bridge was burning. Around him, the Advocates and Billies and mercenaries were struggling desperately with men in masks and red armbands. There was a smell of smoke and blood and gunpowder. He looked at Queen Anne, wearing her gleaming steel armor that shone with the reflection of pale, white moonlight. He raised his eyes to the full moon above. There were no answers there. He shook his head and turned to follow the refugees over the bridge to safety. ??? The fire burned itself out overnight, helped along by a rain that swept in from the west in the small hours. When morning came, a great haze of smoke and steam rose over the city, obscuring any view of the mainland. Farley Island, along with Triad University and the small cluster of government buildings, had been spared. But as the steam and smoke finally cleared in the late morning, and the rain clouds broke apart, it could be seen that fully three quarters of the landward districts of Green Bridge had been reduced to ash and charred wood. The great stone walls of the city encircled a ruin, lit incongruously by a warm, cheerful June sun. The survivors crossed back to the mainland and began to pick through the sodden ashes of their lives. Cyrus went immediately to the trade quarter, bringing Vicod Rayth with him. They found it a complete loss. The great warehouses of the majors had been reduced to charred rubble, including the new Snugg buildings that had housed their mysteries. But there was no trace of the wagon caravan, or Veridia and Marius. Veridia¡¯s apartment was gone, and so was she. He visited the old warehouse near the walls, curious about the fate of the goblins she had sheltered there; but there was no trace of them either. Eventually Cyrus just sat down in the ash-covered remains of a street, crossed his legs, and looked around in astonishment. ¡°Yesterday this was a city,¡± he said to Vicod, ¡°and today it¡¯s another planet. I¡¯ve slipped out of the reality I knew and into one where nothing makes any sense.¡± ¡°We all have,¡± replied his friend. ¡°Be thankful you have a home to go back to on the island. The people who survived, and who lived on this street, have nothing. What will become of them? Their belongings, probably their money, maybe some of their family¡ªall gone. How does one start again with nothing? In Carelon, they would sell themselves into slavery in Ville Maer and give the money to their children. But you have no such market here in Uelland.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know how they¡¯ll do it,¡± replied Cyrus, shaking his head. ¡°But people find a way, when you let them. There are many strange creatures in this world, Vicod¡ªgoblins, fey, snarfs, snorls, those fish-men in the Gulf of Carelon, probably many more. They all have their strengths, and their deficits. But we humans make a specialty of resilience and cunning. If a man needs a thing, count on him to find a way, and doubly so a woman. And if there¡¯s a profit to be made, count on either of them to find a way even faster. We¡¯re a self-interested lot, and not overly burdened with rules. Call it greedy if you wish; I call it motivated.¡± He stood up. ¡°These people will find a way,¡± he concluded. ¡°That is, if the Republic doesn¡¯t come and hold a sword to their throats and tell them it¡¯s not allowed.¡± Then he gazed up at the tall stone walls nearby, and the small scattering of armed mercenaries patrolling the parapets. ¡°And that seems increasingly likely,¡± he added. He began to walk back in the direction of the river, and Vicod walked beside him. ¡°My visiting post here at Triad has come to an end, you know,¡± remarked the Carolese professor. ¡°I¡¯m due to return to Patronage for the fall term.¡± Cyrus looked at him in surprise. ¡°Really? I suppose it has, and you are. You¡¯ve become an institution at Peacock Hall, Vicod; I can¡¯t imagine it without you anymore.¡± Vicod smiled at him. ¡°I would miss you too, Cyrus,¡± he answered. They walked in silence for a time, looking at the ash and rubble. Already, small tents had begun to spring up, and people were clearing away spots in the ash. Food vendors from Farley Island had made their way into the squares, and there were long lines at their carts. He saw coins changing hands, or notes of small debts being written out. Groups of people were sharing the hot soup and bread that they had bought. ¡°Would you consider finding a reason to stay?¡± asked Cyrus as they drew nearer to the river. ¡°History is happening right here, Vicod. This is what we spend all our lives searching for in Applied History¡ªa moment when History needs some Application to make it come out right, and also for someone to write it all down as it¡¯s happening so our grandsons and granddaughters can learn from our mistakes. Go back to your first principles; isn¡¯t here where you ought to be?¡± Vicod looked at him gravely. ¡°Queen Anne already asked me that,¡± he said gently. Cyrus looked down, deflated. Queen Anne was a more persuasive asker than Cyrus Stoat. ¡°Well then,¡± he managed, choking down a lump in his throat. ¡°We should have a going-away party at the Pinny Purse. When¡ª¡± ¡°I said yes,¡± interrupted Vicod, a tiny smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. Cyrus looked up sharply at him, a scowl banishing the tears that had started to form in the corners of his eyes. ¡°You¡¯re a cheap dramatist, you know that, Rayth?¡± Vicod shrugged nonchalantly. ¡°We all have our hobbies,¡± he answered. ¡°But in truth, I will be leaving for a time. The Queen has appointed me as a special envoy to the mercenary guilds. I¡¯m to go out and find fresh soldiers in Carelon and Brasse, then bring them back here to relieve Green Bridge.¡± ¡°¡®Relieve¡¯¡ Vicod, I¡¯m not sure if you¡¯re aware, but when you¡¯re talking about military conflicts, ¡®relieve¡¯ is what you do when you bring an army to lift a siege on a friendly city or fortress.¡± His friend nodded gravely. ¡°Indeed. And I must depart immediately. Keep this in confidence, Cyrus: The Republican Guard is marching north from Roosterfoot. They will be at our walls in a week, or perhaps less. I must be gone before the city is placed under siege.¡± They reached the landward side of Three Fish Bridge. ¡°We¡¯d better have that going-away party at the Purse after all,¡± Cyrus declared. ¡°Meet me there at sundown. Right now, I¡¯m going to go and get a goblin out of jail.¡± ??? The release of Obilly Smallhat was accomplished with very little fuss. Queen Anne had left instructions that he be turned over to Cyrus¡¯s care, and the Billies seemed eager to be rid of their long-term guest. Cyrus was led promptly to his cell, and Obilly packed up his few possessions, saying little. It was not customary for goblins to embrace each other, but Obilly did shake Cyrus¡¯s hand gratefully in the human fashion. ¡°Thank you, Cyrus,¡± he said. ¡°I was right to trust you in the Gray Kingdom.¡± ¡°What will you do now?¡± asked Cyrus. ¡°I am going back to my home,¡± replied Obilly. ¡°I have heard that King Simon has not been found. They will need people who can think clearly and make good decisions. And¡ I think it is not wise for goblins to live in Green Bridge. Not yet. We tried, but neither of our peoples are ready for that. It is better that we live apart, and trade, and learn from each other. That is why I think the most good I can do is in the Gray Kingdom.¡± Cyrus nodded. ¡°I¡¯ll miss you, Obilly,¡± he said. ¡°I hope you will write to me. And¡ I would like to come and visit the Gray Kingdom, and teach some classes. Alice Miller is lucky to have such good students in her care.¡± ¡°I hope there is a Gray Kingdom for you to visit, Cyrus,¡± answered Obilly. ¡°I will go and find out, and try to help keep it from falling apart.¡± He began to walk down the hallway, away from Cyrus. Cyrus thought of something, and called after him. ¡°If you find out what happened to King Simon,¡± he said, ¡°write to me. I should like to know. He was a friend.¡± Another piece of the story that I¡¯m missing, thought Cyrus to himself. He added it to the lengthening list. ¡°All mysteries will be revealed in the end.¡± The words were spoken by a man¡¯s voice coming from down the hallway. Cyrus looked in that direction; it came from the cell that housed Gregory. He walked to stand before the barred door. Gregory looked the same. He wore the long brown robes of the Ecclesia, but without the Unbroken Circle pendant. His cross-and-circle was missing; the Billies must have taken it. But he otherwise looked healthy. He even still carried a bit of extra bulk on his large frame. The cell was empty save for a bed, but surprisingly clean. ¡°Greetings, Professor,¡± said the churchman calmly. ¡°Greetings, Traitor,¡± said Cyrus. Then he paused and took a deep breath. ¡°Sorry. That was unkind. Hello, Gregory.¡± Gregory smiled at him. ¡°It¡¯s alright, Professor. I¡¯ve been called far worse lately; and I am a traitor. I pleaded guilty to the charge last week.¡± Cyrus shook his head. ¡°I will never understand the motivations of religious conviction,¡± he remarked with exasperation. ¡°You might surprise yourself one day,¡± answered Gregory, with a twinkle in his eye. ¡°Or perhaps not. Faith is a choice, after all. But it is a choice that can be made for a variety of reasons, some better than others.¡± ¡°When will the¡ judgment¡ be carried out?¡± Cyrus asked. ¡°My execution? Four days, I¡¯m told. On the eleventh. In light of my confession and apology, the Queen agreed to forego the usual drawing and quartering. I¡¯m to be beheaded.¡± ¡°That¡¯s merciful of her,¡± remarked Cyrus. ¡°They had the Second Prophet up on a cross for six hours, if you believe the scriptures. Have you finished your writings?¡± ¡°No,¡± replied Gregory. ¡°I haven¡¯t been allowed writing materials. But I¡¯ve had a great many conversations with my friends, and they tell me they¡¯ve written them down on their own.¡± ¡°Good lord, what a mess that will be,¡± said Cyrus. ¡°Three different accounts of your story, written by three different people? If your religion takes off, the little differences will get blown up into massive theological debates, and people will end up killing each other over them. It could only be worse if you¡¯d somehow gotten four of them to write it down separately, a generation later, based on accounts from people who were there for different parts of the events.¡± ¡°Yes,¡± agreed Gregory with a smile. ¡°You¡¯ve read the Second Testament, I see.¡± Cyrus shrugged. ¡°I¡¯m a historian. Studying the madness of the past is part of my job. It¡¯s how we fix our mistakes.¡± ¡°Perhaps Cyrus Stoat will be my fourth chronicler, then,¡± said Gregory cheerfully. Then his face grew serious. ¡°Before you leave me, Professor, let me ask something of you. My friend, Miss Borson, is very fond of you. I hope you will find it in you to forgive her deception in bringing you to me at Weisseberg. She did what she thought was best, in the hope that it would be better for you in the end. Forgive her, Cyrus. The only grace we have is the grace we give each other.¡± Cyrus stared at him, and was silent for a time. ¡°It sounds like you¡¯ve finally come up with a Commandment, Gregory. Well done. My accusation in Weisseberg, that your religion is without principles, is answered.¡± ¡°That is not a commandment; it¡¯s an observation. Ash has only one Commandment.¡± ¡°What is that?¡± asked Cyrus. Gregory drew near the bars and looked at him gravely. ¡°If it harms none, do as you will.¡± ??? In the days that followed, Cyrus spent much of his time alone. He read his students¡¯ exams and graded them. He forced himself to read Maliss¡¯s and Hornhugger¡¯s exams, and he graded them just the same as the others. They were excellent. He sent them by post to their families. He spent many hours looking at Rolly¡¯s Hexastrid, and poured his thoughts out to it. It was a good listener. He decided that it was now his own Hexastrid. He moved it to the window ledge, where it could get more sun. Merrily was absent. He had no word from her, and in his walks around the ruins of Green Bridge he did not see any sign of her. In a city of shattered lives, she was one more gone. As her sponsor, it was Cyrus¡¯s duty to expel Merrily from Triad University for truancy. He ignored his duty. Gmork returned to him, to his great relief. The little goblin was dirty and hungry when he showed up, and had no good explanation for his long absence, but Cyrus didn¡¯t care. He resisted the urge to hug the little grayskin, and instead brought him two whole pies from Bastings Hall. ??? The next day, the eleventh of June, was the execution of Gregory, Traitor of the North. But before the execution, Cyrus Stoat had two visitors. The first was a six-inch tall woman. She was a Northern Lesser Snarf, in fact. Her hawk landed on the open window in his office, next to the Hexastrid, drawing Cyrus¡¯s attention with a fierce screech. He turned around in the chair and, seeing the tiny saddle and reins on the bird, stood up politely and knelt down to address its rider at eye-level. The rider was wearing brown mouse-leathers and a tiny cap and goggles. Her features were chiseled and thin, but similar in proportion to a human. A six-inch lance, bright and sharp, rested in a cup at the side of the saddle. ¡°Greetings, madame,¡± said Cyrus. ¡°Greetins¡¯, Cyrus Stoat,¡± said the little person. ¡°Ye¡¯r Stoat, ain¡¯t ye? The big-folk gave a good account o¡¯ this buildin¡¯ and where yer officer were, but it¡¯s haird ta¡¯ tell from th¡¯outside which room is which.¡± ¡°Yes,¡± he confirmed, ¡°I am Cyrus Stoat. Can I get your mount some water? I¡¯m afraid I don¡¯t have any rodents handy.¡± ¡°Aye, t¡¯would be most gracious o¡¯ ye. Don¡¯t much care ta¡¯ dip down t¡¯tha river ¡®round ¡®ere, as most o¡¯ ye¡¯ big-folk ain¡¯t used to seein¡¯ us.¡± Cyrus filled a saucer with water from a jug he kept on hand for tea, and set it down by the hawk. Its rider slipped off its back and turned to face Cyrus. ¡°I¡¯m Dilly,¡± she said. ¡°I come ¡®ere wi¡¯ messages from my folk. They¡¯re known ta¡¯ ye, I think?¡± Cyrus nodded. ¡°Indeed. I met several of your leaders, and I would call Daven and Devi friends. They were both brave and kind to me and my companions. I was very sorry to hear of Devi¡¯s death. But Daven did well to reach an agreement with Rufus Snugg on the use of the valley.¡± He didn¡¯t mention it, but that agreement had been very profitable for Cyrus Stoat as well. ¡°Aye,¡± replied Dilly. ¡°T¡¯was an awful loss when Devi went down. But I dinna fly all the way down ¡®ere ta¡¯ speak o¡¯ the dead. Me main purpose is ta¡¯ see Queen Anne wi¡¯ messages from Daven, an¡¯ I¡¯ll do tha¡¯ soon enough. But ¡®e asked me ta¡¯ come see Cyrus Stoat as well, an¡¯ give ¡®im a message.¡± ¡°Very well. What message does Daven Dingeholt have for me?¡± ¡°T¡¯ain¡¯t from Daven directly. ¡®Tis from yer friend, Professor Weaselbeer-Yourfork. Quite a mouthful, that ¡®un; I¡¯ll ne¡¯er unnerstan¡¯ why ye humans pick th¡¯ names ye do. Anyways, the Prof, she says this: Thar¡¯s enemies comin¡¯ to Devi Valley. Big ¡®uns; bigger¡¯n Rufus Snugg an¡¯ his crew kin handle. ¡®T¡¯ain¡¯t likely ta¡¯ end well for the ¡®umans, she says, an¡¯ if ye¡¯ve got any desire ta take a last look at the tunnels an¡¯ ol¡¯ whatnots tha¡¯ th¡¯ Snugg fellas have found in thar, then now is th¡¯ time. She ain¡¯t finished diggin¡¯ out all them ol¡¯ books, not by a long stretch.¡± ¡°What kind of enemies?¡± asked Cyrus, looking at her sharply. The snarf¡¯s face was grave. ¡°Yer Prof friend, she ain¡¯t wrong. I¡¯ve seen ¡®em, on scoutin¡¯. Big, giant man-folk things. Bigger¡¯n the biggest o¡¯ you big folk. An¡ somethin¡¯ else.¡± Her tiny voice grew softer. ¡°A flyin¡¯ thing, we¡¯ve seen. We snarfs don¡¯t ¡®ave a word fer it, but I¡¯ve ¡®eard the Snugg fellas callin¡¯ it a ¡®dragon.¡¯¡± ¡°And you¡¯ve seen this¡ dragon?¡± he asked incredulously. ¡°Aye. Didn¡¯t get close, but I¡¯ve seen it. Great big lizard, flyin¡¯, long tail. Whatever ye calls it, it¡¯s trouble fer th¡¯ Snugg folk.¡± ¡°What about your people?¡± he asked. ¡°Will they flee?¡± She looked down. ¡°There¡¯s some of us as already ¡®as. Made fer Refuge. Don¡¯t know fer sure what the Council will do, but if we was bettin¡¯, I¡¯d put two mice on we¡¯ll end up join¡¯n ¡®em right quick.¡± Cyrus sat back on his feet. ¡°Thank ye Dill¡ªer, thank you, Dilly,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯m grateful for the messages. I won¡¯t keep you from the rest of your duties.¡± The snarf woman nodded, and hopped back on the hawk. ¡°Good flyin¡¯, Cyrus Stoat,¡± she said. ¡°Yer a friend of our folk, whate¡¯er we may think o¡¯ the Snugg fellas. If I were ye, I¡¯d stay well away from the valley.¡± And with that she shook the reins, and the hawk flew away from his window. Cyrus sat at his desk and thought that over for some time. But then the bells began to toll in the small tower above Bastings Hall, and it was time to go to the execution of Gregory, Traitor of the North. ??? Cyrus stood still among the raucous crowd. He was alone; Vicod had professed no interest in an execution, and Cyrus didn¡¯t want Gmork to see it. The whole business had less humanity than he¡¯d expect from humans. There was an angry buzzing around him as the people stood in the square beneath the June sun. Cyrus had read some accounts of executions that portrayed the event in a festive light¡ªfood sellers and musicians and jugglers, people laughing and joking as if they were going to watch some exotic play. The reality was far different. The people who had come here today were ready to see a man¡¯s head parted from his body; to hear the two dull thuds of the sword and the skull. They had worked themselves around to seeing moral sense in the severing of arteries and bones, and the extinguishment of a thinking mind. People in this state are not joyful. They have cobbled together an idol of righteousness out of whatever anger they can find at hand. It must be this way, or the event is an atrocity. The buzz turned to shouts near the doors of William Hall. Cyrus could not see Gregory now, but he could see the motion of the people around him. The ripple spread slowly as its target moved away from the Billies¡¯ home, and then Cyrus saw the little procession. Four Billies stood around the condemned man, more for his protection than to propel him forward. Gregory walked quietly, his hands bound before him. Already, by the time Cyrus saw him, he was bleeding from the head; he had been hit by rocks thrown from the crowd. Refuse and filth were being flung at him as well, by enterprising citizens who had brought buckets of rotten food and excrement for this purpose. His brown robe was stained and filthy, and his beard dripped with some unpleasant substance. ¡°Traitor!¡± they screamed. ¡°Shame! Filth!¡± And there were many more words far less flattering. The priests among the crowd screamed louder than any. On the platform at the edge of the square, Bishop Wildrick stood to the right of Queen Anne. He did not shout or scream, but his posture was stern, righteous. As Gregory passed by Cyrus, he turned his head, and their eyes met. Gregory¡¯s face showed fear, confusion, resignation; his body swayed with the impacts of missiles from the crowd. And yet¡ªin his eyes there was peace. Recognizing Cyrus, Gregory smiled gratefully. ¡°Run,¡± he said. The word was plainly audible above the cacophony. And then his steps took him on¡ªon and toward the large platform at the edge of the square. Cyrus looked down. He felt ashamed. He felt his right leg again, squeezing it to see if it was real. It was¡ªsolid, intractable, undeniable. Run? What did that mean? Cyrus looked around. There was nothing to run from. He stood still. Gregory reached the platform and began to ascend the steps. A large man with a hood and a great cleaver waited for him at the top. There was a little wooden block there, with a hole cut out for his neck. Cyrus couldn¡¯t watch. He looked away. ¡°Gregory!¡± came a clear, ringing woman¡¯s voice. It was Queen Anne¡¯s voice. ¡°You have admitted, before a court of law and a judge of my bench, to the crime of treason!¡± The angry susurrus of the crowd was rapidly extinguished as every ear strained to hear the Queen. Cyrus was looking into the crowd, away from the platform. And then he saw her. Merrily. ¡°You gave aid and comfort to an enemy who sent armed soldiers to wrest the sovereignty of Uelland from its rightful monarch!¡± continued the queen. Merrily was standing in a group of unremarkable, angry people. She was wearing her black leather vest, and her bow was over her shoulder. She was looking around, as if searching for something. Cyrus began moving toward her through the hushed crowd. His way was tangled with onlookers who glared at him. He pushed through, ignoring their resentful looks. ¡°You gave information to the White Knights that led to the death of men and women and children of this Kingdom in the village of Hog Hurst!¡± Run. The word rang in his ears. He began pushing through the crowd more aggressively. And then he was standing in front of her. ¡°Merrily!¡± he exclaimed, ignoring the Queen¡¯s litany behind him. Her eyes locked on to his. They were puffy and red, and her hair was disheveled. There were streaks of tears on her face. ¡°Cyrus,¡± she breathed in recognition. Her shoulders collapsed a bit, laying down some burden that he couldn¡¯t see. ¡°Cyrus,¡± said another man near her. He turned. The man was dirty, unshaven, and had a haunted look on his face. The eyes were a bright, shocking blue. A young boy of perhaps twelve years stood next to him. Cyrus looked closer at the dirty man. ¡°Frederick?¡± he asked in surprise. ¡°Frederick n¨¦e Halfhouse?¡± ¡°Just Frederick,¡± said the man. ¡°It¡¯s just Frederick now. It¡¯s good to see you, Cyrus.¡± His face was drawn and haggard; there was pain and weight behind those blue eyes. ¡°What are you doing here?¡± demanded Cyrus. ¡°You were in Uellodon with my¡ªwith¡ª¡± he struggled with the words. ¡°¡ªwith Wigglus,¡± he concluded lamely. ¡°I know he is your son, Cyrus,¡± said Frederick. ¡°He knew too, at the end. Mari wrote to him.¡± Cyrus stared at him. ¡°What do you mean? ¡®At the end?¡¯¡± ¡°He is dead, Cyrus,¡± answered Frederick. ¡°Wigglus is dead. He died when the judges and lawyers marched to Palace Naridium. He gave his life so that I could escape with Leeland.¡± Fresh tears stained the dirt and grime on Frederick¡¯s face. Cyrus struggled, and failed, to absorb this. It was too much. Wigglus wasn¡¯t dead; this could not, could not, could not possibly be real. Frederick n¨¦e Halfhouse was not standing here in Green Bridge telling him that his son was dead. He fixed his attention on an utterly irrelevant detail. ¡°King Leeland? You escaped Uellodon with the King of Uelland?¡± Frederick shook his head. ¡°No. Not King Leeland. Prince Leeland.¡± He nodded at the boy next to him. Cyrus looked down. He scrutinized the boy¡¯s face. He was tow-headed, and rather plain. ¡°I would like to go to my mother,¡± said the boy. Leeland¡¯s mother was standing on a platform at the other end of the square, preparing to oversee the execution of the man who had given Cyrus back his leg. ¡°I¡¯m going to check out now,¡± said Cyrus confidently. ¡°This is too much. It¡¯s too much for one man to carry. Well¡ªanyway, it¡¯s too much for me. I shall be in my room, gibbering madly to a potted plant. Berble-berble-berble. Gibbering. Goodbye¡¡± Merrily slapped him, hard. The people in the crowd looked at them in irritation, but neither Merrily nor Cyrus paid any attention. ¡°Shut up, Stoat,¡± she said. Her voice was soft, but sharp. ¡°Who do you think¡ª¡± ¡°Shut up and listen. Somewhere under that ridiculous breastplate is the old Cyrus Stoat, who always knew what to do. He always had the right answer. I looked up to that man, because he was smart and wise and cunning and better prepared than anyone else, and never let the world turn him around, and never tried to kiss me. He¡¯s still in there. This cripple you¡¯ve become is someone else, but you need to find the real Cyrus Stoat. Right now. I need him. I need him, Stoat.¡± She shook him by the collar. Cyrus wobbled his head in confusion. He looked at Merrily. Deep in those emerald green eyes was something¡ something Gray¡ He turned to Frederick. ¡°Take the Crown Prince to his mother,¡± he instructed. ¡°After the execution. Be quiet. Don¡¯t make a scene. Hobb probably has people here. Go to the Billies in William Hall, and tell them that Cyrus Stoat was right about Obilly Smallhat and they¡¯d better listen to you too.¡± Frederick, looking at him in astonishment, nodded mutely. He turned back to Merrily. ¡°Will you help me?¡± he asked. She smiled in response. ¡°Daisy is in the stables at Bastings. Go and get him saddled. Get yourself a horse. The Billies should have one or two hanging about. They¡¯ll take orders from you, apparently. Tell them to put it on the account of the College of Applied History; the Dean can take it up with Queen Anne when he finds out about it.¡± He thought for a moment longer. ¡°Get a donkey as well,¡± he added. ¡°I¡¯ll meet you at the east gate.¡± ¡°Where are you going?¡± she asked. There was a fire lit in her eyes; it was the old Merrily. ¡°I¡¯m going to get my manservant,¡± he answered. ¡°Er. Goblin-servant.¡± ¡°Where are we going?¡± ¡°We¡¯re going to Devi Valley. And when we get there, we¡¯re going to save the lives of my son, and his mother, and anyone else who gets in my way.¡± He looked back at the platform. The Queen was plodding bravely through her recitation of Gregory¡¯s crimes. Run, his voice said. Run. Run. Run. Cyrus ran. ??? The next day found them riding into the sunrise, already far from Green Bridge. Whatever had become of Gregory, Cyrus was not a witness. He rode on the black charger Daisy; Merrily on her bay palfrey, Winston; Gmork on a stubby little donkey. Their saddlebags bulged with supplies for the long road to the valley. Despite the pain and sorrow, they chatted gaily and smiled. It was right to be on the road again. When there were tears, the tears came and flowed freely, and then they laughed again. Daisy was restive beneath Cyrus¡¯s thighs. He snorted and pranced back and forth in the dawn¡¯s light. ¡°Easy, boy,¡± said his rider, soothing the old horse with a gentle pat on the neck. ¡°Easy now. It¡¯s a long way to Devi Valley. There will be rough ground once we leave the farms in the north. Save your strength. Anyway, you old crowbait, we both know you can¡¯t run.¡± Daisy reared suddenly, and Cyrus clung to the saddle. He seized the reins and yanked hard. Gmork and Merrily looked at him in astonishment. ¡°Daisy!¡± yelled Cyrus. ¡°Whoa!¡± But the old warhorse had had enough of limping. He seized the bit in his teeth, stretched out his muscles, and ran. For eight years, Daisy had not run. He had walked lazily, walked deliberately, walked while ponied to a wagon, walked with terrible violence through fields of carnage¡ªbut he had walked. Now he ran. His legs stretched, and his heart thumped, and the flaw in his hip¡ªthat had ended his career in the Heavy Horse, and had made him a friend of Cyrus Stoat¡ªwas gone. Ever since a strange man had come to his stable last night and laid hands on him, it had been knitting together again. He had felt it. And now it was healed. Daisy ran. Cyrus had learned to be astonished at the insanity of the world, and so he simply held on. Behind him, Merrily and Gmork spurred on their mounts, following after him. Cyrus would let them catch him in time. But for now¡ªthey ran, he and Daisy. The three riders¨Cman, woman, goblin¡ªgalloped their mounts into the sunrise, rolling swiftly over the long miles to the valley. ??? They camped that night. Even a miraculously-healed horse cannot run all day and night, after all. As Gmork prepared a simple stew, and the stars winked down at them in the endless expanse of the night, Cyrus looked shrewdly across the fire at Merrily. ¡°There¡¯s a great deal you haven¡¯t told me, Merrily Hunter,¡± he observed. Daisy munched noisily at his oats behind them, and the fire popped. She nodded. ¡°There¡¯s a great deal you haven¡¯t told me, Cyrus Stoat,¡± she replied. ¡°You first,¡± he said. ¡°Why did you call Robert Franco ¡®father¡¯? Where did you disappear to this winter? And how did you end up at Gregory¡¯s execution with Frederick and the crown prince of Uelland?¡± ¡°Well,¡± she said. Interludes II: Two Paths Sheria Five months earlier A frigid blast of wind tears through her clothing, and snow scrapes at her face like sandpaper. Her fur cloak and padded leather clothes do little to cut its force. But Sheria endures the early-January snowstorm patiently; her body has its own priorities and, anyway, her mind is only partly here. She gazes at the single, snow-choked street of a tiny roadside village. A few lonely homes with steep roofs make shallow lumps under the snow, and a shabby inn rises just over their shoulders. There is a warm, welcoming light at its door. But Sheria sees more than the snow and the light. Two years ago, there might have been a fire in the house next to the inn; she sees that it is both here and gone, and its dimness suggests that there is a substantial probability the fire was real. An old woman sweeping the snow off her step across the street might have slipped on ice last month and broken her hip; she appears hazy and indistinct to Sheria¡¯s black eyes. In many close branches she is not there, and the house is dark and cold. She might be real. A thousand other likely variations of what might be in the perceived reality around her register in her mind. To the humans who live here, such vision would quickly bring on madness. But the black eyes of the feyess absorb a broader spectrum of energy, and her brain knows how to interpret it. The visions of what might be do not distract Sheria. She is looking for something very specific; something singular. Many paths are real, but only one is correct. She sees it there, in the snowy street and the inn. It winds through the endless branching pathways of reality like a shining, golden thread. She has followed it here, followed it for all the long years of her life. It appears differently to every fey, but it is the same thread. It led her to Jonathan Miller and Merrily Hunter and Cyrus Stoat. It led her to Michael Rider, and a love she never imagined. And now it leads her here, to a snow-swept village along the human way that runs between their ugly, crowded, unhappy cities in the north and the south. Sheria enters the inn and removes her snow-crusted cloak. She shakes the water and ice off her tall, lithe frame and hangs the garment by the door. The handful of humans in the inn¡¯s small common room look up at her, surprised and wary. Some are hazy, possibly elsewhere or dead. She sees the many minute variations in their possible reactions. But in all the close branches, Sheria is an outsider to be feared and avoided. It does not trouble her. She gives a man one of the odd bits of metal to which they attach such value, and he probably gives her a bowl of soup and a hunk of bread. This is their way. She does not dispute it with them. She sits down in one corner and sips at the probably-soup. Fey must eat and drink, just as humans, and her last meal was a possum who likely chose his last place of hibernation unwisely. She had no time to cook his body, once the mind departed. The time of her waiting is not long when the man arrives, his body tall and lanky even under heavy outer clothing. A gust of wind and snow from the door announces his presence. He is unusually definite; there are few variations in which he is not here. His solidity heralds the coming of a singularity in the branches. It happens, sometimes, when one is close to the Bright Path. She allows him to hang his cloak. He carries with him a satchel of oiled leather, keeping it close and protecting it as though it were fragile and precious. The satchel has a postman¡¯s brass sigil showing a man on a galloping horse, carrying an identical satchel. The tiny brass rider¡¯s satchel has its own tiny plaque; she checked once when its owner was sleeping. She is fond of the little brass man and his horse and his infinite variants. The man does not see her at first. She smiles slightly. He is human, so his vision is severely flawed. She waits until he sits down at a table with his own bowl of soup, and then approaches him. He looks up at her in surprise as she sits down. ¡°Sheria!¡± he exclaims. A smile brightens his face instantly, and he stands. He takes her hands. ¡°What are you doing here?¡± Something catches in her throat. His smile is familiar and warm and very welcome. It is a smile she longs to see in all the broad spaces when they are apart. The definiteness of his presence, and of what is to come, tears at her heart. ¡°Eat your soup, Michael Rider,¡± she commands with a mischievous grin. ¡°You will need your strength. Then give the man some metal bits so we may not be disturbed in one of the rooms.¡± They sit, and she watches him eat. She does not need to fill up the space with words, and he knows better than to try. She watches, recording the hard, un-varied reality of him in her mind. She loves him. It happens tomorrow, she knows. Tonight, Sheria loves Michael Rider. Tomorrow, she kills what she loves. Another Jonathan Two Years Ago The hold of the slave ship was dark and hot. It smelled of tar and wood and ocean and sweat. But it was clean; men came down with water every day to scrub it, and the slaves were made to bathe. There were several tubs for them to evacuate their bladders and bowels, changed regularly. They were given bread and salted meat and water twice a day. There were nineteen of them, counting Jonathan and Boris, chained to the walls with heavy iron manacles. The slaves were mostly Carolese. He gathered, from a few whispered conversations, that they had been taken in the same manner as he and Boris. Conversation was discouraged, though, and anyone found talking by the crew was thumped with a club. One man or another always remained on watch in the hold. Boris, his strange traveling companion, was chained to the wall on the opposite side of the ship. There was no chance to speak to him. If he was bothered by their predicament, he did not show it. Rather, his pallid face had a strange serenity. When light was brought into the hole, he looked at Jonathan with his pale red eyes, and his expression, if it said anything, said: This is not wrong. Simply accept, and wait. The slaves around Boris edged as far away as they could. Jonathan did not take this unspoken advice. He lived those long days, chained in the dark hold of the cog, in a state of confused disbelief. This can¡¯t be real, he said to himself over and over. I¡¯m dreaming. Or I¡¯ve eaten something nasty, and I¡¯m hallucinating. A few good heaves and it will all go away. This can¡¯t be real. How could I have gone, in one night, from being a free man, setting out to see the world, to being chained in a slave ship? There had been some mistake. But the pain and fear of his captivity dulled next to another pain. He could see it and hear it in his memory: the exact moment when everything around him had shifted into a reality that was all wrong. I can¡¯t, Jonny. I love you. I do. But... I can¡¯t love you the way you want me to.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. Imprisonment and slavery had little more to add, in the end. ??? He counted eight days¡ªmarked by slightly less darkness in the hold. He was troubled by terrible headaches, of the sort that had afflicted him ever since he struck his head badly in the Green Wood south of Hog Hurst. The only relief he could ever find was to think for a few minutes in the convoluted, oddly indeterminate language of the fey he had known in his childhood. ¡°I am [highly probable] within a ship, or perhaps I am also [distant-concurrent] a silver-fish in the sea-chaos below,¡± he might think, for instance. And he would see wavering, confusing variations of the people and objects around him for a moment. But then the headache would abate for a time. On the eighth day the cry of seagulls and the shouts of the crew above heralded land. Then he and his fellow captives were led out of the hold and onto a stone quay, where they were chained together in a long line. The buildings around him were made of brown mud bricks, sheathed in clay and painted white, like shabby imitations of the more elegant buildings he had seen in southern Carelon. The sun beat down on their heads and bodies mercilessly. Those people he saw around him, who were not slaves, were dressed in loose, flowing robes of white linen, and many carried parasols. Nearby stood several other lines of chained slaves, waiting quietly. The air smelled of hot dust and clay and human misery. ¡°Help!¡± he shouted to several smartly-dressed Carolese soldiers standing guard near the docks. ¡°I¡¯ve been kidnapped!¡± The soldiers ignored him, but one of the crew came and lashed him with a whip. Jonathan did not try again. ¡°Don¡¯t make trouble for us, Uellishman,¡± muttered the man chained behind him, speaking in Carolese. Jonathan had picked up enough of it on the long journey from Uelland to understand. ¡°Wait until we¡¯re sold off,¡± the man continued, ¡°and then you can get yourself whipped all you want.¡± Jonathan began to be truly frightened. In the ship¡¯s hold, the absence of sights and sounds, and the unending struggle against his headaches, had robbed his predicament of concrete reality. But now it became inescapably clear: he was a captive, helpless, and far from anyone who could or would care. He tried to contemplate what a life of slavery would be like. He was frightened, but fear did not rule him. Instead, his heart drifted back to the bank of the Green River in Uelland, just a few months ago, and to the moment he¡¯d got it all wrong. ??? At the slave auction in the town, waiting in the crowded pens, he finally had a chance to speak with Boris again. ¡°Are you alright?¡± he inquired. Boris nodded. But he looked unusually pale, and he swayed slightly. ¡°Do you know where we are?¡± ¡°Fra?on, on the southern shore of the Gulf,¡± answered Boris softly. ¡°In the Carolese colonies. I overheard one of the traders mention it.¡± ¡°What¡¯s going to happen to us?¡± he asked nervously. ¡°Can we get help?¡± Boris shook his head gravely. ¡°No one will help us here, Jonathan. We will be sold into slavery, worked as our masters see fit, sold again perhaps, and then one day, maybe soon or maybe in many years, we will die as slaves.¡± Jonathan felt sick. For just a moment, he managed to forget his own heartbreak. ¡°There¡¯s no hope?¡± he asked. ¡°There is always hope, Jonathan Miller,¡± said Boris. His eyes flared red, and the shadow that invariably lurked over his presence grew darker. His pale face had grown even whiter, and there was sweat on his brow and cheeks. ¡°Now, we will soon be parted, and our eyes will never see each other again. So, you must listen carefully. I will set before you a path to follow all the days of your life, until one day you will bend the path of all the world to follow you.¡± The gate to the pens opened, and the slave next to them was roughly pulled out. Jonathan could see a low podium in the open, dusty space beyond the gate, and raked rows of benches. He turned back to Boris. Boris leaned his pale face and bald head close to Jonathan. His eyes had an unhealthy brightness to them, and his lips twitched. ¡°Do you remember the story I told you about the boy and the spirit of the water?¡± he asked intently. Jonathan nodded. ¡°Yes. The boy kept trying to go back in time to save his village, and every time he made it worse. Are you alright, Boris?¡± Boris ignored the question. ¡°Ah, but in the end the boy did as the spirit asked, and was rewarded with exactly what he wanted. And do you remember the story of the Great Places of Change?¡± Jonathan nodded slowly, his head suddenly throbbing. ¡°You said you heard a story from a man who had fled the Holy Empire, about machines that they built in the Empire of the Dawn to change the world to be as they wished.¡± He thought for a moment. ¡°Funny. I remember Cyrus once talking about the Empire of the Dawn. He said it was some historical linguist¡¯s idea of a joke. Merrily told me later that she thought he meant a linguistic historian rather than a historical linguist. She said they¡¯re different things.¡± His heart stopped for a moment at the thought of her. Another nearby slave was plucked away to stand on the podium and be auctioned. ¡°The way back, Jonathan. You asked me once if there was a way back. The answer is yes.¡± Jonathan stared at him. ¡°I asked the question in the fey-tongue,¡± he hissed in reply, ¡°and you said you didn¡¯t understand that language.¡± ¡°But I know what you asked,¡± replied Boris, smiling madly. ¡°And the answer is yes.¡± ¡°Is there a way to go back?¡± asked Jonathan, switching to the fey-tongue. The vision of Boris before him wavered, and he suddenly saw two copies of the man. His headache vanished. ¡°You will find the way back through both history and language, Jonathan Miller,¡± said the two men, speaking with one voice. The eyes of one Boris blazed red, and the shadow of terrible wings lurked over his shoulders. There was a gaping hole in him. The eyes of the second Boris were cool and gray and peaceful, and he was complete. ¡°You will find the way to the Great Place of Change in the whispered tales and the hidden talismans of the Holy Empire, and buried in texts that have been plastered over with the scriptures of the Ecclesia. You will find the Dark Path, and it will lead you into the wasteland. You will follow and you will search all the days of your life, until one day, Jonathan, you will stand in the Great Place of Change and enter the loophole. And there you will find the way back, if you care to pay the price.¡± The voice of the two copies of Boris grew raspy, and both swayed toward each other. Jonathan could feel the faint edges of some terrible violence inside both of them, and in the air between them. ¡°What¡¯s happening to you?¡± he asked in growing alarm. ¡°Who are you? What are you? How do you know these things?¡± But as he switched back to the familiar Uellish tongue, the dualistic vision collapsed, and there was just Boris, looking deathly pale and tired beyond all enduring. ¡°Follow the Dark Path, Jonathan Miller,¡± said Boris in a final whisper. And then he fell forward, face down. When next the slavers came into the pen, they found the body and took it away with expressions of mild disappointment. Slaves died all the time, after all; spoilage was just a cost of doing business. And this was the last Jonathan ever saw of that Boris. ??? Jonathan was sold to a Carolese vintner and taken to work on his sprawling vineyard in the hills above the Gulf. The land was dry, the overseer was cruel, and the other slaves were unfriendly. He was afraid, and his heart ached inside him even as he worked long days in the hot fields. It was not for his captivity that he sorrowed. And then Jonathan Miller discovered something. It was something that happened when he spoke the fey-tongue to relieve his headaches. He found that he could do more than simply witness incoherent and confusing copies of the world around him; he could see a line through them. Some were more real than others, but he could move himself gently, delicately, into the different possibilities. One day he saved the overseer from a poisonous snake by knowing when it would strike. In gratitude, the overseer moved him from the fields to the house. When the vintner¡¯s young daughter fell from a rooftop where she was playing, Jonathan was standing underneath to catch her. He was made her tutor. When money was disappearing from the household¡¯s vault, Jonathan led his master to the steward of the house, who was caught in the act. The man was hauled away to be executed, and Jonathan was made the new steward of the house¡ªthough still a slave. He moved carefully, precisely, making one tiny choice after another. The path he followed was lit by a thin, delicate strand of utter blackness that marked itself out ahead of him and showed him what to do. He whispered to himself in the fey-tongue, watching the possible outcomes and slowly growing to see farther into the branching pathways. And in this way Jonathan set off to follow the path that led back. Chapter 11: Black Box October 5th, III Leeland:15 ¡°Go on.¡± Cyrus waved his hand at her. ¡°Attend to your matters and your man. But Mrs. Hunter¡ªI trust I¡¯ll see you at the funeral.¡± I know who killed Rolland Gorp. Her own voice sounded in her head. Don¡¯t tell anyone, said her own voice again. You don¡¯t really know. And anyway, Father will be angry. Winston shifted beneath her; the tired palfrey was eager to be rid of his saddle. Professor Rayth dismounted his own chestnut destrier and offered Cyrus a hand mounting the tall horse. Cyrus¡¯s wooden leg flopped awkwardly behind him, but he eventually pulled himself into Vicod¡¯s saddle, face first. Rayth lifted Gmork up to sit in front of Cyrus, and then the three of them moved away up the street, chatting casually. But Rolly was our friend, said the first voice in her head. This is no time for inner monologues, she replied to herself sternly in the second voice. We have company. She turned to look at Gerald Hornhugger, mounted on his own palfrey nearby. The back of Gerald¡¯s head and his tall, lanky frame had been an uncomfortably close travelling companion for the last four days, as she¡¯d been obliged to share a saddle with him¡ªand Gerald was the sort of man who liked to drive. Merrily had inhaled strands of his shoulder-length brown hair at least a dozen times a day. A little distance between their bodies now was a great relief. But their time together wasn¡¯t over yet. ¡°Follow, Sisters,¡± said Gerald shortly. ¡°We have work to do.¡± His eyes drifted past her to Kelestine Maliss, mounted nearby. The other students had already dispersed. Kel nodded, and the three of them trotted their horses into one of the narrow side alleys that sprouted from East Piggling Street. ¡°Father must have our report,¡± announced Gerald shortly when they were alone. He gave Merrily a look that he probably thought was inscrutable, but wasn¡¯t. Then he handed her a sealed tube of oiled leather. ¡°Here are my notes. Take them to the Sanctificatio.¡± Take them yourself, you sheepwit, remarked the First Voice silently. And you pronounced it wrong. Obedience is the first virtue, answered the Second. And pride is the first sin. She took the tube. But he¡¯s still a sheepwit, she added to herself, sullenly. ¡°Where will you two go?¡± she asked aloud. ¡°Father gave us tasks of duty and love in His service,¡± replied Gerald. Kel Maliss gave him a sidelong look, but said nothing. ¡°Take the report to Father, Sister Merrily. He will want to see you. Sister Kelestine and I will come to the Sanctificatio tonight, and we will join the Communion.¡± What tasks? wondered the First Voice. Ours is not to question, replied the Second Voice firmly. It is to obey. But I know who killed Rolland Gorp. You know nothing. Gerald and Kel made an obscure gesture in the sign of the Unbroken Circle with their second and third fingers, which Merrily dutifully returned. Father had taught it to them, as a small act of piety. Then her companions trotted back to East Piggling Street and disappeared into the crowd inside the east gates of Green Bridge. Do our duty, Merrily, said the Second Voice. We¡¯ll get to it, replied the First Voice. All in good time. I¡¯m curious about these tasks of duty and love that Father gave Gerald Hornhugger and Kelestine Maliss, which we¡¯re not supposed to know about. The Second Voice didn¡¯t have a good answer for that. The path to the lies of the Dark One begins with curiosity, it tried lamely. Bullshit, said the First Voice. And that was the final word between them on that subject. Merrily nudged Winston forward and out into the sodden streets. It had rained earlier in the day, and more rain threatened. Winston, who was a city horse, didn¡¯t seem to mind plodding indefinitely through half a foot of wet mud and other, even less attractive muck. She saw Kel and Gerald some distance ahead of her, focusing forward and riding slowly. Merrily quickly retrieved her spare cloak from a saddle bag and replaced the one she was wearing. They were both equally filthy after four long days of brisk riding. She paid a man for a hat, which she put on and tipped down to cover most of her face. And then she set about following her classmates. They moved through the streets at a swift trot¡ªthe fastest a horse could navigate the mud¡ªmaking their way indirectly but quickly to the warehouse district. Merrily saw that both Kel and Gerald had drawn and winched their heavy crossbows. Who are they hunting? wondered the First Voice. If they act on Father¡¯s instructions, then it can only be creatures of evil, answered the Second, confidently. We¡¯ve seen actual creatures of evil, reminded the First Voice. Have you forgotten the Snorl? Or Hobb? I doubt very much there¡¯s anything of that sort in Green Bridge. Evil can be found everywhere, said the Second Voice. No city or sea or wasteland is free of its blight. The rain made its grand reentry, and the light began to dim. The lamp-lighters moved through the streets with long, hooded tapers. Ahead of her, Kel and Gerald stopped suddenly, then dismounted and moved into a dark alley. Their path had rejoined East Piggling Street, she saw. Why had they taken such a circuitous route to get here, if they were in a hurry? Merrily remained mounted, but pulled to the side of the street and made a show of inspecting one of her saddlebags, while discreetly withdrawing her bow from its oilskin sleeve and loosening the flap on her quiver of arrows. She kept an eye on Kel and Gerald out of the corner of one eye, even while gritting her teeth and shivering in the cold October rain. What are they waiting for? said the Second Voice. Maybe they¡¯re not hunting after all, suggested the First Voice. Maybe they¡¯re here for some¡ alone time. That would be a terrible sin. They are sworn to chastity in the service of God. But it would be funny, too. We could catch them at it. Then two familiar figures, one on horseback, emerged into view on East Piggling, walking unhurriedly. It was Professors Rayth and Stoat, with the goblin Gmork still perched in front of his master. The First Voice: Are they trying to kill Cyrus and Rayth? The Second Voice: Don¡¯t be silly. They¡¯d never dare. Father hates Cyrus so much, and Gerald said they were on a task of duty and love from Father. Father is not a murderer¡ began the Second Voice. I know who killed Rolly, interrupted the First Voice. You don¡¯t know, insisted the Second. You¡¯re making assumptions. Anyway, the longer we wait out here, the wetter we¡¯ll be. The figure of Kelestine Maliss, just visible in the alley through sheets of rain, put a bolt onto the crossbow¡¯s prod, knelt on one knee, and raised the weapon to her shoulder. Merrily didn¡¯t stop for an internal debate. She quickly set an arrow to the bow, bent it to her ear, and loosed the arrow at a steep roof of hard slate tiles just over the heads of Gerald and Kel. The steel arrowhead impacted with a shower of sparks and a loud, high-pitched sound, sending the arrow to skitter off into the gathering dark. Both Kel and Gerald looked up at the noise, and Kel lowered the crossbow. Seconds later, the two slunk back into the alley. Merrily risked a quick glance at Rayth and Cyrus. The sound had drawn their attention as well for a moment, but they both soon turned back to their conversation. We should get out of here, said the Second Voice urgently. Yes, agreed the First Voice. Cyrus and Rayth can take care of themselves, and Kel won¡¯t have another good shot in the rain and dark. She wasn¡¯t trying to kill them, insisted the Second Voice. Merrily put the bow back in its sleeve and glanced across the street from under her hat. Kel and Gerald were emerging from the alley, mounted again. Merrily watched from under the brim of the hat as they made off after Cyrus and Professor Rayth, walking their horses so as not to draw too close. Sloppy, remarked the Second Voice disapprovingly. And you would have killed them right the first time? asked the First Voice. ??? The service of Small Compline was just beginning in the great nave of the Cathedral of Saint Bob when Merrily slipped inside. She could see Bishop Wildrick among the candles at the far end of the hall. A white-robed deacon attending the door, familiar to Merrily, nodded at her solemnly. He was one of the Elect. The deacon said nothing as she moved, quietly but confidently, to the narrow archway in the pier to the left of the door. She drew on a brown robe and raised the hood over her face, resembling any of the acolytes or deacons who frequented the great house of worship. She made her way down to the second deep, passing into the catacomb. A slat in her hooded lantern allowed a tiny, focused ray of light to escape. At the back wall of the catacomb, Merrily set the lantern on the floor and placed her hands under the lid of the sarcophagus of Bishop Crocklin. She pressed upward, and the weighted hinges lifted silently, shifting most of the weight sarcophagus lid. It was only a sheath of stone over a thin frame of wood; Merrily wondered where the original had got to, if there ever had been an original. Father doesn¡¯t encourage questions about the past, remarked the Second Voice. False knowledge and lies are too often the answers. A strange attitude for a historian, observed the First Voice dryly. Father is a historian of truth, responded the Second. She checked the thick rope on its iron peg, and then descended into the darkness. Father was already speaking when she reached the Sanctificatio. He stood before the small assembly of the Elect, lit only by a pair of candles on either side of the stone altar. ¡°The flesh,¡± he declaimed, ¡°is a prison of the soul. The soul desires God, and desires obedience to His will. But the flesh that surrounds it and confines it is sinful; it is the substance of an animal. And so each of us, being part soul and part flesh, is tempted both by holiness and by lust for the sinful things of the world.¡± His eyes fell on Merrily as she seated herself at the back of the gathering. His body was tall and thin, but slightly twisted. He wore a white robe, and a white hood covered his head and part of his face. A wooden pendant of the Unbroken Circle hung from his neck. Merrily shivered slightly. He is a holy man, and we are sinful, said the Second Voice rapturously. Our body fears his holiness. I agree that our body fears him, answered the First Voice cautiously. ¡°Every one of you,¡± continued Father, looking in turn at each individual in the room, ¡°every one of you places at risk his immortal soul, every day. When you walk in the world, the world corrodes you. You see a man or a woman, and you desire sex. You taste food, and you desire to be sated. You taste drink, and you desire to be drunk. But your desires can never bring you satisfaction, because when you have rutted, or eaten, or drunk, your body will forget its past pleasure and desire more pleasure. You will fear to lose what you have, and fear will rob you of joy. The false pleasures of the world, and the desires for them, keep you locked in a cycle of striving and failing from which only God offers release.¡± He moved down from the altar and walked to stand nearly among them. We never knew these things before, said the Second Voice. We would never have known them, but for Father. The First Voice was silent. ¡°When you desire nothing,¡± Father said, ¡°and are but an empty vessel for God¡¯s will, only then¡ªonly in the complete denial of all desire¡ªcan you be free of the prison of your body. It is to this end, children, that God has given us laws. God¡¯s laws, in the scriptures of the Five Prophets, lead us to quench our desires, to reject all the pleasures of the world, and to be perfect, unquestioning, and tranquil in our complete obedience.¡± He sat down on the stone floor before them. There was total silence in the room. I want to be at peace, said the Second Voice. I want to feel secure. I want everything to make sense and do what it should. Those are desires too, you know, observed the First Voice. If we¡¯re going to not feel any desire, then we¡¯ll have to not desire peace. Actually¡ªwe can¡¯t even desire to escape from desire. What would be left of who we are? Who would we be, then? Father went on. ¡°Every moment that you permit lust, or pride, or gluttony, to enter into your mind through your body, you cast your soul closer to the pit whose agony you can never escape. There is fire there, and torment, and the pain of the soul that surpasses all the trivial pains of the body. But children¡ªbecause God knows you disobey, and because He is merciful, He has given me the authority, through the Five Prophets, to forgive your sins. Only I can do this thing, because I have been anointed. All other forgiveness is false; only this is real. Now come forward, children, and be forgiven.¡± One by one, the people seated on the stone floor rose and came forward. Each knelt before Father, who placed his hands on either side of the person¡¯s head. ¡°I forgive you,¡± he said. And then the next person came forward. Merrily came forward and knelt before Father. ¡°I forgive you, Merrily Hunter,¡± he said softly, placing his hands on her temples. Then he leaned forward, and his lips were close to her ear. ¡°God has special burdens for each of us, daughter,¡± he whispered. ¡°You are special to God, and unique even among the Elect¡ªbut without God you are no more than an animal. Remember that, when temptation crawls into your chest.¡± His hand lingered gently on her cheek for a moment. Then she stood, and returned to sit behind the crowd. We are favored by one who is Holy, said the Second Voice. You could call it that, said the First Voice. I can think of some other words to describe how he looks at our body. Like how Gerald looks at us sometimes when he thinks we don¡¯t see. Those are the words of the Dark One, retorted the Second Voice, firmly. That way lies sin and fire and suffering for all eternity. We have already been baptized and given the gift of eternal life. There is no going back. The First Voice was silent. ??? Merrily gave Father the tube containing Gerald¡¯s report after Communion. She wanted to ask him more, but Kel and Gerald arrived then, looking rather shamefaced, and Father immediately took them into one of the side chambers. Merrily loitered in the Sanctificatio for a while, hoping she might catch Father alone, but at last she knew she could delay no longer. We have to go home to see Jonathan, said the Second Voice. It is our duty. I want to see Jonathan, said the First Voice. But the voice lacked its customary air of assured confidence. She slipped out of the crypt and up to the main floor of the Cathedral of Saint Bob. At the door, a soft voice stopped her. ¡°Mrs. Hunter,¡± it said in a near-whisper. ¡°You are here late.¡± It was Bishop Wildrick. The leader of the Diocese of North Uelland had changed out of the golden robes that he donned for services, and now wore a simple black shirt and hose. He also had on a rather lumpy wool sweater that had been knit by someone with only a very rough idea of what the human torso looked like. The Bishop¡¯s thin frame and narrow face were engulfed by his sweater. He must know who¡¯s in his basement, said the First Voice. God¡¯s mission to Father requires secrecy, replied the Second. We are among the Elect. The Bishop is not. ¡°I¡ I was praying,¡± she said softly. Both voices agreed that was true. ¡°And you are always welcome in this house of prayer,¡± Wildrick reassured her. ¡°I have seen you much more frequently since the spring. You and the old man; your father? Have you begun to find the peace of God within these walls?¡± She narrowed her eyes at him. Father¡ did the Bishop know what he was saying? ¡°Yes,¡± she answered truthfully. ¡°And I enjoy the quiet of the Cathedral between services.¡±If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. It had begun by accident. Merrily first discovered the Cathedral of Saint Bob on an assignment for Cyrus in her first year at Triad. Though her attempt to break into the bell tower hadn¡¯t been quite the success her professor expected, her passage through the nave and the upper balconies left her struck by the majesty of the open space and the massive pillars. The Cathedral had been built in a time when the Ecclesia encouraged intricate and expansive expression in the arts¡ªat least, in those dedicated to the glory of God. Merrily was entranced by the detailed carvings, the solemn statues, the high, airy open space, and most of all the colorful, shifting light of the towering stained-glass windows. After that tumultuous first year, capped with its momentous journey to Uellodon, she began to take solace sitting quietly inside the nave, looking up at the windows. Sometimes she read books for her classes; other times she made up new songs in her head and worked out how to write them down. She thought of Wigglus, who had taught her to write music on paper and played it for her on his violin. She missed him terribly. But she found that¡ªwhatever her cares¡ªwhen she was in the Cathedral, she was more at peace than in any other place. It was where she could go to escape. And then one afternoon a strange man sat down beside her. He wasn¡¯t a priest or a deacon. He wore simple clothes, even shabby, and his head was covered with a hood. He seemed to be wearing makeup on his face, but beneath it she could see deep, livid scars. He smelled slightly of corn starch; not unpleasant, but memorable. ¡°I have seen you many times in the nave, Miss,¡± he said politely. ¡°Do you come here for peace?¡± ¡°I do,¡± she answered. ¡°I do as well,¡± he said, smiling slightly. ¡°The world of men is complicated and uncaring, and offers us no choices but toil. In the walls of this house of God, I have found peace.¡± They sat in silence, for a time. ¡°What is your name?¡± asked Merrily. He looked at her seriously. ¡°I have gone through several names in my life,¡± he answered, ¡°but just now I am Demiter Filtch.¡± ¡°I¡¯m Merrily Hunter,¡± she said with a smile. She offered a hand. He smiled in return, but did not touch it. ¡°Though your hand is lovely, Mrs. Hunter, I may not take it.¡± She wondered how he knew to call her ¡®Mrs.,¡¯ and then remembered that now she wore Jonathan¡¯s ring. She was still getting used to that. ¡°What do you do, Mr. Filtch?¡± she inquired. He looked at her steadily, and his eyes glinted in the colored light of the windows. ¡°I am a disciple of peace,¡± he answered. ¡°And I seek out those who desire peace.¡± Merrily desired peace. She began to visit him again, and more often. Always they met in the Cathedral. They spoke of many things; her studies, her friends, her worries and anxieties. They spoke of Jonathan, and Cyrus, and she told him secrets of herself she had never told anyone else, or dreamed that she would. Their visits became a regular part of her week, and then she began to seek him out more often. He listened much and said little. When he did speak, his words hinted always at some wisdom, some secret, some prism through which he viewed her worries. ¡°Do you desire peace?¡± he asked her one day, when she had finished complaining about Cyrus¡¯s latest arrogance in the classroom and the mountain of reading that he had assigned to go with it. She wiped tears from her eyes, surprised at her own weakness. ¡°Yes,¡± she admitted, sniffing. ¡°Then follow me,¡± he said. He led her down into the crypt for the first time. She was frightened at first, but Filtch¡¯s carriage was calm, reassuring. He went first down the rope into the under-temple, and she followed. And there she saw for the first time the Sanctificatio. It was not as large or airy as the upper cathedral, but its space was closer, more mysterious, more holy. There was a little congregation within the space. They were people of the city, some common, some powerful, some poor, some rich; but they treated each other as equals, and they welcomed her in as an equal. Gerald Hornhugger was there, to her surprise, and Kelestine Maliss. They smiled, and told her that she was welcome, and loved. Kel was neutral to Merrily in the upper world, but Hornhugger had previously been cold and hostile. Now they smiled, and took her hands, and told her how happy and relieved they were to see her here. She was even more shocked to see Nicola Snugg. The severe, older woman managed what could, with a certain liberal perspective, be construed as a smile. And then Mr. Filtch began her instruction in the hidden truths. ??? ¡°You must have little time for contemplation,¡± commented the Bishop, holding open one of the massive oaken doors. The rain continued to pour down outside. ¡°Your duties to the Crown and to Triad are heavy.¡± Merrily wrapped her thick wool cloak around her and pulled up the hood, then looked at Wildrick closely. Was there a subtext? He knows, insisted the First Voice. He does not know, countered the Second Voice. ¡°There is always time for prayer, Bishop,¡± replied Merrily, as smoothly as she could. ¡°But please forgive me¡ªI have another duty as well. Jonathan is waiting for me at home.¡± Bishop Wildrick smiled gently. ¡°Marriage is one of God¡¯s greatest gifts, Mrs. Hunter,¡± he said. ¡°And it comes with the gift of children. I hope you and Mr. Miller do not hold yourself apart from that gift for much longer. Good night, Mrs. Hunter.¡± And he disappeared into the wind and rain. That¡¯s wrong, said the Second Voice. He¡¯s wrong. Marriage is a necessary compromise to control human lust. If we were only stronger in faith and holiness, we would be beloved brides of God, and not need husbands and wives at all. I¡¯m having trouble, replied the First Voice, understanidng how the collective suicide of humanity can be construed as an act of the divine. ??? She slipped in the door to the small townhouse on Warbling Way that she and Jonathan shared. He was there, cleaning the dishes from his supper. The table was a mess of papers and ledger books, but a warm fire burned in the fireplace and there was a small pot of hot soup on the coal stove. He turned and saw her, then shook his hands dry walked over to her and put his arms around her. She melted into his body. ¡°I love you, Merrily,¡± he said. She laid her head against his shoulder¡ªhe was a full foot taller than her¡ªand nestled against him for a moment, remembering his scent. ¡°I love you too,¡± she said, holding him tightly. Don¡¯t, said the Second Voice. She kissed him. It went on for some time. This is wrong, said the Second Voice. We are committing a sin. We are the Elect. We will have to tell Father about our thoughts and our actions. We¡¯ll leave that to you, said the First Voice. You enjoy tattling more than I do. He wanted more. He tugged gently at her shirt, running one hand along her belly, up her flanks, the other hand down the front of her leg¡ She pulled back. ¡°Jonny, I¡ I¡¯m tired. I¡¯m sorry. It¡¯s just, I¡¯ve ridden all day for four days, and my legs are sore, and everything else is sore, and I need a bath¡ and I¡¯m tired.¡± She trailed off. Is this a compromise? asked the First Voice. We want to get into bed with him, but we¡¯re not going to. One does not compromise with God, reminded the Second Voice. Father will have to know. He swallowed hard, and nodded. ¡°I¡¯m glad you¡¯re home,¡± he said with a hint of reluctance. ¡°Tomorrow, I hope.¡± He took the wet cloak from her and poured a bowl of hot soup. ¡°And tomorrow we must go to Rolly¡¯s funeral.¡± He looked down, and his eyes were bright. I know who killed Rolly. Stop it! You don¡¯t know! And if Rolly were killed by one of the Elect, or by¡ by His Apostle¡ then it would be part of God¡¯s plan. Who is God to take away our friend? ??? Rolly looked at her across the table gravely, and passed her a peanut. Then he selected another peanut carefully from the bowl, cracked open the shell, and regarded the two tiny nuts within. The peanut seemed even smaller in his meaty hand. His round, agreeable face peered curiously at the shell and its contents. ¡°Love is like a peanut,¡± he announced somberly. She looked at her peanut. ¡°How so?¡± she asked. ¡°It¡¯s nuts.¡± She threw her peanut at him. It bounced off his head. He smiled, and popped it into his mouth. ¡°Alright, let me try again,¡± he said, waving his hand. They sat together in the Pinny Purse. It was crammed full of students taking their lunch between the morning and afternoon lectures. Merrily, who had just finished the first week of her second year as a student of Applied History and was contemplating the impending reality of her marriage to Jonathan Miller, felt as though she were living a totally different life than when she had set out for Uellodon a few months ago. ¡°What do you know about love, Rolly?¡± said Merrily. ¡°Honestly. When was the last time a woman took you seriously?¡± ¡°I read a lot,¡± answer Rolly glibly. ¡°Thom Verasee tells me all about it. Frankly, the whole business seems like far more trouble than it¡¯s worth.¡± He shrugged his heavy frame and gave a good-natured smile. ¡°Fine. How is love like a peanut?¡± ¡°Well¡ there are two nuts in a shell. Usually. And that¡¯s good, when there are two nuts. Two nuts are good for lots of things. Only sometimes you get a peanut that has only one nut in it.¡± ¡°And?¡± ¡°And¡ it¡¯s still a peanut,¡± he said. ¡°One nut in the shell, two nuts¡ªit¡¯s the same thing when you put it in your mouth. The one-nut peanut doesn¡¯t go around thinking it¡¯s less of a peanut because there isn¡¯t a second one right there next to it. Oh, and sometimes you get three peanuts in one shell. And there¡¯s no problem. They¡¯re still peanuts.¡± ¡°You¡¯ve got the logic and mathematics worked out perfectly, Rolly, but I think you may be reducing the complexity of human relationships a bit too far.¡± He shrugged. ¡°I understand peanuts,¡± he explained. ¡°And math. Look.¡± He lowered his voice. ¡°You¡¯re worried about getting married to Mr. Miller?¡± She looked down at the table. ¡°You¡¯re worried about the difference between one peanut and two peanuts,¡± he said. ¡°You¡¯ll still be Merrily Hunter¡ªsame body, same mind, same delicious taste¡ªwhether there¡¯s two peanuts in the shell or one. Or, uh, three.¡± She looked up at him sharply. ¡°Are you¡ª¡± ¡°No!¡± he replied. ¡°I¡¯m no third peanut. I mean, you¡¯d look great in a shell and all, Merrily, but¡¡± She sighed, took a peanut, and cracked it open. The two nuts inside stared up at her mutely. Were she and Jonathan just like these peanuts? Which one was she? One of them was a bit misshapen, and had a bit of something brown growing on it. She decided that one was Jonathan. Oh well, she thought. And she ate them both. ??? We are not one Merrily, said the First Voice. The carriage rattled uncomfortably, but Merrily hardly noticed. We are not, agreed the Second Voice. If you would only see things my way, we could end this uncertainty. I¡¯m not afraid of uncertainty, retorted the First Voice. It¡¯s you who¡¯s afraid of uncertainty. That¡¯s how we got into this mess in the first place. Across from her, Cyrus¡¯s face looked decidedly green. Jonathan sat to her left, wedged into the small cabin of the coach. Veridia Snipe completed the foursome. All were dressed in black. ¡°Where is Gmork?¡± asked Merrily quietly. ¡°I didn¡¯t see him in any of the other coaches.¡± Cyrus shook his head slowly. ¡°He didn¡¯t come back last night,¡± he answered. ¡°And he didn¡¯t bring me my coffee.¡± ¡°I see you found something else to drink,¡± remarked Veridia blandly. Wearing a simple, black-dyed wool dress altered to accommodate her belly, she looked rather uncomfortable as she sat in the small box. Cyrus just stared up at her blearily. As Jonathan handed a flask to Cyrus, Merrily wondered if she¡¯d ever need to drink to make her troubles go away. She looked at her professor with a mix of pity and disapproval. But, then, she¡¯d managed to lie awake all night last night, staring at the ceiling and seething in an agony of indecision. So, all things considered, maybe Cyrus had it right after all. She rubbed her bloodshot eyes and tried not to clench her fists. I know who killed Rolly, said the First Voice. And now we¡¯re going to Rolly¡¯s funeral. And Queen Anne has put Cyrus Stoat in charge of finding the killer, which means he¡¯ll never be caught. That¡¯s good, said the Second Voice. Cyrus needs something to do with himself, and if he doesn¡¯t find the killer then the case will be closed. We won¡¯t have to worry about where it might lead. Peace for everyone. Not for Rolly, quipped the First Voice. Rolly made his choices, said the Second voice, serenely. He chose not to believe in God, and chose not to live a life of duty and love. His soul must bear the weight of those choices. At the funeral she kept her back stiff, and her eyes forward. She did not weep. She held Jonathan¡¯s hand softly, but all the rest of her was as rigid as if she were carved out of oak. When it was time for those who loved him to speak, she waited for Cyrus. ¡°Rolly saved my life with a cart full of horse manure,¡± said her insufferable professor. He paused in thought for a moment. ¡°I learned how to be a better Applied Historian from him. My life is better because he lived.¡± Merrily swallowed hard. The time had come. She drew in a breath. She swayed slightly in the wind. Don¡¯t lie, said the Second Voice. ¡°Rolly hid my words from people who would hurt me,¡± she said, her voice strong and clear. ¡°He never saw the world for anything but a joke. My life is better because he lived.¡± And now his soul burns in the pit, observed the Second Voice. You don¡¯t know that, snapped the First Voice. Father said, insisted the Second Voice. He professed lies against the Scripture. He drew people away from obedience and humility. Shut up, snarled the First Voice. And the Second Voice was silent. They rode in the carriage back to Green Bridge, and Merrily said nothing, trapped within her own thoughts. ¡°Merrily,¡± Cyrus called as she stepped out of the box. ¡°I¡¯ll need you tonight at Redbun. We must have a close look at Rolly¡¯s office, and I want your help with organizing the interviews tomorrow. We mustn¡¯t waste any more time; you can line them up while I talk to them.¡± He is an ass, observed the First Voice. On this we are in complete agreement, said the Second Voice. ¡°I still have hours of reading to do for Glibgrub¡¯s lecture,¡± she snapped, ¡°an essay on Gorgovian foreign policy for your course, and work to do for the Queen. And in case you¡¯d forgotten, Professor Stoat, I am now married. So¡ªno. I cannot help you tonight at Redbun.¡± And with that she stalked away angrily. ??? The following afternoon, she sat with Queen Anne alone in the royal chambers. Queen Anne preferred to meet with Merrily here, rather than in the large state room above Bastings Hall or the formal meeting chambers. The Queen wore a simple gown of gray linen, well-tailored and trimmed, and an understated gold necklace. Her long brown hair was loose, though her face was made up prettily. The Queen was several years older than Merrily, but there was a youthful quality to her that Merrily found relatable. The would-be monarch was slowly reading out a dispatch from Snugg intelligence, laboriously decrypting the ciphered text as she went. Veridia had convinced her not to write down the dispatches in plaintext, for fear of spies within her household. ¡°General Logwall,¡± she read slowly, ¡°will arrive in Roosterfoot in two weeks to address the Moot. We think he will be accompanied by twenty knights. Hobb will move elements of the Guard to Swallow Hall ahead of the meeting to pressure the delegates.¡± Anne rubbed her forehead wearily. ¡°I really hate that man,¡± she muttered. ¡°Hobb?¡± asked Merrily. ¡°I don¡¯t think you¡¯re alone there, ma¡¯am. He¡¯s not popular in the North. And I believe if the people who live in Republican territory could speak freely, they¡¯d agree with you.¡± Hobb is a monster, said the Second Voice. We agree on that as well, said the First Voice. Anne shook her head. ¡°No. Not Hobb. Hobb is misguided. Terribly, horribly misguided, but not deliberately evil. He thinks what he¡¯s doing is right. I mean Logwall.¡± Merrily tilted her head to one side. ¡°Because he stole your son?¡± Anne nodded. ¡°Yes¡ and because he knew it was wrong. He said as much, sitting in that very chair you¡¯re sitting in now. He knew it was wrong, but he¡¯s too attached to doing things the way he¡¯s always done them to change. So he goes on doing wrong, knowing it¡¯s wrong. That¡¯s a choice, and it¡¯s a vile choice, and I hate him for it.¡± She laid down the papers. ¡°You look tired, Merrily,¡± observed the Queen gently. ¡°I ask too much of you.¡± Merrily shook her head vigorously. She can never ask too much of us, said the First Voice. We would follow her to the gates of Hell. If we follow her, we will arrive at the gates of Hell sooner or later, answered the Second Voice. The Queen handed her a cup of wine. Merrily pressed it to her lips, but did not drink. Do not sin, said the Second Voice. ¡°I ask much of you, Merrily, because there are so few people I can trust¡ªI mean really trust, trust without caution. I trust Veridia Snipe, and I trust Cyrus Stoat, and I trust you. You proved in Uellodon that I could trust you. And I need the people I trust the most to help me the most.¡± If only you knew, said the First Voice. She must never know, answered the Second. ¡°The Moot represents the bulk of the landowners in the center and east of the Kingdom,¡± said the Queen wearily, turning back to the papers. ¡°And they have not declared for Leeland or for me. They¡¯re waiting to see who looks likely to come out on top. And our position is not favorable.¡± Merrily nodded. ¡°Leeland has the bigger army,¡± she observed, ¡°and he¡¯s cut off most of our supply of mercenaries by blockading the Green River. At this point the only thing that keeps you credible¡ªforgive me, ma¡¯am¡ªis Snugg¡¯s money and their gunpowder.¡± ¡°They are costly friends,¡± said Anne. ¡°Every day the Crown is deeper in debt to Snugg and Company. If this goes on for much longer, we might as well hand the crown over to Nicola Snugg.¡± Now that would be quite a thing to see, purred the Second Voice. One of the Elect, wielding the power of a queen? Think of the good that she could do. I¡¯m trying not to, replied the First Voice in disgust. ¡°Merrily,¡± said the Queen. Her deep green eyes held Merrily captive. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I must ask you to do something for me, and it will be difficult.¡± ¡°Anything, ma¡¯am,¡± said Merrily¡ªand somehow it was totally genuine, and also a lie. ¡°I need you to go to Roosterfoot,¡± she said. ¡°Be my representative to the Moot. Convince them that our cause is just and right¡ªand in their long-term benefit. If they join the Republic, Leeland and Hobb and the Republican Guard will swarm over the rest of Uelland. Remind them of the reality of that kind of life, and the principles that we are fighting for.¡± Merrily looked down at the glass of wine. ¡°I think you would be more effective than me, ma¡¯am,¡± she said slowly. ¡°You can talk pigs out of the trees and birds out of the ground. Beatrice Snugg taught you how to think and how to express yourself to other people. You have a natural gift for it that I don¡¯t. And they won¡¯t know me at all.¡± ¡°You are too modest, Merrily,¡± replied the Queen. ¡°Many of the delegates will know of you from your songs that Mr. Snort has published. I am told they have been performed widely; some of the delegates may even have heard you sing here in Green Bridge. And you underestimate, too, your own spirit. I know you are afraid, or don¡¯t see the way clearly sometimes. But I also know you think with discipline, you have true principles, and you see what is right. Professor Stoat and the others at Triad have taught you how to speak and persuade. I cannot go. If I am captured, the war is over, and the Republic will have won. Hobb is too wily, and Leeland too cruel, to let me walk out of Roosterfoot. I made a promise to the people of the north to stand up for their freedom to make choices and live their lives as they wish, which I will break if I go to Roosterfoot. You are the opposite of Hobb, and I can think of no one better to demonstrate the difference between him and me.¡± She paused, and thought for a long time. ¡°It may be hopeless,¡± she said finally. ¡°And I don¡¯t mean the military situation. The people¡ªall of them, all the individual people, not some nebulous abstraction calling itself the People¡ªwill decide whether or not the Republican Guard beats us. You can¡¯t force people to be free. Hobb is offering them a kind of freedom that¡¯s different from the kind I¡¯m offering. It¡¯s freedom to not make choices; to put the difficulty and pain of choice and consequence and opportunity all on someone else. It may be that that¡¯s what people want. It¡¯s seductive, isn¡¯t it Merrily? To say: the King, or the Prime Minister, or the National Assembly has decided that this is how I should live my life, so that is what I must do. If it all goes wrong, it¡¯s not my fault, and someone else will take care of me. I know that¡¯s what some people want, Merrily. It¡¯s easy.¡± Her eyes flashed an almost electric green. ¡°But that does not make it right,¡± she said. ¡°That way lies slavery, whatever words you use to dress it up. When someone else makes your choices, and someone else decides what the consequences are, there is nothing left to think or to feel or to strive for. There is nothing to live for. Whatever you desire, what you have will be what someone else decides. We might as well all be turnips, growing as commanded until we¡¯re plucked from the ground to be eaten. Tell them, Merrily. Show them that what Hobb offers is true slavery. You must help the Moot to see what is at stake for them.¡± The words she just spoke, said the Second Voice, are the foulest moral outrage of all time. I think she¡¯s right, said the First Voice. ??? I know who killed Rolly. And we have to tell Cyrus. After her audience with the Queen, Merrily ran across the square to the tall gates of Triad University. But Cyrus¡¯s office in Peacock Hall was empty. She found Professor Rayth, who told her that Professor Stoat had just left to travel upriver to the Gray Kingdom. She sprinted to the barge docks, elbowing aside startled workers and merchants. Dozens of heavy river barges were preparing for their final journeys of the season up to Hog Hurst. There was coal there to purchase, and more eager buyers in the trade quarter of Green Bridge. But nowhere did she find Cyrus Stoat. He was gone. You see, said the Second Voice. We¡¯re not meant to tell Cyrus of our suspicions. God caused us to arrive too late. Because we know nothing. I mean that in an exact, precise, literal sense. We know nothing. Everything we see around us is an illusion of the Dark One. The world is a stage of sin and death and suffering, and either we play our part on the stage or we walk off it. We do not know who killed Rolland Gorp, because we are not meant to know. Only God knows, because Rolly¡¯s death was part of God¡¯s plan. If Father killed Rolland Gorp, then it was as God meant for it to be. Because Father is holy, and God is perfect. The First Voice was silent, and Merrily began to walk away from the docks. And then, to her great surprise, as she walked through the chill October air of the streets, something new began to happen. MERRILY: Who am I? Who is this woman? Am I a book with no words? Who will write some in? There''s fear and excitement this mystery is bringing... But... I don''t understand why I am singing... One man tells me that my body''s a sin, And one man just wants me to let him in. One man prays to a God that no one can see, And one woman tells me that I have to be free. Am I of flesh? Or am I of spirit? If God was speaking, how would I hear it? Do I think or feel, or am I just an animal? Was I made for Hell or Heaven or not made at all? There''s a box inside me and I can''t see in. A box inside me underneath my skin. It''s black on the outside, and black within. There''s a question inside, there''s an answer inside. There are things in the box that I have to hide. There''s a man who says I could make history, And there''s a man I love who wants a family. There''s a queen who waves a flag for liberty, And a God in Heaven with a plan for me. But no one knows the dreams of Merrily... One man knows God''s mind. And he has all the answers that I long to find. Truth tears the world apart, But truth will slow a racing heart. There''s a box inside me and I can''t see in. A box inside me underneath my skin. It''s black on the outside, and black within. There''s an angel inside, there''s a monster inside. There are things in the box that I have to hide. Am I an angel? Am I a god? Am I a liar or a fool or a fraud? Is reality real, or just a point of view? Does existence exist? Which truth is true? If I could open the box, what would I see? A spirit? Or a soul? Or a muscle? Or me? Is there some mystery inside those locks? Or is it just¡ Another box inside me that I can''t see in. A box inside me underneath my skin. It''s black on the outside, and black within. There''s nothing inside, there¡¯s nothing inside. There must be something in the box that I have to hide. There is something inside from which these questions are springing, But I still don''t understand why I''m singing... Chapter 12: Logical Insanity October 7th ¡°Forgive me, Father. I have sinned.¡± Merrily knelt before him, head bowed. Her eyes, downcast to the floor, obscured the conflict behind them. He is the only hope for us, insisted the Second Voice. Why? rebutted then First. Why not we, ourself? ¡°What sin have you committed, Merrily?¡± he asked gently. They were in his small study, just off the Sanctificatio. Rickety shelves, filled to overflowing with books both modern and ancient, lined the walls. Several other rooms branched off from this one. She had never been in them, but he seemed to make his home there. Rough curtains had been hung over the openings. Today, Father wore the shabby coat and hose of Mr. Filtch; only for communion in the Under-temple did he wear the white robe. His deep blue eyes stared out from his scarred face. They were precise, uncompromising, and merciless. Tell him about Rolly¡¯s funeral, suggested the First Voice anxiously. We said nice things about Rolly. Father won¡¯t like that at all. Let me take care of this, soothed the Second. ¡°I let Jonathan touch me,¡± she said flatly. Oh, now we¡¯ve put our foot in it. We¡¯re going to have a lecture about sex. Father let out a mournful sigh. ¡°Lust is the prison of the soul, Merrily,¡± he declared, confirming her fear. ¡°Desire leads to degradation and more desire, not to joy. Marriage does not change this principle, but merely scompromises it. The apostle Paul says: ¡®Put to death what is earthly in you: Sexual immorality, impurity, passion, evil desire, and covetousness.¡¯ You cannot simply fight against your passions, or pretend they do not exist. You must have new passions. Your passion must be for God: for His final judgment and victory over the Dark One; for your place among His Elect. Only by replacing earthly desire with holy desire can you escape. You come here, and others come here, to find a new family who will support them in their new, pure desires. And so you have come to me, your father. I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.¡± That is Holy and true, rhapsodized the Second Voice. How is it any escape from desire to replace one desire with another? questioned the First Voice. And why is Father looking at us like that? She stared up at him, still on her knees. Now his eyes were like pools of the dusk sky, fading to black. He reached out a hand and placed it on her cheek. She didn¡¯t flinch. ¡°I forgive your sin, Merrily. But there is a price to forgiveness, so that you may be led to pure and perfect desires. The price is this: You must never again consent to Jonathan Miller touching your body in lust. If you do, then you must leave the Elect.¡± His hand lingered on her cheek; then he withdrew it and turned away. ¡°Go, now, and join us for Communion,¡± he said. ¡°Your brothers and sisters will support you in holy desires.¡± He turned from her abruptly and disappeared into a small chamber, separated by a red curtain. There was a dim light within, and she caught a glimpse of another man behind the curtain, though she could not see his features. She stood and walked back toward the Sanctificatio. You didn¡¯t tell him that we know, observed the First Voice. We don¡¯t know, said the Second. And that is why I didn¡¯t tell him. ??? ¡°I have to go to Hog Hurst tomorrow,¡± announced Jonny, setting a roast chicken and loaf of bread on the table. ¡°The goblins are up to something odd again in the Gray Kingdom, and coal shipments have fallen off. Actually, I was supposed to leave by coach this afternoon, but I talked Veridia into letting me stay one more night.¡± She put on a bright, brittle smile. ¡°That¡¯s lovely! You¡¯ll get to see your mother again, and I can give you some money to take to my mother and father, and you can bring me back some new arrows¡¡± she trailed off, trying to think of more credible reasons to be happy for his departure. The smile cracked, and she looked down at the table. He sat down and began carving the chicken. ¡°What wrong, Merrily?¡± he asked. There¡¯s some old man in the sky who made both of us with desires for each other so that we¡¯d have to spend out whole lives denying them, offered the First Voice bitterly. We made a terrible mistake marrying Jonathan Miller, countered the Second. She avoided his eyes. ¡°Nothing,¡± she answered. ¡°Come on, Merrily. I know you. We¡¯ve known each other since before we could talk. I know something¡¯s eating at you. Please tell me.¡± He handed her a plate of roast chicken, rich-smelling brown bread, and watercress. She poked at it, casting about desperately in her mind. ¡°I have to travel for a while too. Queen Anne wants me to go on an errand for her. I¡¯ll leave in a week, perhaps. I can¡¯t say where¡ªit¡¯s one of those errands. But I¡¯ll write to you. I promise I¡¯ll write.¡± The First Voice: That¡¯s safe, isn¡¯t it? We¡¯re allowed to write to our husband? The Second Voice: He won¡¯t much care for what we¡¯re allowed to write. ¡°How long will you be gone?¡± he asked, fiddling nervously with his fork and knife. ¡°Just a few weeks, I think,¡± she replied. ¡°I¡¯ll have to be back for exams in December, anyway. The Triad professors don¡¯t give you a pass just because the Queen sends you to do her business all over Uelland.¡± The meal drifted by awkwardly, as both Jonathan and Merrily avoided the traps around them. But after he had finished washing the dishes and they sat before the fire, he reached out to take her hand in his own. She withdrew the hand and stood up before they made contact. ¡°I have to go to read for class,¡± she announced. ¡°I¡¯m behind in Glibgrub¡¯s lecture.¡± ¡°Merrily!¡± he said, his voice suddenly sharp. ¡°What¡¯s wrong? Why won¡¯t you tell me?¡± She turned to him, desperate. ¡°I can¡¯t!¡± she pleaded. ¡°It¡¯s¡ it¡¯s something I have to deal with, Jonny. Alone.¡± She turned to the small line of pegs where her cloak hung, still dripping. I don¡¯t want to leave here, said the First Voice. I want to stay with him tonight. We¡¯ll be apart for many weeks. Maybe it will be longer. I want to stay here tonight and hold him and¡ª I want to remain faithful to God and the Elect, interrupted the Second. I want to feel safe and pure and clean and I certainly don¡¯t want to burn in the Pit for all eternity. We were anointed in front of everyone else, and they know about us. We love Father and the Truth he has taught us. And we know God sees our sins and our lies. Do we know that? Do we know that more than we know who killed Rolly? We must know. We have faith. We said the words, and we have spent so much time doing all the things Father requires of us to be holy. We cannot be wrong now, after all that effort. That¡¯s faith, and we have it. There was a touch on her shoulder. She spun away, her eyes flashing. ¡°Don¡¯t touch me!¡± she snapped. Jonny dropped his hand to his side. His eyes showed pain, disbelief, and anger. Without another word, he turned and disappeared into the small study. She put on her cloak, packed a few things from the bedroom, and left their home. Merrily did not sleep that night. Instead she went to the library at Peacock Hall and read the hours away by the light of flickering candles. Her eyes did not droop. Her thoughts kept them wide open, racing through her head and heart without mercy. When they grew too loud, she stood up and walked around the table once, then sat down again. She was alone. Normally there would have been a handful of goblins studying through the night, whispering and munching idly on sandwiches. They needed little sleep, but their minds and stomachs both demanded constant activity. Tonight, though, the library was quiet and empty. At dawn she walked across the square to Bastings Hall, where Queen Anne kept a small but well-appointed office for her. She changed into fresh clothes, washed her face, and brushed her hair. Glancing at the bills and pamphlets that covered the walls near Bastings, she caught the hollow-eyed visage of Hobb the Wise staring back at her, a headline at the top of the pamphlet proclaiming the dawn of a new era of justice. The voices were silent. She took a deep breath, and looked at herself in the mirror. There were dark circles beneath her eyes, and her jaw seemed to be clenched all on its own. She put on a bit of makeup to fix it all, and brushed her hair again. Then she called for a coach and made her way back to their home in the trade quarter. Jonathan was gone. The place was tidy, and the bed had not been slept in. There was no note left behind; he was simply gone. She packed up a few more belongings from the dresser in their bedroom and retrieved her spare bow and quiver. Then, looking around reflexively, she knelt down before the bed. She slid a low, flat chest out from underneath, put a small key in the lock, and opened it. Inside was a sheathed rapier. It was of fine steel, perfectly balanced, and had an elaborate wrist guard with the device of the crowned eagle. It is wrong that we keep this, said the Second Voice. Father should have it back. He isn¡¯t missing it, said the First Voice. He thinks it was lost when he fought Cyrus. And I¡¯ve no desire to give a blade back to a man who killed my friend. You know nothing. And that blind, sinful illusion that you cling to is precisely why we should give it back to Father. She gritted her teeth and forced the voices to be silent, unable to them anymore. She simply operated her body, doing with it what had to be done. The case returned to its place beneath the bed. The body returned to Bastings Hall. The body went to her classes, and all inside her was silent. ??? Nine days passed before Merrily finally set out for Roosterfoot. There were diplomatic papers to be drawn up, a negotiating strategy to be formulated, and an escort to be assembled. She arranged with her instructors for an absence from their courses, and received reading and writing assignments for the time she would be away. Freddie Greensmith promised to take notes for her in lecture. Her headaches, a perennial annoyance, began to make another cycle of appearances. She visited Father every night in the Under-temple. ¡°Merrily,¡± he said to her on one of these occasions, as she sat wearily in his office, her eyes stained with tears. ¡°You must remember that in all things you do God¡¯s will. No thing happens but that He wills it. If He wills for you to travel as the Queen¡¯s envoy to Roosterfoot, it must be that He has a task for you there. Do not fight against God¡¯s plan for you.¡± If God wills everything we do, remarked the First Voice acidly, then what¡¯s the sense in asking forgiveness our own choices? They¡¯re God¡¯s choices, not ours. God is all-powerful, so He must have the power to give us free will, responded the Second Voice. When we abuse that gift, we must atone or suffer the consequences. That is logically insane, said the First. ¡°Remember that you serve only God,¡± said Father on another occasion, ¡°and not King or Queen, Republic or Crown, and not any man but me. Though you seem to do the work of the woman who calls herself queen, look for a moment when you will do God¡¯s true work. Hobb would replace God with his National Assembly, and he is an abomination even as much as Anne Linsey Gray.¡± Father¡¯s twisted face and blue eyes held her own. ¡°Kill Hobb, if you can. Bring back a victory to Anne, so you can be close to her without suspicion. The enemy of my enemy is not my friend, but I need not fight all my enemies at the same time.¡± The Queen, too, sat with Merrily privately before she left. ¡°You look weary,¡± observed Anne, after two hours reviewing the many landowning families of central Uelland represented at the Roosterfoot Moot. ¡°You must remember to sleep. And to eat; you are too thin.¡± Merrily nodded silently. Both sleep and food had been of little interest since she began living in the office in Bastings Hall. ¡°When did you last sing?¡± asked the Queen. Merrily looked up sharply. Why does she care when we sing? wondered the Second Voice. Something happened last week, answered the First. After we missed Cyrus at the docks. I can¡¯t explain it. There was music, and we sang. We couldn¡¯t help it. It felt natural and perfect and joyful, just for that moment. Why did we sing? The Queen was staring at her. ¡°Are you alright, Merrily?¡± She nodded firmly. ¡°Sorry, ma¡¯am. Just trying to remember. It¡¯s been a little time.¡± She couldn¡¯t explain the song at the docks to the Queen any more than she could explain it to herself. Queen Anne sat back in her padded chair and gazed at Merrily quietly. ¡°There is a part of you that neither I nor the lecturers at Triad can nurture,¡± she said finally. ¡°It is the part of you that makes music. When you sang with Mr. Snort at Lady Triggle¡¯s parties, that first year, I could tell then that it lifted you into a different place. Beatrice Snugg saw it too. I think that is why she trusted you. It is something that you need, Merrily. But I have not heard you sing since you came back from Uellodon.¡± I miss Wigglus, said the First Voice. He hasn¡¯t written for a month, and it has been longer since I wrote to him. He has been busy in the courts in Uellodon. I love him and I miss him. Wigglus Snort is an abomination, snarled the Second Voice. We have not written to him because he is a foul affront against God¡¯s order. What he does with other men is condemned in all five Testaments. It is even more disgusting than our lust for Jonathan Miller. ¡°Merrily.¡± The voice of Queen Anne cut over the other voices. ¡°I would like to ask you something. It is a favor, and you may say no if you wish. I will not be upset with you. But I hope you will say yes. In the spring there will be a coronation ceremony. I am still arranging the details with Bishop Wildrick and the Charter Council. I trust you understand why?¡± Merrily nodded. ¡°Legitimacy,¡± she replied simply. ¡°Uellish respect the forms and traditions of the Crown. They will more easily follow a Queen who fits into them. There is precedent for a coronation to legitimize a pretender; Alexander the Wartful did the same thing during his rebellion against Bloody Maude, and became Alexander the First.¡± ¡°Yes,¡± said the Queen. ¡°I told you once that there would be a time for new music in my court, and that I wanted to commission songs from you. I still do. If you write music to play at my coronation, then I will have it performed by the finest players we can hire. It would be printed here in Green Bridge and sent all over the Neighbor Kingdoms; you already have an eager audience, thanks to Mr. Snort¡¯s industry in publishing your songs. If nothing else comes of this sad, brief rebellion, then perhaps one piece of music will survive us and be heard again. But whatever the future holds, I want my court to be a place of beauty and passion and truth. Will you make music for me, Merrily?¡± This pretend Queen knows nothing of beauty or passion or truth, sneered the Second Voice. Only in God can they be found, and she has no God. But the First Voice had an answer. No, it said. That is not correct. I knew beauty and passion and truth when I sang and Wigglus played his violin. I did not need Father or God. ¡°I will, ma¡¯am,¡± she said, with a real, genuine smile, such as she had not smiled for many months. ??? Merrily sat up in the library that night, her head pounding. A book was open before her, but she did not read. Instead she stared at the candle on the table as it slowly grew shorter, making a puddle of wax on the stained oak. The library was empty once again; there was no sign of the usual goblins. She wondered where they had all gotten to. Sleep did not come easily, but at last she laid her head down and dozed through the pain for a few hours.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. As the sky began to lighten in the east, she made her way back to Bastings Hall, where she changed and packed a few last odds and ends for the journey to Roosterfoot. Her chest had already been loaded on the coach last night. Merrily normally preferred to travel light, but the Queen had set her seamstresses to work over the last week, producing several new dresses that were, to Merrily¡¯s own eye, rather too grand for her to wear. These, along with other diplomatic necessities, now occupied a large chest on the top of the coach waiting for her in the square. She went down to meet it. Merrily had drawn the line at riding in the coach, which cut off her awareness of the land and people around her. Winston was saddled and waiting. With the palfrey were four mercenaries, dressed in the deep black and silver livery of the Snugg forces. A white badge, prominently displaying the letter ¡®S,¡¯ was on each man¡¯s shoulder. They wore steel breastplates and carried both rapiers and long guns. Another man, named Mr. Mowatt, sat on top of the empty coach. Merrily would use the it to enter Roosterfoot, and perhaps to arrive for formal appearances at the Moot. The faces of her bodyguards were grim and alert. Unlike the coach, they were not merely for show. ¡°Gentlemen,¡± she addressed them. ¡°We will ride hard for Roosterfoot and try to cover the distance in three days. You already know the danger; the Republican Guard have partisans in the country we will travel through. If we are attacked, listen to me for instructions. I would like you all to come home to your families.¡± What about our family? wondered the First Voice, digging at the wound. What family will we come home to? Our family waits for us in the Under-temple, answered the Second Voice confidently. Our Father prays for us, and God protects us. We were wise and faithful to leave Mr. Miller. Did we leave him? asked the First. People were about in the streets, even at this early hour. Shopkeepers swept the previous night¡¯s dusting of snow off their stoops, hanging out flags and bunting to draw in the day¡¯s customers. Boys and girls in uniforms made their way in tidy lines to the neighborhood schoolhouses. In the merchant quarter, the caravans and laborers of the three remaining majors, as well as their smaller competitors, were busily loading, unloading, and arguing good-naturedly with each other. At the Snugg factor house, she caught a glimpse of Veridia Snipe, standing outside and giving firm instructions to everyone within earshot. She was carrying a small bundle in her arms; Merrily had heard she¡¯d given birth just a week ago. I want one of those, said the First Voice. You have a higher calling now, answered the Second. She made the party stop at the small house on Warbling Way that she once shared with Jonathan, and walked in alone. Jonathan wasn¡¯t there, and by the look of it he hadn¡¯t been home for some days. She pulled the case out from under the bed, opened it, and stared at the sheathed rapier quietly for several minutes. Then she took it out of the box, left the home, and returned to the party. Before remounting Winston, she strapped the sword to her belt. Merrily and her entourage trotted briskly along the cobblestones, Merrily leading the way on Winston and the bodyguards and coach trailing along behind. They passed beneath the east gate of the city, where sturdy wooden scaffolding obscured the features of thick, massive towers being hurriedly erected on either side of the portal. Workmen were already visible in the dawn light, moving about and preparing the great cranes that would lift new blocks of stone into place. She paused for a moment, turning to look back at Green Bridge. The rosy light of dawn washed away the inevitable human ugliness in her mind, leaving only a vision of a place she had begun to really, truly think of as home. It wasn¡¯t perfect; but neither was she. She was surprised to feel a sudden clutch of fear in her chest. Merrily was rarely afraid of danger, but something lurked behind conscious thought that made her stomach sink. What was it? ¡°Follow the bright path,¡± she muttered to herself in the fey-speech she had learned as a child. As they always did, the words brought a shift in conscious thought, soothing her headache and her fear. The two voices that argued endlessly with each other inside her head were silent, too, for the first time in days. Smiling, she turned her eyes forward and nudged Winston into a fast trot. They covered thirty-five miles that first day, trotting for long periods and then walking to rest the horses. Mr. Mowatt¡¯s coach slowed their progress somewhat, but the four sturdy carriage horses were able to keep up a steady pace well into the evening. Throughout the day¡¯s travel, she and the guards cast a wary eye to other travelers on the road, but there was no sign of hostility. One guard rode a mile ahead at all times, and another a mile behind; they checked in every half hour and rotated the scout duty. Merrily judged it wiser to remain away from settlements until she reached the relative safety of Roosterfoot, so they made a discreet, cold camp in a patch of woodland rather than stop at a public house in one of the little villages along the road. Mowatt slept under his carriage, while Merrily and her bodyguards set up bedrolls under the stars. The guards divided up the watch, and three of the four settled down to sleep. The October moon was waning overhead, diminished to a tiny sliver. Merrily walked alone among the old patch of trees, looking up at the stars through the barren branches. A cold wind brought the fresh, sharp smells of high autumn to her nose. ¡°Who am I?¡± she asked aloud into the darkness. She found it was the only way to know who was speaking. The moon held no answers. Though the night was cold and her sleeping roll warm, she lay awake for long hours, staring at the dark canvas over her head. Sleep, when it came, was troubled by whispering voices. ??? They rose early the following day and continued along the Roosterfoot Road, moving swiftly to the south and east. It had snowed lightly overnight, leaving a dusting of white on the road that had already been marked by the hoofprints of local traffic. The air was cold, and her breath steamed in front of her. Merrily was left with little time for contemplation, however. Only an hour after the sun rose, Mr. Stiggins, the man on forward scout duty, came galloping back toward them on the road, his horse thundering on the frozen gravel. ¡°Republican Guard ahead,¡± said Stiggins tersely, letting his horse catch its breath. ¡°Twenty men. Armed for mounted skirmishing. They¡¯re coming on at a canter.¡± The eyes of her four bodyguards swiveled to Merrily, and Mr. Mowatt shifted uncomfortably in the coach seat. We should go back to Green Bridge, urged the Second Voice. God¡¯s will is not served by dying out here in service to a false queen. ¡°No!¡± she said aloud. Her companions looked at her in surprise and concern, and she remembered that she wasn¡¯t alone. She hastily reassembled her composure. ¡°I won¡¯t run back to Green Bridge,¡± she said firmly, ¡°but we¡¯ll have to run somewhere. We passed a good-sized farm lane about a mile back leading off to the north. We¡¯ll make for that, and look for a place to hide or defend.¡± She spun Winston and spurred him to a canter, as fast as the coach team could follow. Two guards pulled up behind her, and the third behind the coach. As they rode, she cast her eyes behind her to the east, but no riders were yet visible. They quickly encountered the rearguard, who accepted her change of plans with a terse nod. And after another short ride, they came upon the lane that Merrily recalled. She silently cursed the dusting of snow, revealing their tracks for any minimally attentive pursuer to see. ¡°This way,¡± she barked, wheeling Winston to the north. A small handful of farm buildings were visible in the distance. She nudged the palfrey into a canter again, and they pounded up the rough farm lane. Behind her, Mr. Mowatt¡¯s coach rattled and creaked alarmingly on the uneven ground. She looked back again. Now, in the distance to the east, she could see the riders. Their numbers seemed awfully large to her slightly panicked eye. We are the servants of a just and loving God, whispered the Second Voice. He will not abandon us. God, do not abandon us¡ª A crisis is no time to start praying, interrupted the First Voice. Either we¡¯ve already gotten on His good side, or the whole thing is pointless anyway. Let God save us now if He wants, and we¡¯ll make it up to Him later. ¡°That farm complex looks defensible enough,¡± shouted Merrily over her shoulder. The horses and carriage rumbled up the road to the gates. The farmhouse itself was a large, two-story building with a simple, high-peaked roof and small windows. It was surrounded by outbuildings with their doors facing inward, making a small inner square that was fleshed out by simple split rail fencing. A ventilation cupola stood out at the peak of the barn. A small handful of men were hurrying out of the farmhouse toward them. Merrily dismounted quickly, but waited for them to come to her. Behind the men trailed a young boy of perhaps eight years. Merrily¡¯s mind raced; this had be handled delicately, but very swiftly. ¡°What¡¯s your business here, miss?¡± asked their leader. He was a tall, weathered fellow of perhaps fifty years. His arms and chest were robust, and he bore a strong family resemblance to the younger men behind him. The boy peered out from behind the grown-ups, staring at her with nothing but curiosity on his face. She knelt on the ground in front of them, ignoring the shrieks of protest from the Second Voice. ¡°Sir, I must beg your aid,¡± she implored, speaking quickly but clearly. ¡°I bear messages under the seal of Queen Anne, and Republican partisans pursue us.¡± She showed him her roll of diplomatic credentials, which was indeed bound with the seals of the Queen and the Charter Council. ¡°I ask that you give us shelter, sir, as a free man should to travelers in danger. The Queen will pay you fair compensation for any harm that comes to your farm in hiding or defending us.¡± The weathered farmer looked down at her, and then up at the road beyond his lane. Though Merrily couldn¡¯t see them, she estimated the pursuing partisans must nearly have reached the farm lane. The farmer thought for just a moment. ¡°My name¡¯s Hender,¡± he said, his voice tense. ¡°We¡¯ll do what we can for you, Miss. Get that coach into the barn. More time for talk later, if we all live through this morning. Boys¡ªget your bows, and your sisters.¡± The younger men sprinted back for the house, and Hender hauled open one of the tall, sliding doors to the barn. Mr. Mowatt, now obviously terrified, drove his team inside, and Hender slid the door shut again. ¡°They¡¯re coming up the lane,¡± said the old farmer. ¡°Don¡¯t think hiding will do you much good.¡± ¡°No,¡± agreed Merrily. Her four guards drew up behind her, tamping powder charges into their long guns. She glanced around the farmyard hastily. ¡°I¡¯ll put a man on the roof of your house, if I may, and another man on the roof of the barn. I¡¯ll stand just inside your barn door with the other two. We¡¯ll shoot at them a bit to draw them into the yard, and then show ourselves. They¡¯ll have to bunch up to come in at us in the barn.¡± ¡°Move,¡± said Hender tersely. ¡°My family will be in the farmhouse. We¡¯ll do what we can.¡± It wasn¡¯t much of a plan, but it was the most they had time for. Merrily nodded and gave orders to the mercenaries. The two that Merrily picked to stay with her gave their long guns to their comrades, who would be out of melee range. The mercenaries took a moment¡ªjust a moment¡ªand locked hands with each other. ¡°Blood and gold,¡± said one; and the others repeated the old mercenary¡¯s creed. ¡°Blood and gold!¡± Then they went to their posts. ??? Merrily watched, peeking around the open door to the barn, as Hender stood firmly, ten feet inside the closed gate to his farmyard. ¡°What¡¯s your business?¡± she heard him say to the leader of the mounted soldiers. The partisans wore simple black cloaks and dark-stained leathers, and they had no badges or markings. But there was a certain sameness to their clothes, their posture, and their movements, that revealed them as men of a fighting group. They carried long spears and short bows, with sheathed sabers hanging from their belts. The horses looked strong and fast. ¡°We pursue outlaws of the Republic,¡± said the man in charge. ¡°They fled from us up this lane. Stand aside, and no harm will come to you or your family.¡± Merrily glanced up at man on the farmhouse rooftop. She could see him looking back at her for a signal. ¡°I do not consent,¡± said Hender, showing remarkable courage before twenty armed men. ¡°You may not enter. I own this land in freehold under the laws and customs of the Kingdom of Uelland. I pay my taxes to the Roosterfoot Moot, and my deed is duly recorded in the rolls at Farmers¡¯ Hall. This is my land; get off it.¡± Merrily glanced over Hender¡¯s shoulder to the windows of the farmhouse. The slatted shutters had been opened in the side facing into the farmyard, and the faces of men and women could be seen inside. She caught the face of the young boy, peering out a narrow window on the second floor. My son could look like that, said the First Voice. He could look just like that when he is eight years old. You will never have a son, said the Second. You will ascend into Heaven and sit before Heavenly Father, where you will sing psalms of joy and live in spiritual bliss for all eternity. Her gaze drifted down to the confrontation at the gate. The leader of the partisans lifted his spear out of its socket and pointed it over the fence at Hender. ¡°Open the gate, farmer. There are no lawyers here, no courts, no bailiffs, and no one to help you. There is no law but the will of the People. If the People¡¯s will is not yours, then you are its enemy.¡± If I had a body, said the Second Voice, I would walk out there right now and smite him. So rarely do we agree, mused the First Voice. When we do, there can be no more hesitation. She signaled the man on the roof. There was a loud, sharp crack as the long gun discharged, and one of the partisans slumped off his horse. The other horses reared and whinnied, momentarily panicked by the loud, unfamiliar noises. They weren¡¯t professional light cavalry, noted Merrily with some satisfaction¡ªjust thugs on horseback. Helpful. The second gun, from the man on the roof of the barn, discharged. He missed his target, but the spray of dirt on the ground and the loud noise further confused the horses. Hender, as surprised as their opponents, nonetheless recovered his wits and dashed for the door of his home. ¡°I¡¯m over here!¡± called out Merrily. Her voice, well used to projecting for an audience, carried clearly over the din and confusion at the gate. Then she raised her right hand, extending one finger in the ancient and time-honored salute to an unworthy adversary. Two more cracks rang out from above, as the men on the rooftops fired again. One more partisan fell limply to the ground. The riders awkwardly scrambled off their rearing, panicking mounts, then picked themselves up and drew their light sabers. They smashed casually through the gate and poured into the farmyard. Merrily waved at them cheerfully. They boiled forward. To Merrily, who had practiced in numerous melees but never experienced a live skirmish of this size, they seemed many more than eighteen. She swallowed and tried to stay calm, stepping backward slightly into the barn. The two mercenaries standing on the inside of the doors watched her cautiously. Trust in God¡¯s plan, said the Second Voice. Her breathing slowed; her feet stopped retreating; and she drew Father¡¯s rapier. She raised it in front of her, looking at the horde of onrushing men. She remembered consciously little of what happened next. There was a jumble of screaming, stabbing, swinging. Her training in swordplay at Triad had been extensive, and she found that her muscles knew exactly what to do. There was a dance, in the darkness of the barn, as the partisans poured awkwardly through the narrow chokepoint. The mercenaries lunged at them viciously from both sides, and Merrily whirled and parried and thrusted, tripped and punched, kicked and pulled and bit. It was all instinct; like singing a song she knew by heart. In the darkness, she danced death with her partners. The red haze slowly retreated from vision, and she found that there were no more men for her to fight. She took stock of the violence she had done. There were bodies all over the inside of the barn. They were scattered about her, splayed out in positions of agony and death. One of the mercenaries inside the barn was down, his throat cut. He was already gone. The other man had an ugly stab wound in his right shoulder and a long slice across his face. She treated the wounds carefully, washing them and pressing clean bandages on to stop the bleeding. The coachman, somehow, had survived, and now watched her in terror from a hiding spot behind the boxy vehicle. ¡°Bring this man into the farmhouse,¡± she said, gesturing at the wounded soldier. Outside there were more bodies. One of the mercenaries on the roof had been pierced by arrows from the partisans, but the other was lucky, and escaped without a scratch. It was Stiggins, the man on forward scout duty earlier. Arrows riddled the black-cloaked bodies of the partisans as well, to Merrily¡¯s brief surprise. Then she saw the sons and daughters of Hender in the windows of their home, bows held in their hands and grim looks on their faces. Hender himself came walking out into the carnage in the farmyard. The young boy trailed along behind him. The older farmer surveyed the bodies. ¡°Not a professional among them,¡± he remarked contemptuously. ¡°They¡¯ve grown fat bringing terror to folks who don¡¯t fight back.¡± Merrily narrowed her eyes at him. ¡°You know what you¡¯re doing in a fight,¡± she observed. He gave her a tight-lipped grin. ¡°Scout cavalry,¡± he confirmed. ¡°Adjunct squad to General Chester¡¯s company in the last war with Svegnia. Captain Chester, back then. Trained my boys and girls with the bow, just in case.¡± He spat on one of the black-cloaked men. ¡°¡®In case¡¯ came today.¡± ¡°Did any get away?¡± she asked. ¡°Aye,¡± he answered. ¡°Three, I think. Made off up the lane like Horace Carelon himself was riding after them.¡± Her face became grim. ¡°Then you won¡¯t be safe here, Mr. Hender,¡± she said. ¡°The Guard will be back. They¡¯ll come in the night, and you won¡¯t have the advantages we had today. Is there somewhere else you can go?¡± He nodded. ¡°I have a cousin up north, near Far Gourd. I hate to leave the farm,¡± he said, looking around sadly, ¡°but they¡¯ll burn it soon enough, whether we¡¯re here or not. Your Queen won¡¯t stop the Republic for long, miss. She can fight their soldiers, but there¡¯s a disease of the mind and the heart that spreads through any castle or trench. You can¡¯t fight it once it takes hold. I¡¯ll pack up my family, and gather up the horses of these bullies, and we¡¯ll make ourselves a little caravan up to the north. My cousin will give us shelter for a time, while he still can.¡± Hender paused thoughtfully, sniffing the cold October wind. ¡°I¡¯ve heard there¡¯s a new settlement far up in the north,¡± he said. ¡°Out beyond the frontier, in some valley up on the East Branch. Heard there¡¯s an iron mine and finery there, and plenty of land to settle. Might give that a try.¡± She turned to look at the boy. He was kneeling down next to one of the fallen partisans, and she could see his lips moving, as if he were whispering. ¡°You son has never seen a dead man?¡± she asked. Hender shook his head. ¡°No, miss. None of our folks has passed since he came along.¡± Hender took the boy¡¯s hand and pulled him gently up. ¡°Come on, Jonathan,¡± he said. Merrily was shocked. ¡°What did you call him?¡± she asked after a stunned moment. Hender looked back at her. ¡°Jonathan, miss. Common name in these parts.¡± And he led young Jonathan back to the farmhouse. That could be our son, said the voice in her head. The other voice was silent. ??? She sent the bodies of the two fallen mercenaries back to Green Bridge with the injured man, and letters to the families that she wrote out and signed herself. With only the coachman Mowatt and the guard Stiggins as protection, she decided not return to the road, but made her way deeper into the countryside, circling first to the north, away from Republican territory, and then moving east again. Merrily, Stiggins, and Mowatt stayed in farmsteads and barns, paying their way to farmers who were more than happy to accept her coin and give them a hot meal and a few blankets. It took many more days to reach Roosterfoot, but she saw no further sign of the Republican Guard. On the first of November, she rode proudly up to the north gate of Roosterfoot. A small squad of armed militia at the gate looked at her credentials incredulously, comparing the grand pronouncements on her writ with her dirty, haggard appearance and her rather pathetic entourage. But, as the militia could find no reason to detain a dirty young woman, a tired and frightened coachman, and one weary mercenary, they let her through. She made her way to the large, grand public house to which Queen Anne¡¯s letter offered guarantees against her expenses. She relaxed her tired, weary muscles in a long bath, adjusting slowly to the changed circumstances. In her head, the two voices were still gnawing on an old bone. That could have been our son, said the First. It will never be our son, replied the Second. How long must we be occupied with this nonsense? We have made a commitment to God and to Father that will not be broken. It is a promise of duty and love. One does not set down such a promise. But I want a child, insisted the First, stubbornly. I want to hold him and nurse him and keep him close to us. And I want him to have a father, like our father. Actually¡ªI want him to have a father like Jonathan Miller. That bridge is behind us, painting the sky with its flames, said the Second Voice smugly. No man will take us as a wife now. In the evening, she dressed in one of the less flamboyant gowns, buttoned down an elegant wool overcoat, and pulled on a pair of dress boots with raised heels. She had practiced walking in them for hours at Triad, and could move with grace, but she still found the feeling absurd. She tucked her diplomatic writ into one pocket of a small satchel. The coachman, Mr. Mowatt, had cleaned the mud of travel off the coach and polished its black sheathing. He had changed into a clean suit and overcoat, and wore a shiny black top hat. He held the door for her and bowed low as she entered, then drove her through the streets of Roosterfoot to the Moothall. The doors of the tall, stone building were of thick oak, bound in iron; they were open, and light could be seen within. Two guards stood at attention on either side, their dress uniforms a dark purple color. Their spears were polished, and the blades glinted in the light of bright lamps on the wall outside the building. Merrily¡¯s heart raced; for all her long training, she had no idea what to do next, really. But then her gaze fell on a third man, waiting patiently in the lightly-falling snow. He was tall and thin, perhaps sixty years old. He wore an elegant but understated gray suit and a tall, cylindrical top hat. His cravat was dark gray, and his eyes, a sort of light grayish-blue, were the most colorful thing on his body. He smiled gently at her as the coachman opened the door and she stepped out. ¡°Good evening, Mrs. Hunter,¡± said Hobb the Wise, offering his arm and gesturing toward the open doors. ¡°Welcome to Roosterfoot, and to the Moot.¡± Chapter 13: A Moot Point November 2nd ¡°The Republic, Mrs. Hunter, is government formed of the People, by the People, and for the People. Why should Anne be so opposed to this?¡± They sat in a small, well-appointed private room in the house where Hobb the Wise kept his lodging in Roosterfoot. Across the table from her, her host leaned forward earnestly, his hands clasped together. His deep-set, blue-gray eyes stared into hers, demanding contact and attention. She gave him both. He is a monster, said the Second Voice. We have an opportunity, now, to carry out Father¡¯s command. We will not murder him, countered the First. We are not an assassin. And Father did not tell us to commit suicide. If we were to kill Hobb now, we would never leave this building alive. ¡°When we first met in Uellodon, I asked you what you meant by the ¡®people,¡¯¡± replied Merrily. ¡°You told me then that it was everybody¡ªa community, you called it. But an evil action is still evil whether it¡¯s done by one person or by many. A good action is still good if it¡¯s done by only one person and everyone else tries to stop it.¡± Queen Anne had coached her responses, of course. The issue of legitimacy was bound to arise with the landowners, even if their main concerns would be more practical. But she hadn¡¯t counted on a one-on-one debate with the First Minister of the Republic. Hobb smiled slightly with his face; but his thin frame, bald head, and long, spider-like fingers did not smile. ¡°You come from Hog Hurst, in the far north,¡± he said. ¡°In your home, were there rules?¡± She nodded. ¡°Of course.¡± ¡°If someone burns down his neighbor¡¯s house, or kills his neighbor, you punish him, don¡¯t you?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°Who made those rules?¡± ¡°They were made by the people who settled the village. And we can ask the magistrates in Green Bridge for the Crown¡¯s Law if we need to.¡± ¡°And how do you manage the business of living together?¡± Hobb asked. ¡°Who decides where to build roads, and how to keep up the trading square, and who gets to graze his sheep and cattle on what land?¡± ¡°There¡¯s a Board of Selectmen to settle disputes and spend the village purse on keeping up the streets, and the docks, and the trading square,¡± she answered. ¡°Most families contribute to the purse. But people decide what to do with their own land.¡± ¡°What makes it ¡®their own¡¯ land?¡± She stared at him, hesitating. ¡°The law,¡± she answered finally, and wished that Wigglus were there to give a better answer. ¡°Is Hog Hurst a place of tyranny and injustice?¡± ¡°It is not.¡± ¡°Let me summarize,¡± said Hobb dryly. ¡°Your home is a community that created its own rules and settles disputes with reference to those rules. You have an elected Board of Selectmen that manages public money, punishes crimes, and engages in the public business of the village. You tell me it is a just place, and I believe you. But the Republic, which has an elected National Assembly that creates rules, settles disputes, and punishes crimes, is not just? And a single monarch that imposes her arbitrary will on the people through force is just?¡± She stared at him, feeling a flush of embarrassment creep into her cheeks. ¡°But enough high theory, Mrs. Hunter,¡± said Hobb smoothly. ¡°The world doesn¡¯t turn on theory; it turns according to its nature. Just so with men. The landowners of the Roosterfoot Moot don¡¯t want civil war. It¡¯s bad for their businesses and farms and fortunes. They will pick the side that they think is going to win, and Queen Anne is not going to win. The Republic has the King¡¯s Heavy Arms, the Republican Guard, the treasury, and the National Assembly. King Leeland himself is a continuity with the past that so many people revere, and the Crown Prince represents the future. They are all with us. What do you have? A pretty girl in a fancy suit of armor. You must reach a settlement with us, and give the Moot the compromise they need.¡± Merrily rose to her feet. Now is the time to do our duty to God and to Father, came the Second Voice. It was growing in strength. The First Voice, waning, could only reply: I wish Jonny were here. But he wasn¡¯t. Maybe he never would be again. ¡°The landowners will see that the Queen is right,¡± she stated, projecting more confidence than she felt. Hobb remained seated, and shrugged. ¡°Perhaps,¡± he said without any visible concern. ¡°Talk to them. They have accepted your diplomatic credentials already, and will at least meet with you. Decide for yourself. There are factions, of course, and interests. I assume you¡¯ve been briefed. Thomas Howe seems to have the ears of those who are for the King. If you think you can persuade someone, start with him.¡± Now is the time, said the Second Voice, and it took control. He is alone, and frail. She walked around the table, approaching the still-seated Hobb. She wouldn¡¯t need a weapon. His neck was thin, and his arms bony. A man carrying a tray with a teapot and cups was came into the room behind her, and Merrily froze. He had a bald head, and rather pasty white skin, and his eyes had an oddly red cast to them. She felt a shiver of recognition and a wash of cognitive dissonance, but couldn¡¯t pin down the reason. Frustrated by the intrusion, Merrily turned to leave the room. The servant bowed his head respectfully and stepped aside. ¡°Mrs. Hunter,¡± came the voice of the First Minister behind her. She turned back, keeping a tight grip on her competing emotions. Hobb had risen to his feet, and his shoulders were slumped forward. He leaned on the table with his hands and looked down. He suddenly looked weary, old, and frustrated. ¡°We should not be fighting, you and I. The enemies of Uelland are all around us. The Holy Empire has not given up on reconquering its lost colonies, not in eight centuries. The Svegnians, Carolese, Brassens, the predatory trading companies¡ our fighting helps all of them. They are the true enemies, not King Leeland, and not Anne. And the Ecclesia lurks behind all, working without rest to drag us back into slavery and madness. If you would come to Uellodon and see the Republic for yourself, I think you would change your mind. I mean you personally, Mrs. Hunter. Circumstances were ill there during your last¡ adventure. We were recovering from insurrection, invasion, and famine. Those problems have been solved. Come, as my guest, and see what we have built.¡± I would sooner cross the Wastic Sea on a log, remarked the Second Voice. But then there was a third voice. I would like to see this Republic, it said. ??? Merrily sat on a simple, narrow bench in the dim belfry of the Cathedral of Saint Bob. Below her, the four massive bronze bells hung still. They would not ring the hour for some time yet. Next to Merrily on the bench sat Father. They looked out to the west at the setting sun. It illuminated the towers and walls of Farley Island, set some distance out in the river and linked to the mainland city of Green Bridge by the long spans of Three Fish Bridge. The soft, yellow light did not ease the livid scars on Father¡¯s face; rather, they threw them into greater contrast. ¡°What are you afraid of, Merrily?¡± he asked. She stared out to the west, not looking at him. ¡°I¡¯m afraid I¡¯ve made mistakes,¡± she mumbled. ¡°That when I had a chance to make the right choice, I didn¡¯t; leaving home, going to Triad, getting married¡ And that when I¡¯m at the next choice, I¡¯ll make another mistake. I¡¯ll never be able to go back and fix it.¡± He smiled at her, the scars changing shape. ¡°Is that all?¡± She looked up at him sharply. Was he mocking her? ¡°Doubt is in man¡¯s nature, Merrily,¡± he said soothingly. ¡°It is what defines the experience of living for most people. Doubt is as much a prison as desire.¡± I want to escape the prison, she thought. ¡°This world will end soon, Merrily,¡± said Father quietly. ¡°All things will pass into fire and darkness. The prophecies in the scriptures reveal it. The signs are all around us. The only mistake you can make is to distance yourself from God, and from me. Only God can take away your doubt, and only I can deliver you to God.¡± I want that; her own voice inside her head, echoing. Is it real? ¡°I am the way, Merrily,¡± he said, staring into her eyes. ¡°I am the only way.¡± Yes, said the voice. And¡ªno, at the same time, in the same voice. ¡°Only in total surrender can you overcome your doubt,¡± he continued, holding her fast with those deep eyes. ¡°The Elect are at peace because they have given all their doubt over to God, who knows all and creates all. They have placed themselves in His hands, to whatever purpose He chooses. You can, too. You know the way. I have already led you to it.¡± No, said the first voice. These words are not true. It is a fantasy. A story. He preys on our weakness. Yes, said the second voice. It must be true. It is the only way to escape from our doubt. He prays to heal our weakness. He leaned his face close to hers; the pungent smell of corn starch that clung around him filled her nostrils. ¡°Do you choose to give up your doubt, and your desire, and place yourself in God¡¯s hands?¡± The First Voice: NO! The Second Voice: I choose it. She wept for a time, and he watched silently. And then she said: ¡°Yes.¡± He did not touch her. For them to touch would be sin. She looked out at the last light of the sun with blurry eyes, her nose running and her chest shuddering. ¡°I¡¯ll miss the sunset,¡± she said. ¡°Hmm?¡± ¡°When the world ends, and we go to Heaven,¡± she clarified. ¡°Are there¡ are there sunsets in Heaven?¡± Father smiled gently. ¡°There is no desire, Merrily. There is no flesh to see light or darkness. To perceive a thing is to be different from it, but in God¡¯s Kingdom there is no separation from the Presence. You will not need light and darkness to feel joy; you will feel only the Presence. Now come with me, and we will take you below to be baptized into the Communion.¡± ??? Merrily¡¯s eyes snapped open. She had dozed off in the carriage. It took her a moment to reorient herself to the dull, gray world in the streets of Roosterfoot. The coach helpfully gave a hard jolt, and she bumped her head against the ceiling of the small compartment. For a moment, the pain drove away all the dreams and all the voices inside her. When she returned to Tabard House, she wrote out a message to General Sir Thomas Howe, taking care to keep her letters neat and precise. She stamped it with the seal that Queen Anne had given her, and sent it out with Mr. Mowatt, the coachman. At the door to her chamber stood Mr. Stiggins, her last remaining bodyguard. His breastplate was carefully polished, and the Snugg badge was displayed proudly on his shoulder. He stood at precise attention as she approached, the long gun facing up to the ceiling with its butt on the floor. He had a short beard, neatly trimmed. ¡°Good afternoon, Mr. Stiggins,¡± she said politely as she entered the door to her quarters. ¡°Ma¡¯am,¡± he replied with a sharp nod. He remained at attention. Merrily gave up; Stiggins and Mowatt hadn¡¯t been sent along to keep her company or listen to her problems. She nervously paced up and down in her bedchamber, wondering how she could possibly convince so many doubtful men. It was hopeless. Perhaps we should all go to the King, said the Third Voice. He¡¯s so much stronger, and he¡¯s the authority above all others. He¡¯s like a father. It isn¡¯t safe to defy authority. I want us to be safe. We need your perspective on this matter, remarked the Second Voice acidly, like we need a head with a hole in it. It¡¯s getting far too crowded in here, agreed the First. There was barely space for the two of us. If we keep adding voices, we¡¯ll never get anything done. There isn¡¯t anyone else, is there? I passed another girl on the way in, actually, stated the Third Voice. She was going on about the oppression of the patriarchy. God help us all, groaned the Second. ??? Merrily was shocked at how young General Sir Thomas Howe appeared. The Hero of Baldwick was in his early thirties, with thick dark hair untouched by gray and piercing green eyes. He was lanky, but solid. He wore a trim suit of dark gray, and a cravat of gold-dyed silk. The knight-general¡ªher briefings indicated that he still retained his unusual rank in the command staff of the King¡¯s Heavy Horse¡ªrose politely and gave her a precisely moderate bow. His butler, who had just announced her, left quietly, shutting the door behind him. Howe swung his hand toward one of the overstuffed armchairs that were set in a loose semi-circle in his library. A coal stove radiated welcome heat, driving away the chill of the November rain outside. She looked around curiously; the lush decorations and soft upholstery somehow didn¡¯t fit the character of the man at all. ¡°It¡¯s rented,¡± he said with a wry smile, following her gaze. ¡°So is the butler. My home is a farm about ten leagues south of the city. Family¡¯s there. But the delegates are expected to maintain official residences in Roosterfoot during the Moot, and so here we are.¡± He waited until Merrily seated herself, then poured her a cup of tea. He fumbled slightly with the teapot, spilling some of it on the surface of the side table. ¡°Damn,¡± he muttered. ¡°Never get used to these silly things. Give me a pot of black coffee anytime.¡± Merrily watched him closely as he set the teacup down on the table before her, his hands trembling slightly with the effort of keeping the overfull vessel from spilling. The hands were calloused, and the wrists bore a number of faint scars just visible under his white shirt cuffs. He seated himself opposite her in the semi-circle, putting his own teacup on the table, where it remained untouched. She smiled at him and thanked him. She decided she liked Thomas Howe. ¡°You¡¯ve come to convince me to declare for the Queen,¡± he said abruptly. ¡°And you expect that if I do, about half the King¡¯s faction in the Moot will follow along.¡± She widened her eyes slightly; she¡¯d expected to have to wade through an hour or two of small talk before it got to this. ¡°Yes,¡± she said, a bit hesitantly. ¡°King Leeland and the Republic have started down a path that will lead to misery for all of Uelland. The Queen has vowed to restore and protect the freedoms that people of this Kingdom have enjoyed for eight centuries. The Republic has already demonstrated¡ª¡± He waved his hand. ¡°Yes. You¡¯re right. I¡¯ve read her speeches. Assuming that¡¯s what she said in person, she¡¯s a hell of an orator. And her criticism of the Republic is well-taken. I¡¯m scared by what I see there.¡± Her back straightened in the chair, and she narrowed her eyes slightly. ¡°Then you¡¯re prepared to declare for the Queen?¡± she asked. ¡°No.¡± ¡°Why not? If you think she¡¯s right¡ª¡± ¡°I can¡¯t.¡± He shook his head firmly. ¡°I took a vow, when I joined the Heavy Horse. Every man in the Heavy Arms takes the same vow¡ªof loyalty and obedience directly and personally to King Leeland. The vow is explicit; there¡¯s no room for misunderstanding or interpretation. If the King orders me to vote in the Moot to declare for the Republic¡ªand he has¡ªthen I am bound by honor to do it, whatever I may think.¡± Merrily could feel the color draining from her face. ¡°Surely you have your own opinions, knight-general? Your own view of what is right and wrong?¡± ¡°I do,¡± he agreed. ¡°And the first right is to keep one¡¯s word. Only integrity makes a person powerful-man, woman, soldier, farmer, knight; doesn¡¯t matter. An oath, once given, must be kept, or else no one will or should ever trust that person again.¡± She stared at him, wondering what words she could say. She wanted to cry, or to scream, or to run away, but she didn¡¯t. ¡°Mrs. Hunter,¡± he said, looking at her earnestly. ¡°You look like I¡¯ve stuck a sword in you. I¡¯m not asking you to give up hope, or for the Queen to give up her principles. There is hope. But that hope lies with you, and with Queen Anne-to compromise with the King, and with the First Minister. As long as the Heavy Arms are bound by personal oath to King Leeland, we will vote, and fight, as he commands. Reach an accommodation with Hobb, Mrs. Hunter. End the rebellion. Don¡¯t make us ride against Green Bridge. You can shape and direct the course of this new Republic from the inside far more effectively than by fighting it from the outside.¡± He paused and cast his eyes down. ¡°And I would very much regret having to actually stick a sword in you.¡± She stood up, and he rose with her. ¡°I¡¯ll arrange for you to meet other leaders of the loyalists,¡± he said gently. ¡°I¡¯ll send a messenger with invitations. Speak with them. Hear what they have to say. There is a vote in one week.¡± There was a cacophony of voices inside her, but she simply bowed to him. ¡°Thank you, knight-general,¡± she managed. ¡°If you reconsider, I am at Tabard House.¡± ¡°There is one other thing, Mrs. Hunter,¡± said Howe, offering his elbow and showing her to the door of the study. He paused a moment before opening it; he seemed to be hesitating over something. Then leaned his head close to her ear. ¡°First Minister Hobb is conducting more than diplomacy in Roosterfoot,¡± he whispered. He pulled back and looked into her eyes. ¡°I have a few officers from my old company with me here in the city. They are quartered near the gates, and they watch. His coach passes out in the evening¡ªalways the north gate. General Sir Logwall is with the army at Swallow Hall, to the south, so I doubt Hobb is going there. My men have followed him for a mile or two, but I¡¯ve told them not to reveal themselves or my interest, so they can¡¯t follow far. It may be nothing. Perhaps he fancies the countryside. But I think not; Hobb is a man of purpose. And whatever that purpose is, it takes him away from eyes in the city.¡± She raised an eyebrow. ¡°I thought you were absolutely loyal to King Leeland?¡± she asked. ¡°Why tell me this?¡± He scowled. ¡°My oath was given to King Leeland the Third, not Hobb the Wise.¡± Howe nearly spat the name. ¡°He has given me no order bearing on the First Minister, other than to accommodate him. And I don¡¯t like Hobb, nor do I trust him. You are correct, Mrs. Hunter, that he leads us into darkness. Perhaps if you pay attention, you can find out what variety of darkness it is. And perhaps if I bring it to King Leeland, my orders may change.¡± He held open the door for her. ??? A spindly wooden chair with thin strips of cloth for a seat perched on the wooden deck of the broad rooftop observatory, and on the chair sat Merrily. The city of Green Bridge spread out before her. Beyond it, to the east, were laid out the vibrant fields of early summer. The wheat was still young, and had not yet taken on the amber gold color that would sweep over the farmlands later in the season. Though it was late in the day, the sun was still high in the sky. Tomorrow was Midsummer. It will all end, soon, said the Second Voice. But there are no sunsets in Heaven, replied the First Voice. Next to her, Rolly delicately poured a cup of tea and set it on a tiny instrument table that stood between them. His own chair was broader than hers to support his considerable bulk. They were mismatched, but equally elderly. Around them, the Astronomy Department¡¯s rooftop telescopes were carefully covered with sheets of undyed canvas. It produced in the mind the effect of sitting in a rock garden. ¡°How were exams?¡± he asked. ¡°Have you got them back yet?¡± She nodded and sipped at the tea. ¡°I did alright. Cyrus took forever, and he wrote snippy comments all over it, but then gave me the highest mark in the class. Glibgrub wrote nicer things with fewer words, and I got a B. I¡¯ll never understand how professors work.¡± He snorted. ¡°That¡¯s why I went for mathematics¡ªthere¡¯s always a right answer. If you disagree with the professor, you can either figure out where you went wrong or change the rules of the universe to make yourself right.¡± Why shouldn¡¯t there be a right answer in history? wondered the First Voice. ¡°Haven¡¯t yet figured out the trick to changing the universe, of course,¡± Rolly continued. ¡°But I¡¯m working on it. If you want my advice, Merrily¡ªand you did invite me to tea¡ªbe patient with old man Stoat. Learn from him. I can¡¯t believe I¡¯m saying this; the man is a jackass. But he¡¯s not the kind of jackass that kicks you for the fun of it. He, uh, brays to get you going in the right direction¡ and pulls the cart when you¡ªGod, I don¡¯t know where this metaphor is going. Why did you want to see me? I¡¯m sure it wasn¡¯t for my witty dialog.¡± She smiled at him. Rolly was safe. She could rely on him never to take a thing too seriously. Life needs to be taken seriously, said the Second Voice. If you get it wrong, you burn in the Pit for all eternity. That prospect demands a certain gravity. ¡°I got a letter from Wigglus yesterday,¡± she said softly, her eyes cast down at the deck at her feet. Then she stood up and moved restlessly over to the parapet. Do not dwell on him, said the Second Voice. Father says he is an abomination. He is my friend, and I love him, replied the First. ¡°How¡¯s his law practice?¡± asked Rolly. ¡°I always liked Wigglus. Sensible fellow, no pretentions. And he doesn¡¯t compete for the ladies.¡± She turned around and looked at Rolly sharply. He waved his hand with airy dismissal. ¡°Oh, I knew it, Merrily. Come on¡ªeveryone knew. You can tell by watching people. He was always with Frederick. They stood close to each other when they didn¡¯t have to. They gazed into each other¡¯s eyes when they thought no one was watching. You could see their heads tilt just a bit, in that way that people do when they want to put their mouths together. It¡¯s the same thing you and Mr. Miller do when you want to tear off each other¡¯s clothes in public. It¡¯s disgusting, but I suppose that¡¯s what love does to the brain. The polite thing is just to ignore it. So¡ªwhat did Wigglus say that¡¯s got you so worried?¡± I counted four mortal sins in that monologue, observed the Second Voice. How many did you get? Zero, answered the First. ¡°What were the four?¡± she asked aloud. ¡°What?¡± Rolly¡¯s look was suddenly confused. ¡°Oh¡ªsorry. Thinking of something else. He¡¯s¡ªhe¡¯s alright. Says the courts have been busy. Lots of people want to hire him and his partners to defend them against the new laws. He¡¯s rented an office next to the High Court.¡± ¡°That doesn¡¯t sound bad. Not bad enough to put one of those worried frowns on Merrily Hunter¡¯s face.¡± Her gaze drifted past him, down to the elegant stone buildings of Farley Island, far below them. She thought for a time, while he waited patiently for her to speak. ¡°I miss him,¡± she said finally. ¡°I haven¡¯t¡ sung anything or made music since he¡¯s been gone. And I¡¯m worried about him, too. He said in his letter that the National Assembly has passed all kinds of new laws. It¡¯s illegal, now, to give material support to an enemy of the Republic. That sounds good, sort of, but the law says that the King gets to determine who¡¯s an enemy of the Republic. Some of the other lawyers have been threatened with criminal charges. He made a joke of it in the letter¡ªsaid the courts have been writing all kinds of colorful opinions and refusing to apply the laws. But that can¡¯t go on. And I worry that he¡¯s leaving things out to make me feel better, or in case the letter was read by someone else.¡± She turned away and looked back to the west, and to the forests over the river. To her surprise, she was blinking back tears. This is attachment, said the Second Voice. It is desire¡ªfor companionship, for what we feel Wigglus gave to us when he was here, for him to tell us we are good and worthy and wise. We desire that, and that is why we hurt. Attachment and desire are temptations of the mortal world, and tools of the Dark One. To find peace, we must release that desire and surrender ourself to God¡¯s will.Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. It didn¡¯t help. And then Rolly was next to her, standing and looking out over the parapet. He put an arm around her shoulders and held her gently while she cried. They were there for many minutes as her shoulders shook and her breath came in short gasps. When it had passed, he handed her a scrap of cloth to dry her eyes and blow her nose. ¡°If there is a God,¡± said Rolly, ¡°then she is a painter, and all of this life we live is her painting. It isn¡¯t flat, and it isn¡¯t made of paint. It goes on and on in three and four and five dimensions, through time and possibility and outcome. All the threads are real, even though we can only see just a tiny little bit. If there is a God, then she gave us this rooftop to stand on in this branch, and a view out over the farmlands, and a good meal to eat downstairs in the Pinny Purse, and money to pay for it with. And in this part of her painting, she drew you apart from Mr. Snort. But she gave you Jonathan, and Professor Stoat, and Queen Anne, and everyone else you care about. And I suppose¡ I suppose she gave you me, in this moment, for whatever that¡¯s worth.¡± Don¡¯t say anything, said the First Voice. Don¡¯t say it. I don¡¯t want to hear about how he¡¯s wrong and evil, and that God is a Father, and the world has a beginning in light and an ending in fire and justice, or any of the rest of it. Just be quiet, alright? The Second Voice was quiet. ¡°Come on,¡± said Rolly. ¡°It¡¯s getting late. Let¡¯s go to supper, and then I need to come back up here with Professor Tentimes. Come with me, and I¡¯ll show you her new star.¡± ??? Merrily rubbed the sleep from her eyes and sat up on the bed. She had drifted off for a few minutes, staring out at the cold November rain and the dark overcast of the sky. Her next meeting was in an hour, with Mrs. Heweston of the Republican faction. She wearily stood up and leaned over the writing desk, looking over her briefing notes by the dim light of two oil lamps. Heweston: Old family, owned a broad swath of mixed-use farmland to the south, rented out to tenants. Staunchly conservative, but no one really knew what that meant anymore. In five days of meetings, of polite tea, of strained luncheons, Merrily had striven to absorb the worries and ambitions of the gentry and lesser nobles of central Uelland. Precious few of those conversations had produced movement in the votes. Mr. Towling-Snoot had seemed swayed on the second day, and she¡¯d taken heart; but Messrs. Grufflimb, Croowglyn, and Timtum had rebuffed her in quick succession, citing General Howe¡¯s opposition. Yesterday, Garret Bragg had suggested he might change his position in exchange for certain favors from her, and she had politely excused herself while desperately trying, and probably failing, to give the impression that she might be more receptive after the vote. This morning she¡¯d chalked up a victory with Fanny Asquith, recent heiress to a large estate just west of the Haalsterne; but no one else took seriously Miss Asquith¡¯s opinion on any matter but that of her future husband. By Merrily¡¯s own count, the Queen¡¯s faction had fifteen votes and the Republicans had twenty, with eleven on the fence. She had been followed around the city, of course. Merrily had expected nothing less. She¡¯d rigged up a thin mirror on the carriage door, and used it to watch behind the little vehicle without peering out. Hobb¡¯s spies, not particularly subtle, were comprised of the same two or three roughly-dressed horsemen who regularly trailed along behind her. She¡¯d quickly concluded that their goal was intimidation as much as surveillance. Her eyes drooped again, and she rubbed them, peering at the sheet of notes in the dim light of the bedroom lamps and fighting off sleep that threatened to overwhelm her again. Daytime meetings had not been Merrily¡¯s only occupation. She had sent Mr. Mowatt to rent a room opposite Hobb¡¯s residence, in which she posted a rotating cast of young boys and girls from the streets who were keen to earn a few pennies every day by reporting on the comings and goings of the First Minister¡¯s elegant black carriage. Merrily herself took up the post in the evenings, entering through a back door of the apartment building. Each night before leaving Tabard House, she dressed in the shabby clothes of a male laborer, her face stained a light brown with a distilled lotion of cinnamon and butter. A false beard¡ªone of the best available in Green Bridge, thanks to a generous line of credit from the Queen¡ªrounded off the disguise. Three nights out of five, the carriage had left the front gate of the residence shortly after sunset, Hobb himself recognizable in the window by his bald head and thin, almost cadaverous face. Each night it went out, the carriage returned well after midnight, its curtains drawn. The fatigue and boredom she endured to observe the First Minister¡¯s patterns wore on Merrily¡¯s patience, until last night she had decided to follow him. When the carriage emerged, she quickly slipped downstairs to where Winston waited, saddled and ready. She followed the carriage through the streets to the north gate of the city, where it departed into the night. She walked Winston through the market square, scanning nonchalantly for men who might be waiting to intercept or tail her. Hobb¡¯s spies might not be subtle, but Merrily didn¡¯t trust them to be totally incompetent. She did not ride near the gate itself, but instead crossed the square and rode into a narrow lane on the other side. She turned Winston around a corner into an alley and slipped off, waiting to see if she was followed. She did not have long to wait. The clop of horses¡¯ hooves came down the lane outside the alley, moving slowly. She led Winston to the other end of the alley and out into the street beyond, then brushed his nose gently and made soothing noises to keep him still. She peered around the corner, looking back down the alley to the little lane. Two mounted horsemen rode slowly past the other end of the narrow way, looking from side to side carefully. They had no visible weapons, but Merrily could see several lumps beneath their cloaks that could easily be swords or clubs. The two men paused for a moment to look down the alley, and Merrily drew her head back. Then the clop of the horses¡¯ hooves moved off, continuing up the lane. She pulled herself carefully onto Winston¡¯s back, waited a moment or two, then casually directed the horse back toward the city center. She did not return to the square that night, but instead took a circuitous path back to Tabard House. Tomorrow, said the First Voice, as she sat now in the gray light of the rainy afternoon. Tomorrow we will follow the First Minister outside the city. Perhaps we will find something that will change the mind of Thomas Howe. Or perhaps we will find Hobb the Wise alone and without help in some dark corner of the night, added the Second Voice. Perhaps we will carry out Father¡¯s command. This is madness, said the Third Voice. The Moot will vote, and it must affirm the rightful allegiance of the landowners to the King and the Republic. We will not kill Hobb the Wise. We will go with him to Uellodon. Also, we were followed¡ªso the workman disguise is ineffective. How the Moot votes, insisted the Second Voice primly, has as much relevance to God¡¯s plan for us as the contents of Mr. Stiggins¡¯ mustache. This debate is an obsession with the irrelevant. Now¡ªpray. It is our duty to God to pray. Merrily sank to her knees. ??? ¡°Do you have children, Mrs. Hunter?¡± Mrs. Heweston peered at her through a pair of expensive, gold-rimmed spectacles. They sat in her drawing room before a roaring fire, listening to the howl of the wind and rain outside. On a low table before them, a pair of mugs held hot, spiced cider that Merrily found a welcome change from the endless parade of teacups. Mrs. Heweston herself was an older woman; perhaps fifty years, perhaps a little more. Her face was lined and creased with the years, but Merrily could see that in her youth she would have been exquisitely beautiful. She wore a gown of gray silk, tastefully trimmed in black and silver. Her gray hair, done up in a severe bun, seemed to be an extension of the dress. ¡°I don¡¯t, madame,¡± she answered. ¡°But I¡¯d like to one day.¡± ¡°Your husband. Miller. He works for Snugg?¡± Merrily nodded, masking her surprise. Mrs. Heweston was the first of her meetings who knew anything about her beyond her songs. ¡°I heard you sing, once. I was a guest of Lady Triggle in Green Bridge. Your voice was most pleasing. I believe it was Miss Hunter then?¡± ¡°It was,¡± Merrily confirmed. ¡°Mr. Miller and I were married last October.¡± ¡°And you have not yet produced a child?¡± inquired the older woman. Merrily couldn¡¯t quite read her tone; it was somewhere between inquisitive and accusing. She blushed despite herself. Thank God we haven¡¯t, said the Second Voice. I want a baby, said the First petulantly. I want a baby, and no amount of prayer or purity will stop me wanting a baby. Demography is destiny, proposed the Third Voice. It is our duty to the whole community of Uelland to raise the next generation of citizens. ¡°Demography is destiny,¡± she muttered to herself. ¡°I don¡¯t follow,¡± said Heweston, eyeing her narrowly. ¡°What? Oh. I¡¯m sorry, Mrs. Heweston. I only meant that¡ well. Mr. Miller and I have not had a child yet. But if we could get back to the matter of the Queen¡¯s proposals for Roosterfoot¡ª¡± Mrs. Heweston interrupted her. ¡°Mrs. Hunter. One day, I assume, you and your husband will have one or more children. When you do, I think you will find, as I have and my daughters have, that the priorities you hold dear will change¡ªdramatically. When you have brought a child into the world, that child lays a burden on you. It is a burden to create a place of stability and safety, Mrs. Hunter. If you do not yet feel that burden, then you will soon. A family requires stability and safety to raise, and as women it falls on us first to produce them. I have heard people say that this burden is unfair. To those people, I say: It is neither fair nor unfair. It is reality. We have all the cares and ambitions and desires of men, and we have another burden to go with them. The question we ask ourselves as women, when all those other cares have exhausted themselves, is: Have I made the world around me a safe place for my child?¡± Merrily stared at her, quite at a loss. She is irrelevant, said the Second Voice. She is correct, said the Third Voice. Mrs. Heweston continued to peer at Merrily, gently prying her apart with those dark, slightly beady eyes. ¡°If the decisions we make here produce war in our country,¡± said the older woman eventually, ¡°then we will pile another burden on the backs of tens of thousands of women, who want¡ªwho need¡ªfirst and more than anything else, to keep their families safe. We must not do that, Mrs. Hunter. We must not. Does Queen Anne appreciate that reality?¡± Merrily took a breath. The Republic IS safety, said the Third Voice. It is a system, and an order. We¡¯ll make rules so everyone does what they should, and if they don¡¯t they will be punished. I want our child to live in a place where there are rules to make everyone do the right thing. But the First Voice would have none of it. Let me take this one, it said. ¡°She does, Mrs. Heweston. She surely does. The Queen has a son of her own, who has been away from her for many months. You are well informed, madame, so you must know that General Logwall took Prince Leeland from his mother by force. That¡¯s the character of the Republic, Mrs. Heweston. It¡¯s a machine; not a machine like a mill or a printing press, but a machine made of people. Its work is to decide what is right and then force you to agree. You can¡¯t argue with it once it has done its work, any more than you can argue with a mill or a press. If the National Assembly decides that your son must be taken away from you, then it will take him, and it will tell all your friends and neighbors and family that it was right to take him. If a King hurts you, you can say he is wrong and fight against him, because he¡¯s just a man and men can be wrong. But if a Republic hurts you, it must be right. You voted for your representative, and so did everyone else. You agreed to this. It¡¯s there in the definition of the thing, and you can¡¯t escape it. And when they decide to take your food from you, or your land, or your family, then that must be right too. Is that the safe world you want for your children and your grandchildren? It¡¯s not the world I want for mine.¡± Her cheeks were flushed, and she was speaking quickly. She could feel the Third Voice screaming soundlessly in horror, but she ignored it. She forced herself to slow her breathing and lean back in the chair. Mrs. Heweston¡¯s face was unreadable. She lifted a mug of the hot cider to her lips. Merrily forced herself to follow, and found she was thirsty. ¡°I think,¡± said Mrs. Heweston, ¡°that we all will need some more time to consider this.¡± ??? That evening, Merrily opened the curtains on her window and stared out into the dark and rain. On the second floor of a building across the street, a faint, dim crack of light showed an occupied room with its blinds mostly closed. They twitched slightly as she revealed herself in the window. Good, said the First Voice. They¡¯re watching. She closed the curtains and summoned Mr. Stiggins, the bodyguard. ¡°Stiggins,¡± she said. ¡°Take off your armor.¡± Mr. Stiggins looked confused, but obediently unstrapped his breastplate, laid it on the chair, and then undid the arms and legs and laid them on top. He stood in his padded undergarments, looking rather foolish. ¡°Take off the padding,¡± she instructed. ¡°Mrs. Hunter¡ª¡± he began, but she silenced him with a wave of her hand. ¡°Off, Stiggins,¡± she commanded. He took off the undergarments. Only a thin loincloth and a rather stained undershirt remained. ¡°Now, Stiggins. I want you to put on this dress.¡± She indicated one of her riding dresses, laid out neatly on the bed. Stiggins looked mortified. I think this may be an abomination, said the Second Voice. What do you two think? Is it an abomination? I¡¯m not sure how the scriptures apply here. He¡¯s pretending to be a woman, but there¡¯s no sex or anything. I feel like this should be an abomination, though. Shut up, said the First Voice. Stiggins had not yet obeyed her instructions. He, evidently, considered it some variety of abomination. ¡°You are being paid, Mr. Stiggins, to follow my orders. Is that correct?¡± He nodded in terror. ¡°Put on the dress,¡± she said, her voice final. She had to help him, of course. Mr. Stiggins was categorically unfamiliar with the elements of female attire. There was also the matter of the chest; she stuffed some socks into one of her brassieres and strapped it on him. The dress didn¡¯t fit perfectly, but she quickly let out a few seams, and decided it would do. She selected a wig from her diplomatic chest, tied the guard¡¯s hair back carefully, and settled it on his head. Then she sat him down and applied a thick coat of makeup. After it was finished, she stood back and examined her handiwork carefully. He looked nothing like her up close, or even credibly like a female of the species, but in a dark night, from across the street, and through a sheer curtain, it would do. ¡°Well done, Mr. Stiggins,¡± she said. ¡°Now help me into your armor.¡± ??? That night, across the street from Tabard House, a pair of spies watched through the crack in their curtain as a young woman in a dress paced about in the room across the street. They remained dutifully in place, seeing as Mrs. Hunter had decided to stay in for the time being. They were grateful to be out of the cold rain, which was slowly turning to sleet. The elegant black coach emerged from the carriage house of the First Minister¡¯s residence and rattled unhurriedly through the streets. A pale, bald head could be seen inside, staring out pensively into the darkness. A single coachman drove the carriage; he was unarmed, and doubtless he hadn¡¯t the slightest immediate concern for his own safety. Somewhere behind the carriage, a lone mercenary on a brown palfrey trotted along the streets, headed in the same direction. He had a thin mustache and wore an iron helm with high check guards that covered most of his face. He slouched in the saddle, enduring the miserable weather to go about his duties, whatever they were. Roosterfoot was a nervous sort of place, and one more armed guard in the street drew little enough attention. Three men in rough clothes and heavy cloaks rode some distance behind the carriage. They saw the mercenary, just as they saw scores of other soldiers, workmen, farmers, and craftsman. The little parade rode on toward the city gates. And then, incongruously, at the gate there was chaos. A small herd of cattle had, it seemed, broken free from their pens and were wandering aimlessly through the market square, ignoring their handlers¡¯ frantic imprecations to relocate. Though the hour was late and the weather foul, a handful of vendors still haunted the square, their motivations ranging from greed to desperation. Carts and stands containing merchandise of all kinds had been tangled and fouled by the cows, and the proprietors were arguing volubly with anyone they could locate who might be responsible. The regular traffic of carts, carriages, horsemen, and pedestrians were fighting and shouting to get through the press of cows, overturned carts, and angry merchants. A handful of lawyers circulated through it all, hungrily drawn by the prospect of an especially damaged seller of goods or an unlucky pedestrian who might slip on one of the rapidly accumulating lumps of pungent brown on the ground. Into this swirling melee of curses, cow shit, sleet, and attorneys disappeared the elegant black carriage. The three rough men on horseback who had followed the carriage entered after it. The tired mercenary paused at the edge of the maelstrom, apparently taking stock of the tactical situation. Then he circled around the edge of the market square, understandably keeping a close eye on the action within. He reached the city gate itself, where two confused guards who had been about to close up for the night had abandoned their posts to join in the shouting and fist-waving. An elegant black carriage emerged from the melee and disappeared through the gate. Several moments later, the mercenary followed. A small village lay just outside the walls, catering to travelers and merchants who found the gates shut, or else found it more convenient to conduct business in a quiet spot just out of town. The black carriage turned off the main street, into a side lane behind a squat, shabby public house. And there it stopped, and waited. The mercenary rode past the lane, not looking in. He turned the brown palfrey after the row of small cottages beyond the public house, then swiftly dismounted and tied up the horse. He slipped around behind the cottages, then crept through the rain and darkness to stare at the black carriage from behind a large and uncomfortably prickly holly bush. The door opened slightly, and the light of the carriage¡¯s oil lamp showed that a pale hand had emerged. The hand gestured insistently in the direction of the mercenary, plainly commanding: Approach. The holly bush was silent. A bald head emerged into the rain, looking directly at the holly bush. ¡°Mrs. Hunter!¡± said a voice. ¡°Come and get out of the weather!¡± The bush twitched, and Merrily stood up. She looked rather sheepishly at the bald man in the carriage. It was difficult to see his features through the dark and sleet, but it looked like Hobb. She walked hesitantly forward, not quite sure how one was supposed to walk when one¡¯s cover has been completely disintegrated. Eventually she settled into a confident saunter, and approached the carriage. The man¡¯s head had disappeared inside, but the door was still open slightly. She stepped in, removing Mr. Stiggins¡¯ helmet. The man inside was not Hobb the Wise, First Minister of Uelland. It was the bald, pasty-skinned servant who had brought tea at the First Minister¡¯s residence. His eyes were pale, and seemed, by the dim light of the lamp outside, to have a slightly red cast. Merrily sat up straight in shock. She recognized him, and not from Hobb¡¯s residence. ¡°You!¡± she gasped. ¡°I know you! You were on the road outside Uellodon!¡± ¡°Good evening, Mrs. Hunter,¡± said the man in the carriage with her with aplomb. She looked around in confusion, half expecting to see Hobb climb in the other door. ¡°He¡¯s not here,¡± said her companion. ¡°He¡¯s in the other carriage.¡± Merrily looked down, feeling foolish, and started to move toward the door. ¡°Wait,¡± said the man. ¡°You remember me, yes?¡± She looked back at him. He met us at the gates of Uellodon, said the First Voice. He made the crowd stop attacking us, and he gave us the pendant that is tucked into our chest at Tabard House. I¡¯m fairly certain he¡¯s some kind of demon, posited the Second Voice. ¡°Are you a demon?¡± she asked. ¡°No,¡± said the man. ¡°But you¡¯re not the first person to think so. I take no offense. I¡¯ve found my¡ appearance¡ causes discomfort to some.¡± ¡°Your name¡¡± She trailed off. He arched an eyebrow. She had seen him before Uellodon, too. In the woods south of Hog Hurst, when she and Jonny and Cyrus had been searching for Michael Rider and his lost book of surveys. He was with two other men, and they had similar names. That meeting had led to goblins, and the great underground finery, and Beatrice Snugg, and Uellodon¡ ¡°Your name is Boris,¡± she said. ¡°At least, that¡¯s the name you gave us.¡± He nodded, in apparent satisfaction. ¡°Your memory is as it should be, Merrily Hunter,¡± he said softly. ¡°Why are you here?¡± she demanded. ¡°And where is Hobb?¡± ¡°Hobb the Wise has another errand tonight,¡± said Boris. ¡°And you are here because you followed this carriage and got in.¡± ¡°What errand? What is Hobb doing outside Roosterfoot?¡± ¡°He is doing the same thing you are doing inside Roosterfoot; he is negotiating. But you are here, and not following him to his negotiations, because it would be¡ premature¡ for you to interrupt him.¡± Merrily shook her head and reached for the door to the compartment. Her skin was crawling; something was wrong about Boris. She couldn¡¯t see exactly what it was with her eyes, but she could feel it throughout her body. She looked at him closely. What was it? What was wrong with the man? ¡°It is a hole,¡± he said in response to her gaze. His voice was soft, and his slight accent impossible to place. ¡°There is a hole in me, and what comes through the hole causes the feeling that made you stare at me just now.¡± I told you, said the Second Voice. Demon. ¡°Where are your friends?¡± she asked, her voice shaking slightly. ¡°The other two men from the road.¡± ¡°They have their own errands,¡± he said. ¡°In most outcomes, we meet again, before the end. But I do not see where they are now.¡± His posture was relaxed, his face untroubled. He seemed almost serene. Merrily sat back on the padded seat, her mind struggling to make sense of both the strange words and the cognitive dissonance of the man in front of her. ¡°What do you want from me?¡± she asked finally. ¡°You arranged for me to be here. You talk like some kind of seer, but if you¡¯re not going to give me a straight answer to my questions¡ªthen at least tell me why we¡¯re sitting in a carriage in the rain and snow outside Roosterfoot.¡± ¡°I am truly sorry for the frustrations I must cause you, Merrily Hunter,¡± said Boris. He seemed to be genuine, but the ambiguity of his pronouncement teased at her mind. ¡°In truth,¡± he continued, ¡°I would rather let the world do as it wishes, and the people in it.¡± Lies, snapped the Second Voice. He is a demon; a servant of the Dark One. Demons manipulate, and lie, and deceive. Hush, said the First Voice. I want to listen. Boris rubbed his eyes wearily, as if fighting some sudden pain. ¡°But I must play the part set out for me,¡± he said, ¡°as we all must. I have three purposes in tonight¡¯s adventure. One is to prevent you from interrupting Hobb. That I have already done; his carriage passed by us several minutes ago. The second and third are instructions, which you may follow if you wish. They will be to your benefit¡ probably. I gave you a gift when we met outside the gates of Uellodon, before your choices at the inflection.¡± The inflection? wondered the First Voice. What is he talking about? Choices? Demon! screamed the Second Voice. Demon! Don¡¯t listen to demons! You people are entirely too excitable, commented the Third. Listen now, and we will decide later what to do with what we hear. No! Demon! This is not a controversial point! We must not listen to him! We must escape¡ª ¡°Be silent,¡± said Boris sternly. And the voices were silent. He continued. ¡°Wear the circle, Merrily,¡± he said. ¡°Not where others can see it; but it must be on you.¡± ¡°You mean the little thing you gave me at the gates of Uellodon? The circle made of sticks and grass, with the spokes coming out of it and the black stone?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± he confirmed. She thought for a moment, grateful for the sudden silence in her mind. ¡°I¡¯ll consider it,¡± she said. ¡°And what is the second instruction?¡± His face grew somber, almost sad. And yet¡ªat the same time, a kind of carnivorous smile played at the edges of his lips. ¡°When the time comes, Merrily, you must go to the one you love.¡± She stared at him. ¡°That¡¯s it?¡± she said at last. ¡°All that mystical nonsense, and all you have to tell me is ¡®Wear the thing I gave you¡¯ and ¡®Go to the one you love¡¯? I¡¯m disappointed in you, Boris.¡± He shrugged and opened the door for her. ¡°I¡¯m afraid life is full of disappointments. But if it is any comfort, I wish you the most joy you can find from it. And¡¡± he hesitated a moment, as she stepped out into the rain. ¡°Know that she loves you,¡± he added. Merrily turned around, hoping to catch something in his face; but the door had already closed, and the light from the lamp showed nothing on the inside of the cab. The driver on the carriage shook the reins, and it moved out into the darkness. ??? At noon the following day, the delegates gathered at the Moothall. Rows of chairs had been set in the center of the chamber, facing inward toward a raised platform with a podium on it. Raked seating filled up the rest of the room. The walls were decorated with rather moth-eaten tapestries in faded earth tones. It smelled of old wood and slightly musty cloth. There was little ceremony, though the delegates were dressed in formal clothing for the occasion. The men wore dark suits with white, starched shirts and a variety of colorful cravats; their shoes were polished, and many wore top hats as they entered. The women wore gowns in dark, subdued colors. Many observers had gathered as well, and there was a buzz of hushed conversation in the broad hall. Merrily¡¯s eye caught Mrs. Heweston speaking somberly with two other delegates, both men. The older woman glanced back at her briefly, and Merrily thought she saw a hint of a smile. But nothing else passed between them. ¡°Good morning, Mrs. Hunter,¡± said a voice behind her. She turned; it was Hobb the Wise. The tall, slim minister was dressed in a rather rumpled dark gray suit and a dark cravat. There was a slight stubble of white whiskers on his face, and his few wisps of hair were disheveled. But his voice was steady, and his eyes were placid. ¡°Good morning, First Minister,¡± said Merrily politely. He is fortunate his servant interrupted us, growled the Second Voice. We should have killed him. ¡°Today we will find out what the Moot thinks of its choices,¡± said Hobb urbanely. He smiled. ¡°Let us be grateful that no one has thought to propose an alliance with the Ecclesia. I think we can both agree that they would be worse than either republicanism or monarchy?¡± Merrily smiled, as the voices in her head launched predictably into a profanity-laced screaming match. But the conversation moved on before they could organize a vote. ¡°I expect we will agree to that,¡± she said. Hobb motioned her over to one of the benches for observers, and they both sat down. Hobb¡¯s tall, thin frame hunched over awkwardly; he was not made for benches. He clasped both hands together in front of him and stared at them, as if all the answers lay inside. ¡°Have you considered my proposal, Mrs. Hunter?¡± he asked. Yes! barked the Third Voice. Absolutely not, said the First. I¡¯d sooner move to outer Svegnia, agreed the Second. ¡°To come with you back to Uellodon? I¡ I suppose I have considered it. But I am sworn to return to Green Bridge and Queen Anne after the Moot.¡± ¡°You are a diplomat, yes?¡± he said. ¡°You are invested with powers plenipotentiary. Exercise your discretion, and come with me on a diplomatic mission. You can explain it all to Anne by pigeon. Tell her you think there¡¯s an opportunity for a breakthrough in negotiations.¡± Merrily arched an eyebrow. ¡°Is there?¡± she asked. Hobb looked up suddenly, his gaze intense. ¡°Yes! Yes, there is, Mrs. Hunter. It is essential that we fight, not each other, but the true enemies of the Kingdom. Even now, the Svegnians are massing an invasion force near Growlgub. The Brassens have been nibbling at the border towns in the southeast for months, and the Carolese have cut off all trade from the Gulf. Every day we are focused inward is one more day we risk military disaster. And...¡± He trailed off, his tone uncertain. ¡°And what?¡± Hobb the Wise said nothing, but looked at his hands. ¡°Why do you want me to come to Uellodon, First Minister?¡± asked Merrily, beginning to grow suspicious. At that moment the speaker called the Moot to order, and the delegates filed to their seats. Hobb looked up at her, then motioned her outside with his head. They slipped out quietly, donning heavy coats against the rapidly falling snow. Hobb put on a top hat. Together they walked through the white-dusted streets of Roosterfoot, until they reached a small tea house near the Moothall. It was nearly empty; anyone who could afford a cup of tea was crammed into the Moothall watch the delegates and the vote. They seated themselves, and a serving maid brought a teapot and cups. Hobb leaned his elbows on the table and stared at her with those deep, gray-blue eyes, as if he were trying to see something on the other side of her. At last, he spoke. ¡°All my life, Mrs. Hunter, I have striven to apply rationality to the world. The Republic brings order and justice¡ªthe products of reason¡ªto a realm where previously there was caprice and the whim of the powerful. But I am sorry to say that at times the world does not cooperate in the application, or even the appearance, of reason.¡± ¡°What do you mean by that? Be specific if you would, First Minister. I¡¯m sorry to say my tolerance for vagaries is at a low ebb.¡± He looked at her gravely across the table. ¡°Two years ago this past July, I sent a man out of the Kingdom in search of a¡ a legend. He was a political enemy; a nuisance, or perhaps more. Who he was doesn¡¯t matter. I sent him to find the lands of the Giant-Men. Don¡¯t laugh Mrs. Hunter. I struggled not to laugh, at the time. He knew he was being sent on a fool¡¯s errand, but he agreed because King Leeland ordered him to go. He was to be absent from the Kingdom until ten years had passed, or he located the lands of the Giant-Men. I thought never to see this man again.¡± Hobb poured her a cup of tea, and slid it across the table to her. He poured one for himself as well, blew on it delicately, and then sipped the hot liquid. ¡°This man has returned,¡± said Hobb after he swallowed the tea. ¡°He broke his exile?¡± asked Merrily. ¡°No,¡± replied Hobb, shaking his head slightly. ¡°I once threatened to have him executed if he returned without completing his impossible assignment. How hollow that threat was! No, Mrs. Hunter. He has come back, and he has brought with him a children¡¯s story out of the wastes of the north. He has brought back Giant-Men.¡± Merrily stared at him. ¡°Are you having a joke at my expense, First Minister? If so, I think we are both needed back at the Moothall.¡± ¡°No, no. Don¡¯t go, Mrs. Hunter. They are real. I have seen them. And¡ other things. Things too mad to be true. But they are real. They are all real, and they are a terrible threat to all of us.¡± ¡°And you want me to come to Uellodon¡ to see these things?¡± she asked. ¡°No!¡± he said, raising his voice. Then he regained control of himself. ¡°No. Excuse me. I didn¡¯t mean to shout. I hope you will never see them. I want you to come to Uellodon because, Mrs. Hunter, we absolutely must make peace. We must stand together against these Giant-Men, and the¡ things¡ that they have with them. If you and I can bring Anne and Leeland together to work out their differences, we have a chance to confront them and drive them back. You have Anne¡¯s ear; she trusts you. Come to Uellodon, speak with the King, and see that the Republic is not the evil you think it is. Then go back to Green Bridge and tell her to come and meet us on neutral ground.¡± She looked at him for a long time, listening to the yammering inside her mind. But she found that, after last night, she could detach herself from it more easily. Be silent, she said. And aloud, she said: ¡°No.¡± He didn¡¯t repeat it; he didn¡¯t argue. He just stared at her. Then he spoke again. ¡°If you will not come for all the reasons I have just offered,¡± said Hobb quietly, ¡°then perhaps you will consider another reason. Your friend, Mr. Snort, has become involved in an unfortunate domestic situation. He and some other lawyers were involved in an incident at the High Court. Some of the judges resisted a lawful order of the King, and lawyers and bailiffs got involved in it as well. There was an altercation, and an escalation, and¡ªwell, I¡¯m afraid the High Court has become cut off from the rest of the city.¡± ¡°Cut off?¡± Merrily said incredulously. ¡°What do you mean? Did it drift out into the Green River?¡± Hobb shook his head, smiling thinly. ¡°No. Let me be blunt, Mrs. Hunter. The High Court is under siege. The Republican Guard permit no one in or out, but the attorneys and judges are heavily barricaded, and have supplies. I do not want it to end in violence, but we cannot permit this to continue. Your friend, Mr. Snort, is well respected by both the bench and the bar. If you would come to Uellodon, perhaps you could enter the courthouse and speak with him. You could persuade him and the judges to accept a deal, to come out in return for amnesty. Otherwise I fear there will be a great deal of blood before this is ended.¡± She hesitated. ¡°I¡¡± she began. At that moment a man in a red cloak and a three-cornered hat burst into the tea house. ¡°First Minster!¡± he blurted. ¡°They¡¯re voting! Please come!¡± By the time Merrily and Hobb reached the Moothall, the vote was complete, and the speaker was reading the results. Hobb elbowed his way firmly through the crowd ahead of her, and they drew near to the rope barricade that separated the delegates from the onlookers. ¡°In favor of the motion: twenty-five,¡± he intoned. Murmurs began to grow in the crowd. ¡°Opposed to the motion: twenty-one. The motion carries. This Moot will reconvene in the spring. Dismissed.¡± ¡°What was the motion?¡± Hobb asked the people around him. No one responded immediately. ¡°What was the motion?¡± he asked again, turning from face to face. ¡°What did they just vote on?¡± A familiar gray-haired figure appeared before them. Delegate Heweston, dressed in a black gown with a white frill, nodded politely to both Merrily and Hobb the Wise. ¡°What was the motion, Mrs. Heweston?¡± asked Merrily. ¡°The motion,¡± she replied gravely, ¡°calls on King Leeland and Queen Anne to negotiate their disagreements and create a new constitutional settlement for the whole Kingdom of Uelland. Until such time as the disagreement between them is resolved, Roosterfoot and the counties represented at this Moot will remain neutral between the parties.¡± ¡°Nothing?¡± said Hobb, raising his voice. ¡°You¡¯re doing¡ nothing?¡± He looked shocked; it was not an emotion that suited him. But Merrily narrowed her eyes and looked carefully at Mrs. Heweston. ¡°It¡¯s a delay,¡± she said. ¡°You¡¯re waiting to see who¡¯s likely to win.¡± ¡°In part,¡± agreed Mrs. Heweston. ¡°And in part it gives all of us much-needed time to consider our choices, and the consequences. I spoke with my colleagues yesterday and this morning. Most agreed that further reflection is needed.¡± Hobb had re-mastered his countenance. ¡°The Moot has made a choice already, Delegate Heweston,¡± he said smoothly, ¡°which, no matter how much reflection it conducts, will have consequences.¡± And he turned on his heel to stalk out of the chamber. But Merrily ran after him. She caught him in the swirling, flying snow outside the Moothall. He turned back when she called out to him. The snow had already built up on his top hat, giving him the appearance of a thin, angry snowman. ¡°I will go with you,¡± she said. ¡°I will go back to Uellodon.¡± Chapter 14: Hobb the Wolf November 25th Merrily first saw the Rose Tower from a great distance, peeking above the tops of trees and low buildings around the Eldenway. The glass panels of the observatory at its peak caught the light of the setting sun to the west, reflecting it back in a tiny pinprick like an early star in the growing dusk. For many miles, that was the only hint of the royal city that could be seen at all. Then, gradually, the other spires and tall rooftops began to emerge beneath it. Uellodon grew out of the ground before her like an eager fungus. She thought back to the day, a year and a half ago, when she, Cyrus, Wigglus, Frederick, and Rolly had first ridden up to these gates. There had been a terrible press of beggars at the roadside then, and it had seemed at first that their little party would be swarmed under. But then a man had emerged from their mass, dressed as shabbily as any but with the poise and confidence of a king. He had raised one hand, and the desperate crowd had melted away in fear. He had given her the small token that she wore now under her shirt. And then he had disappeared. Now, that man rode next to her carriage as they approached the city, idly humming some nameless tune, shifting uncomfortably in the saddle he had occupied for two weeks of travel, and otherwise behaving like a perfectly ordinary human being. He even picked his nose occasionally. She had given up trying to understand Boris. He was too slippery. He had evidently undergone some preposterous metamorphosis from an eerie beggar into the trusted secretary of Hobb the Wise, attending his master whenever he left the coach and scribing notes, correspondence, and drafts of the First Minister¡¯s speeches. Gone were the patched robe and hood that he had worn when Merrily first knew him and his companions. Now, he dressed in the sober, dark suit and small white cravat of a professional clerk. The voices in her head had staked out wildly opposing views of the man; whether he was a demon or a prophet or merely an ambitious scribe, they delighted in arguing endlessly. But no part of Merrily could suppress the dark shudder than ran though her whenever he looked at her. A caravan of Foregrub wagons was ahead of them at the north gate, and there was a wait while paperwork was checked and cargo inspected. And then the wagons moved on, and it was their turn. No men stopped her at the gate, this time, to grope her and take her money. The People¡¯s Watch, with their red and black kerchiefs, had been replaced by red-cloaked men of the Republican Guard with long spears, breastplates, and three-cornered hats. But their faces had the same hard, uncaring look. Seeing the First Minister¡¯s coach and retinue, they snapped to attention and permitted the official party to pass by. ¡°They¡¯d really look better with those new ¡®guns¡¯ the Snugg people are giving to their mercenaries, don¡¯t you think?¡± remarked Hobb with a sly smile, nodding at one of the smartly-dressed Republican Guard. ¡°Why don¡¯t you buy some from Rufus Snugg?¡± asked Merrily, with a sly smile of her own. Hobb grimaced. ¡°Outrageously, they won¡¯t sell them to the Republic¡ªor anyone else, for that matter. And Rufus Snugg won¡¯t let the designs and formulas out from where he¡¯s brooding on them, in the bowels of that old mine in the north. Little surprise, given Snugg¡¯s relationship with Anne and the Charter Council, but baldly illegal. We¡¯ll put a stop to it soon enough. In the meantime, our own chemists are working on replicating the formulas and designs.¡± ¡°Any success?¡± Hobb shrugged. ¡°You, Mr. Miller, and Anne Linsey Gray will find out when the Republican Guard appears at the gates of Green Bridge carrying them¡ªor when you come to terms with the Republic.¡± He made a tent with his hands in front of his face, and lowered his head slightly, looking up at her through thick, gray eyebrows. His eyes glinted in the dim interior of the carriage. Hobb had, mercifully, refrained from arguing politics with her during most of the two-week trip from Roosterfoot, but could not restrain himself from slipping in the occasional jab. Rather than take the bait, Merrily looked out of the coach¡¯s windows, watching with amusement the soldiers¡¯ visible discomfort as Boris passed near them. He turned his head, looked directly at her, and winked. Hobb had also refused to say anything more about giant-men, or the returned exile, or whatever else he had seen outside Roosterfoot. Merrily began to wonder if perhaps the First Minister had been putting her on after all, or even had let something slip in a moment of excitement that he now regretted. It was already dusk when they passed under the great northern gate in Uellodon¡¯s tall, gray walls. A temporary-looking wooden bridge spanned a wide ditch before the gate, while a pile of rubble clogged the ditch where the permanent bridge should have been. Merrily glanced at Hobb, whose bleak face discouraged any inquiry. In the dim light, the city appeared tidy once again. The graffiti and pamphlets that had littered the walls and streets on her last visit were gone, and people moved about in apparently contented clumps, or ones and twos. There were queues here and there at shops, but gone were the brown-robed Ecclesia priests handing out bread to long lines of desperately hungry people. Merrily tried to read the faces of the passers-by, wondering if she would see the same fear and desperation that had animated them when she was last here. But she found it wearying to stare at strangers in the fading light, and gave up. ¡°I want to go to the High Court,¡± she said to Hobb. ¡°I want to talk to Wigglus right away.¡± Hobb shook his head. ¡°All in good time, Mrs. Hunter. I appreciate your desire to help us solve this problem, but it can wait until tomorrow morning. I have sent word to have quarters prepared for you at the New Academy; you will be my guest while you are in the city, and Chancellor Pearsy will look after your needs. As a diplomat, you may come and go as you please, of course; but for your own safety, you will be escorted.¡± Merrily looked straight ahead, trying to ignore the debate that raged on in her head and the twisting fear in her stomach. A thought began to grow that Hobb had outmaneuvered her. ??? The Old High Court of Uelland had been constructed to resemble, in style and function, a fortified castle. The front gate was flanked by two enormous guard towers of thick stone, capped by conical roofs that rose high above the walls. The walls, too, were of thick stone blocks, and the windows on the ground floor were narrow. Two tall, sturdy-looking doors of wood, reinforced with iron, barred entrance. Battlements ringed the tops of the walls, and a tall, elegant roof at sharp angles loomed behind them. Merrily could see figures moving about on the battlements, though few details were visible from so far below. Only about half a mile separated the Old High Court from Palace Naridium, and so Merrily had little time to absorb the details of the city in sunlight. But it was apparent that, at least for the blocks around the courthouse, the residents had been evacuated and a military perimeter set up. Red-clad guardsmen were posted in squads behind barricades facing the courthouse, with both their crossbows and their own bodies under tension. She could see more red-clad figures posted on rooftops of the buildings around the open square surrounding the courthouse. Their eyes watched closely as she, Hobb, and a small squad of guards approached the square. Two tall bronze statues flanked the short walk from the street to the gates of the Old High Court. They were both women, robed in the classical style of early Dusk Imperial antiquity. One of the women held a shield before her, and the other raised a sword upward, point out and away from the court building. Their faces were sad, but determined. ¡°You may go in,¡± said Hobb quietly, standing next to her. ¡°They have not attacked anyone who approached the gates, in the past; the gates simply remain shut. Two of the King¡¯s Counselors are inside. They were attending a court hearing when the incident began. They aren¡¯t hostages, but I believe they¡¯ve remained out of some obscure sense of ethical duty. Killbrand tried to explain it, but the abstractions involved stretch even my appetite for pure theory. At any rate, they may be helpful to you. Good luck, Mrs. Hunter.¡± His eyes fell to the ground, and he looked as though he wanted to say more; but instead he turned away and walked briskly back toward the nearest barricade, his tall frame sweeping guardsmen away from him like some black-clad broom. He is a broom of the devil, insisted the Second Voice. He sweeps the unwitting into the dustbin of perdition, where they will be dumped out with the rest of the refuse into the Eternal Trash Pit. It¡¯s a bit laborious, honestly, criticized the First Voice. Couldn¡¯t he be sweeping away the human garbage from the streets instead? suggested the Third. Maybe humanity needs a good sweeping, so that the right people make the right rules for a change. Merrily walked slowly up to the gates. The reinforced doors remained shut. ¡°My name is Merrily Hunter!¡± she called up to them. ¡°I wish to enter and speak with Wigglus Snort!¡± There was a silence from above, and the doors did not move. She stood her ground, waiting. The gazes of the Republican Guard behind her seemed to bore into her back. And then, after what seemed hours, the two doors swung outward slowly; she saw that they were made of oak timbers at least six inches thick. Beyond was a shallow passage with a portcullis at the far end. And beyond that, standing erect in a bright chamber beyond the entryway, was Wigglus. He was thinner than she remembered him, and his curly hair was a bit longer, in need of a trim and a brush. His clothing was torn and dirty, and several small scars tarnished his statuesque face. He wore the medallion of the sword and shield above a rather battered cravat. But it was Wigglus. He smiled at her wryly through the bars of the portcullis. When the portcullis raised, she rushed into his arms. He held her tightly, and she clung to him fiercely for just a moment. ¡°I missed you,¡± she said, pulling back and looking into his startling, emerald-green eyes. ¡°I told you we¡¯d meet again, Merrily,¡± he replied with a smile. ¡°But I¡¯m afraid my foresight didn¡¯t extend to the exact circumstances, or I¡¯d have warned you to stay away. Or to bring an army with you.¡± ¡°I wouldn¡¯t stay away, and I can¡¯t bring an army. What happened here? And what happened to your face?¡± He motioned for her to follow him. ¡°I¡¯ll tell you while we walk. I have a small office on the top floor. It isn¡¯t much, but it¡¯s a place we can sit and talk awhile.¡± The entrance chamber of the courthouse was a towering space, with its ceiling nearly fifty feet above their heads. Paintings of old men and women in black robes decorated the walls, interspersed occasionally with statues. The floor was of brilliant white marble, and a large, round window of stained glass near the ceiling admitted softly tinted light. Somewhere nearby a man¡¯s voice was speaking in a hypnotic cadence, its volume calibrated to carry to a large room. The speaker was using Uellish, but it was full of words like ¡°notwithstanding¡± and ¡°heretofore¡± and ¡°equitable estoppel.¡± ¡°The court is in session,¡± said Wigglus, nodding his head toward a large double-door that was closed, from which emerged the man¡¯s voice. ¡°Actually, they¡¯ve been in session without break since the seventh of October. The justices and clerks and attorneys are taking it in shifts. My shift is coming up in half an hour, so I can¡¯t talk for long.¡± Other men and women, dressed in the sober black coats of attorneys and clerks, moved through the marble-clad corridors of the courthouse. Many carried handfuls of papers with them, and some argued good-naturedly with each other. Most greeted Wigglus politely as they moved passed, addressing him as ¡®Attorney Snort.¡¯ Wigglus turned and started up a narrow stair set into one of the interior walls. ¡°Why has the High Court been in such a long session?¡± asked Merrily curiously. ¡°You mean to say they haven¡¯t stopped at night, or for meals?¡± ¡°Not for a moment,¡± said Wigglus over his shoulder as they climbed. ¡°That¡¯s why we take it in shifts. The KCs do as well. There are only two of them, so they have to take longer shifts.¡± The narrow stair went up for four floors, and then opened out into a hallway, much less grand than the marble corridors on the ground level. Still, it was well lit with oil lamps and natural light from windows at the end, and it was clean. It smelled of books and old wood and oil. Wigglus stopped at an unremarkable door; it had a small placard that read: ¡°Snort, Towel, & Breakthumb.¡± He opened the door and led her into a modest office, cluttered with bookshelves and dominated by a large desk covered in papers. He tidied some of the papers off a wooden chair and offered it to her. ¡°I¡¯m afraid I¡¯ve let the place go a bit, as John Towel and Davey Breakthumb are on the outside,¡± he apologized. ¡°We¡¯ve carried on with some of the smaller cases, but mainly with the Foregrub and Quimble matter.¡± ¡°Why has the court been in session for so long?¡± Merrily asked again. ¡°You told me how, but not why.¡± Wigglus sat behind the desk and hunched over. The window behind him left his face in shadows, and he seemed suddenly old and tired. ¡°By long tradition and precedent, no one may lawfully interrupt a sitting court¡ªnot even the King. The Crown has respected this rule for centuries, even during the crisis between King Gordon and the Magistrates. It was only after the Magistrates got tired and suspended their session that Gordon had them exiled from the city. We¡¯re determined not to make that mistake.¡± ¡°Hobb didn¡¯t mention this. He just said you¡¯d barricaded yourselves in the Old High Court.¡± Wigglus looked at her narrowly. ¡°And you took his word to be complete? I doubt the First Minister would lie you to outright, Merrily, but his selection of facts is tailored to his view of the world. The two KCs who are in here take their shifts in the courtroom to prevent the Crown from being declared in default, true, but they also attend so that the court session can legally continue. That should tell you more about the power of the courts than Hobb would admit. Those two men would much rather be home with their wives and children, and they are free to leave any time¡ªbut the minute they show their faces outside the Old High Court, the Republican Guard will storm this place and arrest the justices. So they stay.¡± ¡°What is this session all about?¡± asked Merrily curiously. ¡°What have you been arguing about nonstop for all these weeks?¡± ¡°Foregrub and Quimble,¡± he answered with a grimace. ¡°One of my cases originally, but I¡¯m afraid it¡¯s gotten a bit out of hand. The Crown seized all their assets and took control of their operations throughout Uelland. I won¡¯t bore you with the grubby details, but it¡¯s illegal in about a dozen different ways. Messrs. Foregrub and Quimble themselves have been imprisoned at Hoel since May of last year. On the seventh of October, Justice Woodbrow finally denied the Crown¡¯s motion to dismiss the case and proceeded to set a trial date. Hobb tried to have him arrested while he was still delivering the judgment from the bench, and there was a riot¡ªevery lawyer in the building flooded into the courtroom and overwhelmed the Republican Guard. Woodbrow never stopped talking from the bench throughout the whole brawl, and when it was over, he shifted the hearing directly into pre-trial motions.¡± He gestured ruefully at the scars on his face. ¡°I¡¯m afraid these weren¡¯t from some grim-faced Republican Guardsman, though. During the fighting I tripped over Attorney Hamhock and landed face-first on a glass pitcher. They don¡¯t teach brawling at the Inns of Court.¡± Then his face grew serious again. ¡°Fortunately, a few of us had suspected that something like this might happen, and had laid in food stores. There are few weapons, though¡ªonly what the bailiffs had with them.¡± She blinked. ¡°How does this end, Wigglus? How are you going to walk out of here?¡± He shrugged. ¡°No one knows. But the right way is for the Crown to release Messrs. Foregrub and Quimble, give them back their property and control of their companies, and pay reparations.¡± ¡°That will never happen,¡± said Merrily firmly. ¡°You know that, Wigglus. Be realistic. The most you can hope for is some kind of settlement that lets you and Hobb both save face. That¡¯s part of the legal process, right? Settling disputes between people so they don¡¯t have to keep fighting and risk more damage?¡± He looked at her seriously, the shadows on his face deepening in the dim light of the room. ¡°There were some in this building who might have agreed with you, had Hobb not tried to arrest Justice Woodbrow. But few would agree to compromise after that, and those who would have left already. One does not compromise with evil, Merrily. When a wolf comes for your children, you do not give him one or two as a settlement; you fight to save them all.¡± We speak of laws, and the rightful actions of the State; not of children, observed the Third Voice. His analogy is not helpful. What does he know of children? sneered the Second Voice. His kind will never have any. He knows no less than we do, retorted the First Voice. And why shouldn¡¯t we love justice as much as we love a child? ¡°So how does this end?¡± she asked again. ¡°Hobb won¡¯t compromise if you won¡¯t at least try.¡± He smiled sadly. ¡°There is always hope, Merrily, even when it seems the very pinnacle of folly. Hobb¡¯s control of Uellodon is not absolute; there are people who remember that the courts have always settled disputes fairly and justly. And there are people, too, who have the will to fight against the wolf, even now, when Hobb¡¯s power is at its peak and the King is his ally. Some defy openly, as we do, and some are hidden. Even in the National Assembly there are those who are sympathetic, if not brave enough to show themselves. If you find these people, you may understand better why we cling to the sliver of tradition in our courtroom ritual, and hold on to our little hope.¡± Merrily looked at her knees and said nothing. For a minute there was silence between them. Then Wigglus stood up, walked around the desk, and seated himself in another chair next to her. ¡°I¡¯ve missed you too, Merrily,¡± he said softly. ¡°I¡¯ve missed making music with you.¡± He rose again and walked to one of the bookshelves; from the top, he took down his old wooden violin. ¡°Will you sing with me, Merrily?¡± he asked. She nodded, and he tuned the strings carefully. Then, with a gentle sequence of arpeggios, he began to play a song that she had written with his help. They were notes she had not heard for more than a year and half. For right or wrong, she calls me forward, Demands my love, commands my love, the boatman¡¯s fare. I sing her song, though heavens crumble, And pay the cost, and damn the cost, find heaven there. ??? ¡°I read your analysis of the economic policies of the Vereids with great pleasure, Mrs. Hunter. In my view, you put firmly to rest several of Robert Franco¡¯s more outlandish conclusions.¡± Wembley Pearsy, Chancellor of the New Academy of Uelland, smiled beatifically at her from behind his large desk. The desk was of dark-stained oak, polished carefully and decorated with an elegant rack of pens and a small crystal paperweight. There was a little plaque that had his name on it in gold lettering. It was otherwise empty. The Chancellor himself was a tall man, with an unruly beard and a thick, wild shock of gray hair that stuck out pugnaciously in all directions. He was dressed in a rather shabby suit, with no cravat to be seen anywhere. His shirt, which appeared in theory to be white, was liberally endowed with food stains and deep creases. She looked at him quizzically. ¡°How did you get my term paper from last semester?¡± she asked. ¡°Stoat sent me a copy by post over the summer,¡± he answered, ¡°along with a snippy note about the quality of my new students. I think he meant for it to be insulting, but really, I quite enjoyed the paper. I sent him back a sketch of me teaching in his old classroom here at the Academy, a copy of the new curriculum, and a small box of cat shit.¡± She blinked, biting her tongue. ¡°First Minister Hobb has conveyed to me the King¡¯s sincere desire that I show you around the New Academy, Mrs. Hunter,¡± the Chancellor rumbled on. ¡°I believe he hopes you¡¯ll be so impressed with the new learning that you¡¯ll abandon your ill-advised allegiance to the pretender Anne and transfer here to Uellodon. We¡¯ll see, I suppose. Would you be my guest this morning as we visit a classroom or two?¡± She nodded, remembering her manners through the haze of internal chaos. ¡°I would be pleased, Chancellor,¡± she said. We should transfer here to Uellodon, said the Third Voice eagerly. Jonny can come with us, and we can be on the side of rightful authority. This is a safe place to raise a child, First Voice. We should find Hobb alone and kill him, retorted the Second. We have had dozens of opportunities in the last two weeks, but you two cowards keep outvoting me. When we do, we can return to Father and be with the Elect when the world ends. Wigglus is in terrible danger, said the First Voice, firmly. He needs us to find a way to end the siege. And look, it added, ending the siege will strengthen order in Uellodon, Third Voice. Are we agreed? That is an acceptable common interest, said the Third. We are going to burn in the Pit, growled the Second Voice, and when we do, I will spend all of eternity reminding you both, between our contributions to the endless wailing and gnashing of teeth, that I was right. Merrily followed Chancellor Pearsy down to the grounds of the Academy. The New Academy looked, at a glance, very much like the Old Academy. The buildings were the same as she remembered them from her last visit, and the park-like grounds were tidy and manicured. The tall, rather fusty figure of Chancellor Baconton Sourmash, captured into dubious immortality in a ten-foot statue of bronze, still glowered over the campus square, his head and shoulders draped with a somber mantle of brown and white droppings from the many pigeons that roosted on his long-suffering frame. The chalk scrawls had been cleaned up, the lawn clipped, and the broken windows repaired. In the classrooms, as Merrily and Chancellor Pearsy silently slipped in to watch, men in distinguished robes with gray hair still lectured to packed halls of students seated on the raked rows of benches. But here the differences began to emerge. The students were somehow rougher and older than before, and wore the shabby coats and caps of laborers and field hands. The men lecturing at the front of the halls in black academic robes seemed not quite certain of themselves, and consulted their notes more frequently than any Triad professor would have. The students wrote down every word uttered by the lecturers; there were no questions. They visited a course in mathematics. ¡°For any right triangle,¡± the professor intoned solemnly to the full lecture hall, ¡°the sum of the squares of the two sides forming the right angle is equal to the square of the third side.¡± He indicated a simple drawing on his chalkboard. ¡°Provided,¡± he added, ¡°it leads to an economically just result.¡± Merrily looked sharply at Pearsy. ¡°We¡¯ve made great advances in geometry,¡± he whispered. They visited a course in engineering. ¡°Two considerations govern all others, when approaching a project in civil engineering,¡± proclaimed a small, weedy-looking man with a small, weedy-looking beard. By his robes, he held himself out as a professor. ¡°First, that it be built in service to the public; and second, that it be as large as possible, to better serve the public, which is very large.¡± ¡°A golden age of socially-informed engineering is dawning, is it not, Mrs. Hunter?¡± remarked Chancellor Pearsy quietly. Merrily narrowed her eyes and stared into his face. She thought he looked uneasy, but couldn¡¯t be sure. In a small and rather shabby barn tucked behind one of the grander halls on the campus, they found a class full of dull-looking students. They were seated at rows of benches, and occupied with making clay pottery badly. At the front of the room, an enormously fat man with a large red beard and a forest of unkempt red hair snored loudly on a couch. ¡°The College of Applied History,¡± said Pearsy, not bothering to lower his voice. ¡°When the miscreants of the old academy fled last year, Professor Titley-Balles stayed behind with a few other loyalists. He maintains it was out of a sense of duty to the institution of the Academy, but in my view he was simply too fat to slip out the sewers with the rest of them. He¡¯s tenured, so we can¡¯t sack him, but we¡¯ve had to make some changes to curriculum and the allocation of facilities. I expect he¡¯ll take his pension and retire quietly next year.¡± Merrily looked on the recumbent historian and his classroom of pottery-makers, and found that she felt a surge of pity. Then they visited a lecture hall in which children populated the raked benches. Some were as young as six years old, and the oldest were perhaps thirteen. ¡°A model classroom,¡± whispered Pearsy as they stood in the back. ¡°We are developing new methods of instilling democratic values in the youth of the nation.¡±This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings. An unkempt older man in a dark academic robe and a square cap was explaining some variety of political theory to his youthful audience. The children sat very still, writing quietly on small sheets of paper. On the chalkboard behind were written such words as ¡®nation,¡¯ ¡®justice,¡¯ ¡®equity,¡¯ and ¡®Republican Guard.¡¯ A flag with the crowned eagle of Uelland in black against a white field hung from a pole to one side of the board. ¡°Their families will receive extra food if they get high marks on the quiz,¡± explained Pearsy, sotto voce. ¡°The applicant pool for this course was quite large.¡± ¡°Now, my friends,¡± said the lecturer in a friendly tone, ¡°we are going to learn about how to watch your parents, and also about the rewards you will receive when you report the rules they break this week.¡± There was a disturbance at the rear of the lecture hall then, on the other side of the room from Merrily and Chancellor Pearsy. A number of people in dark, bulky clothing had begun filing in through one of the rear doors. By their shapes, there were both men and women among them, but each face was obscured by a white, grinning mask, of the sort worn by the lesser grade of mummer. A few of them, it seemed, carried musical instruments, and they struck up a jolly tune with banjo, pipe, horn, and a small drum. Pearsy¡¯s face turned an unpleasant shade of red, and he bolted from the room, screaming for the Republican Guard. The man at the front of the hall remained put, but shouted loudly for the intruders to depart. They did not heed his instructions; instead, they descended the steps of the hall in time to the music, handing out candy to the children nearby and tossing it to those further away. The veneer of studious attention shattered, and the children shrieked and laughed at the comical music, grasping for sweets. Merrily watched in detached bemusement as the masked, black-clad figures made their way down to the base of the hall, strutting outrageously. The lecturer drew forth a cane and swung at the closest masked figure, but the woman¡ªher hips and chest revealed it, if not her face¡ªcasually caught the cane in one hand, holding it fast. Then she held out her other hand behind her, and one of her colleagues placed into it what appeared to be a large banana-cream pie. With an exaggerated wind-up, she delivered the pie directly unto the face of the astonished lecturer. The children in the room erupted in gales of laughter. The black-clad figures¡ªthere were perhaps a dozen of them¡ªstrutted and danced around the front of the hall, where two of them quickly erased the writing on the chalkboard and, while their comrades played and cavorted, replaced it with the following words in giant lettering: THE GROWN-UPS ARE LYING TO YOU Three of the intruders flung loose bundles of printed papers into the air. And then, as quickly as they had come, they vanished out the door at the base of the lecture hall, which the professor would customarily use to enter and leave. The lecturer in junior social theory was left picking bits of cream pie off his face and absently eating them. Some instinct seized Merrily, and she dashed down the steps of the hall, toward the door from which the masked partisans had departed. There was a narrow passage beyond it; to her left, she saw a door to the bright outside swinging shut. A trail of leaflets marked the path of their departure. Merrily sprinted down the hall, bursting out of the building. The backs of the black-clad intruders could be seen entering the low dining hall, though it was well past breakfast and not yet time for lunch. Something clicked in Merrily¡¯s memory from her last visit to the Royal Academy, and she instantly knew where they were going. Into the building. Through the largest kitchen. To a small, narrow passage at the back. She had come this way with Cyrus last summer, evading Pearsy¡¯s spies to find a quiet place and share a few crucial words. Through the tight opening, down the narrow stairs to the disused ale cellar. She saw the grate in the floor close just as she reached the landing, and a faint light waning from beneath it. Let us find Pearsy and show him! said the Third Voice urgently. Whoever these people are, they¡¯re plainly enemies of the Republic. We¡¯ll be safer if Pearsy trusts us, because then Hobb will trust us. Follow them, you twit! countered the First Voice. Once we know who they are and where they¡¯re going, then we can decide who to tell. We should have nothing to do with this, sniffed the Second Voice. We needn¡¯t take sides among these infidels, who¡ª SHUT UP! thundered the others. Merrily pried open the grate. There was no ladder beneath, but there was a faint light coming from one direction. With no more hesitation than if she were stepping into a bath, Merrily dropped down through the hole and into the sewers. She had stood here, in very nearly this exact spot, last summer, peering at Cyrus as he hobbled on his wooden leg and held up a single lamp against the darkness. She had asked him, then, why he wouldn¡¯t accept Hobb¡¯s invitation to teach at the New Academy. Cyrus¡¯s eyes glittered at her in the dim light of the lantern. ¡°There¡¯s good, and there¡¯s evil, Miss Hunter. They¡¯re different. It¡¯s not a matter of perspective, or context, or convenience, or social agreement. Right is right, and wrong is wrong. You can¡¯t call one the other and make it so, any more than a turd in this sewer can put on a hat and become the King of Uelland. So be sure you know which is which¡ªand be damned sure you¡¯re on the right side.¡± The faint light flickered, further down the tunnel. She stepped cautiously after it, wading through the fragrant sludge that flowed around her upper thighs. She had no light source of her own, and once she left the grate behind her the only light came from the dim, bobbing glow ahead of her. Hands grasped her arms and shoulders in the dark, and something sharp was pressed into her side. ¡°Hold still,¡± said a man¡¯s voice. It was not an angry voice, but it promised violence if she should resist. She did not. The light ahead of them stopped, and then grew stronger. She soon saw that it was a single lamp, held aloft by a man wearing black clothes. Others came behind. They still wore the grinning white mummers¡¯ masks, but they had added wide pants of oiled leather to their outfits, as proof against the flow of sludge. As the lamp came closer, she saw that two more of the masked people held her. A tall figure held the lamp, dressed as the others; by his movements, she judged he was a man. He drew near to her and held the lamp over their heads, peering his masked face at hers and tilting it, as if he were examining her closely. ¡°Merrily Hunter?¡± he asked in a soft voice with a faint sardonic edge. ¡°It is you, Mrs. Hunter. What a surprise. I quite enjoyed your term paper on the Vereids.¡± ¡°Why does everyone in the city of Uellodon have a copy of my term paper?¡± complained Merrily sullenly. ??? Wallingford Spoon, Chancellor of the Royal Academy in Exile, leaned forward over the small table in the dimly lit room. Merrily had no idea where they were. She had been blindfolded and led through the sewers for many minutes, before climbing a ladder, being led up flights of stairs and down stone hallways, and finally arriving here. It was a small room with a single table, some empty bookshelves, and a boarded-up window. A bit of thin sunlight filtered through the cracks in the boards, and there was also a narrow, hooded lantern on the table. Merrily still smelled strongly of sewage, but Spoon had removed his hip-waders when they ascended from the tunnels, and with them most of the unpleasant odor. ¡°I¡¯ve no idea why anyone else has your paper,¡± replied Spoon. ¡°But Stoat sent me a copy over the summer. The Academy in Exile has a Carolese lawyer in Ville Porpo that receives mail on our behalf.¡± Chancellor Spoon was a tall man with a broad, sturdy frame. He had brown hair, now graying, and a well-trimmed beard that was silver with age. His green eyes held a perpetual twinkle of sardonic amusement. Professor Spoon had been Cyrus¡¯s instructor in Applied History at the Royal Academy, though Spoon was only a few years older. ¡°Why are you and the rest of these people back in Uellodon?¡± she asked. ¡°I heard you and the other professors and students fled the city last year.¡± ¡°That¡¯s accurate¡ approximately,¡± agreed the Chancellor. ¡°A few stayed behind, either out of principle or practicality. Some had families they didn¡¯t want to leave. But most came with us. And, besides my tutorial year students here, those that fled are now safely tucked away in the hills of northern Carelon. It may be hard to believe, Mrs. Hunter, but the first priority of the Royal Academy is still to teach, to research, and to analyze and discuss and publish. Most of our students don¡¯t break prisoners out of the Rose Tower or swing around on chandeliers or get tangled up in high politics.¡± He gave her a pointed look. Merrily blushed. ¡°The chandelier wasn¡¯t me. That was Cyrus, and another woman, and my husband, Jonathan Miller.¡± To her surprise, the words wrenched at a pain deep inside her, tearing open again the briefly-forgotten wound of her parting with him. ¡°You¡¯re a true student of Cyrus Stoat,¡± said Chancellor Spoon with a wry grin. ¡°He never could bring himself to practice discretion when extravagance was within reach.¡± ¡°If the Academy has set itself up in exile, then why are you here?¡± she pressed. Chancellor Spoon looked at her seriously. ¡°Because, if Stoat and I disagree on methods, we are of one mind on principle. The teachers and students hiding out in Carelon are the Royal Academy. The rabble that infests the Academy grounds right now are one vein of the rot that is spreading under Hobb; the most dangerous one, in fact.¡± Merrily thought about that, as the three voices warred in her head. ¡°Because of the children,¡± she said finally. ¡°Quite right, Mrs. Hunter,¡± answered the Chancellor with a faint smile. ¡°No revolution can endure without a change in the underlying culture, either before or after the fact. This is why most revolutions simply dissolve into a new edition of the same old system, whatever their outward political trappings. Same ideas, different hats. But Hobb has set about to change the culture. We have no monolith of shared religious authority that can redirect it, as they do in the Holy Empire; what binds us together in shared values is language and story and history. And how are those values passed from one generation to another, Mrs. Hunter? The Royal Academy, and Triad University, and the countless smaller schools and lone village teachers that rely on them for knowledge and methods and ideas. They are the future of our people. They either preserve it or wrench it onto some new course. If Hobb is permitted to change the knowledge and values that are given to young people today, then in twenty years he will have won his war.¡± As he should, said the Third Voice. And as he will. As he must not, answered the Second Voice. God is the only source of truth and right values. If we follow Hobb, we will burn. ¡°Then why are you fighting against him, Chancellor?¡± asked Merrily, desperate to sway the debate inside her toward some sort of peace. ¡°Why would it be wrong for Hobb to win?¡± The tall academic cocked his head to one side and looked at her curiously. He paused a moment, and then spoke. ¡°Well. It is a surprising question from you, Mrs. Hunter, but not unwelcome. Applied History must always confront the ¡®why¡¯. Very well.¡± He leaned back and stared at the ceiling. Then he stood up. ¡°Come with me,¡± he said. He picked up the lamp from the table and led her to the door of the small room. Outside, in a dim hallway, were a young man and woman of about Merrily¡¯s age, in drab, functional clothing. They glanced at Spoon and Merrily as they exited, but Spoon waved for them to remain in place. There was dust on the floor, and debris of broken furniture as well. A painting of a man in the robes of an Ecclesia priest hung on one wall, but a slash marred it from one corner to another. Spoon held up one finger to his lips, and then walked quietly down the hallway. He paused at a broad but decrepit double door, peering through the crack. Then, with a grunt of effort, he set his shoulder to the wood, forced it open, and stepped through. Inside was a tall, arched space, its upper recesses lost in darkness. Sunlight from the outside filtered through stained-glass windows that began at waist level and soared up at least fifty feet. The lower portions of the windows were boarded, and in the upper reaches she could see holes where the glass had been shattered in places. But the sunlight still reached in, casting vivid colors all over the floor of slate tiles. Wooden pews, some toppled over, lined the broad floor of the open space, and an elevated altar stood at one end. The space on the wall behind the altar, where the Unbroken Circle should have been, was empty. ¡°Where are we?¡± breathed Merrily. ¡°Kavant Cathedral,¡± whispered Spoon in reply. ¡°It¡¯s been boarded up since Archdeacon Ratwaddler and the rest of the priests were¡ disappeared. No one from the outside is allowed in or out, by order of the King. So, of course, it¡¯s the perfect place for our little company to hide. We come and go through the sewers.¡± Merrily took a deep breath, looking around at the majestic windows and the altar. Even in a state of shattered disrepair, the deliberate architecture, the detail of the stonework, and the sheer size of the nave created a palpable feeling of quiet and humility. She found tears springing to her eyes, as something that she had ignored for months found expression again. This is God¡¯s home, said the Second Voice. ¡°Why did you bring me here?¡± asked Merrily softly. ¡°You asked why we struggle against Hobb,¡± answered Chancellor Spoon. ¡°This is part of the answer, and the part that¡¯s easiest to see.¡± She looked at him sharply. ¡°A cathedral of the Ecclesia? You are a believer?¡± He snorted soundlessly, shaking his head in disgust. ¡°Hardly, Mrs. Hunter. Religion is the product of intellectual and moral sloth¡ªa near-universal human desire for someone else to be responsible for the outcomes in our own lives. But Hobb, and presumably King Leeland, were not content to grapple with that instinct through reason and demonstration; they simply had all the priests murdered. They didn¡¯t even bother with the fig leaf of judicial process. The priests were inconvenient, so they were killed and thrown in the Green River. Their bodies still turn up from time to time downstream. That act was murder at a horrific scale, and the only correct outcome under the ancient laws is conviction and execution. ¡°But not in Hobb¡¯s Republic. Already the National Assembly has passed something it calls a ¡®law,¡¯ retroactively forbidding the practice of any religion within the borders of the Republic. This edict is punishable, if the King or his delegates so desire, by imprisonment, or exile, or death. And so Hobb¡¯s mass murder was after the fact made legal, and justified, and morally correct. It was the priests first; and who will be next? If we recognize the principle that the populace can cause anything at all to be just simply by voting for it in sufficient numbers, who next will they justly choose to murder?¡± They stood in silence together under the dimly magnificent colored light of the broken windows. At last Merrily spoke again. ¡°And you have risked your lives to return to Uellodon,¡± she said, ¡°to struggle against Hobb¡¯s new academy and new culture¡ªwith pies and pamphlets?¡± ¡°Oh no, Mrs. Hunter,¡± replied Spoon softly. ¡°Not only with pies and pamphlets.¡± ¡°Are you going to let me go?¡± she asked. ¡°Or are you going to kill me to protect your secret?¡± To her surprise, there was less terror in the prospect than she¡¯d expected. Spoon looked at her gravely, his face cast in a mix of red and blue light. ¡°Will you expose us?¡± he asked. Yes, we absolutely will, declared the Third Voice. But we¡¯ll tell him ¡®no.¡¯ You¡¯d cast our lot with fools and tyrants, accused the First Voice. The answer is truly ¡®no.¡¯ Second Voice, where do you stand? Who cares? grumbled the Second Voice. I have no interest here. Let them all kill each other and take a shorter, straighter path to the Pit. She shook her head. ¡°No. I promise I won¡¯t tell anyone.¡± He smiled. ¡°Then you may go.¡± ??? ¡°I have been visited by an angel, my daughter,¡± said Father. Merrily, on her knees before him, stared silently at the floor. ¡°Do you know what he told me, daughter?¡± asked Father. He sat quietly in the simple, unpadded wooden chair in his office. Bandages wrapped his face, holding poultices that eased the pain of his livid scars. ¡°He told me,¡± continued Father, ¡°that evil not only stalks the streets of this city, but also lounges comfortably in the halls of power. He told me that we who love God must confront this evil and cast it down.¡± That sounds like the kind of nonsense that God would say, observed the First Voice acidly. We risk damnation merely by thinking these thoughts, retorted the Second Voice. Be silent, or throw away our only chance at peace and salvation. The First Voice was silent. ¡°What would you have me do, Father?¡± asked Merrily, still on her knees and staring at the floor. Father knelt in front of her. He did not touch her, but he was very close. She could smell the poultices, and the faint odor of corn starch. ¡°Since the days of the First Prophet, Man has looked up to the stars and counted them. He has made maps of the sky that are constant throughout the generations, and he has seen by this that the heavens are God¡¯s first and most perfect creation. They are a testament to the timeless power of the Almighty. You cannot argue with the stars. ¡°But now a man has looked at God¡¯s stars and placed one there that does not belong, as if the Creation could be improved upon. You know this man. His scribblings and ravings are an abomination against the Most Holy. People will hear him and be tempted away from faith.¡± He paused. ¡°This man thinks you are his friend, doesn¡¯t he?¡± Merrily looked up sharply at Father. ¡°Rolly? You mean Rolly, and Professor Tentimes¡¯ new star?¡± The bandages twitched slightly. She thought it was a smile. ¡°You must kill him,¡± said Father. Merrily tossed uneasily in her sleep, surfacing briefly from the dream. Her mind was filled with guilt and fear. No. Father had never asked her to kill Rolly herself. Her mind had invented that part. Hadn¡¯t it? And what was this thing that had done the inventing, if not Merrily? She drifted back into sleep, even as her conscious mind, still locked in the emotion of the dream, tried to rationalize the murder she was sure she had never committed. She was with Jonny. They were beneath the great canopy in Hog Hurst¡¯s trading square, and she wore a garland of flowers on her head and a white dress. It was warm. She and he were dancing together, slowly, in the simple swaying, turning rhythm of Jonny¡¯s Step. A little band of men and women and goblins played a slow beat on one side of the dance floor, but somehow no one else was there. The canopy was empty, save for Jonny and Merrily. This wasn¡¯t how it was, that night, she remembered. There were many people¡ªpeople from their home in Hog Hurst, people who had travelled from Green Bridge to celebrate with them. And the weather was a bit cold, as the wedding was in October. But this was how her dream insisted it must be. He looked in her eyes as they danced. ¡°Can you imagine how it would have been if we weren¡¯t here now, dancing at our wedding?¡± he asked. A curious question. ¡°Yes,¡± she said. ¡°I can imagine it.¡± He nodded. ¡°I can, too,¡± he said. ¡°I can imagine what would have happened if you¡¯d said ¡®no,¡¯ that day on the road after Uellodon. I don¡¯t think I could have come back here, to home. I¡¯d have gone off somewhere else. It would have been too much. And I¡¯d have spent a lifetime running, and trying to forget, and not being able to.¡± She smiled up at him. ¡°Gloomy thoughts for a wedding night, my love,¡± she said. ¡°Why imagine such a sad world into being, when it doesn¡¯t exist?¡± He kissed her. ¡°Because it might,¡± he answered. She pulled him close to her and drew her arms tight around the back of his neck. He held her waist close to him, and they pressed their bodies together as they turned slowly. She clung to him desperately. ¡°Not tonight,¡± she said. ¡°Tonight, I love you, Jonny Miller.¡± And she kissed him again. She turned and looked at the band, and saw the familiar, squat-headed form of King Simon. The little goblin watched her solemnly, and winked. ??? Merrily, wearing a long pink gown and an elegant hat, stepped out of the padded cabin of the coach and onto the steps outside Palace Naridium. The two red-cloaked Republican Guards at the door stood to attention, and a soberly-dressed butler extended a polite elbow to escort her into the Grand Ballroom. She saw, with bemusement but little surprise, that it was Boris. ¡°You do pop up at the oddest times, Boris,¡± she observed. ¡°I¡¯d like to know what game you¡¯re playing at.¡± He smiled slightly. ¡°If you did, Mrs. Hunter,¡± he replied, ¡°then you¡¯d wish you didn¡¯t.¡± ¡°You¡¯re a second-rate mystic,¡± she said sourly. ¡°All atmosphere, no substance.¡± He shrugged. ¡°You must permit me my idiom, Mrs. Hunter,¡± he said. ¡°Idiom arises when we must understand truths that are difficult to grasp without a reference in story and language. And sometimes atmosphere is substance.¡± Three days had passed since she first visited Wigglus in the Old High Court, and there had been no change in the circumstances of the siege. Men had followed her around the city whenever she went out, with no great care to hide themselves. Where she went, people recognized her, and took care to speak in glowing terms of their newfound security and equality. There was gathering from all and sharing alike for all, they said. Everything was just and fair, they said. But their eyes were afraid. Merrily and Boris passed into the grand hall. The great chandeliers hung dark in the air above them, and Merrily looked up toward the dim ceiling high above. She remembered another night in the ballroom, eighteen months ago, watching Jonny and Cyrus and Mari Snort swing ponderously across the broad, open space on one of those chandeliers, transiting impossibly from the fifth balcony on one side to the same level, where she stood on the other. She heard the echo of the wonderful, terrible music that had filled the room from the little chamber orchestra in one corner, and the throbbing beat underneath it. And then the moment that had come after, when Jonny swung her low before him, kissed her, and asked if she would marry him. ¡°It was an inflection point, Mrs. Hunter,¡± observed Boris next to her. ¡°And I thought the music was a nice touch, if I do say so myself.¡± ¡°You were there?¡± she asked, looking at him sharply. ¡°And don¡¯t wink at me, or I¡¯ll punch you.¡± He raised an eyebrow, and shrugged instead. They passed through the darkened hall and into a smaller chamber, where a table was set for dinner. Hobb the Wise was there, dressed in his inevitable gray suit. There were three other men as well, and a boy of perhaps thirteen years. One of the men she knew to be King Leeland III. She had seen him on her last visit, though they had not been introduced. He had a strong, solid frame, a roguishly handsome face, and a thick mustache. His black hair was beginning to show gray, but at thirty-four years of age he was still in the prime of manhood. The King was dressed in a tastefully subdued dinner suit with a single gold medallion around his neck. Chancellor Pearsy was the second of the three adults, though he looked oddly out of place in his rumpled evening attire. The third man wore the simple white shirt, gray cravat, and black coat of a clerk. His hair was curly and brown, and his face youthful. Yet the face had a hardness to it that suggested a man of terrifying principle. His eyes were dark, and he had an angry scar across one cheek. ¡°Merrily Hunter of Green Bridge,¡± announced Boris, ¡°envoy of Anne Linsey Gray.¡± Then he withdrew. Hobb stepped forward, took her hand politely, and bowed. ¡°Permit me to introduce you, Mrs. Hunter,¡± said the older man. He presented her first to King Leeland, who nodded distantly in return to her precisely moderate curtsey. ¡°This is Maxime Robe,¡± he said next, indicating the man in a clerk¡¯s suit. Mr. Robe nodded coolly, keeping those cold, dark eyes locked with hers. ¡°Mr. Robe helps me with the National Assembly,¡± added Hobb vaguely. And then he turned to the young man. Merrily¡¯s eyes widened slightly as she recognized his straw blond hair and familiar jaw line. The Crown Prince seemed to have sprung up at least two feet since she had last seen him in Green Bridge. She had known him, then, as a serving boy at a tea house that Mrs. Bridge and Mrs. Freeway had visited frequently. She learned later of the ruse, and of General Sir Warren Logwall¡¯s abduction of the boy. But she recognized him from his resemblance to his mother, despite the different color of their hair. With his father, the King, Merrily saw very little resemblance at all. It was an intimate gathering. The King said very little; he seemed out of sorts, and Merrily thought his face was slightly pale. He sipped at his wine, and listened attentively as Hobb rambled on about events and characters at the National Assembly, and in the administration of the city. Pearsy took his turn describing in glowing terms the successes of the New Academy in its third full semester. He made no mention of the disruption in the children¡¯s classroom, and Merrily fancied he kept a nervous eye on her, lest she should bring it up. But she did not. A dozen servants brought in the first course of the dinner, and then the second, and the third. Merrily poked at her food. ¡°And what shall be done about the judges and the lawyers?¡± she asked finally, cutting through Pearsy¡¯s description of the new curriculum in Critical Theory. There was a sudden and uncomfortable silence at the table, which, of course, she had intended to produce. ¡°What shall we do about them?¡± asked Mr. Robe in his cold, soft voice. ¡°Tell us, Mrs. Hunter, what we shall do about them. As they occupy a building that is the rightful property of the State, without the mandate of the State, it seems to me that the only proper disposition is at the end of a noose. Their leaders,¡± and he brushed, apparently unconsciously, at the scar on his face, ¡°necessarily merit exemplary punishment. Where am I wrong?¡± She stared him levelly. ¡°Forgive me, Mr. Robe, for I have not made law my specialty. But it seems to me that a sitting court of law acting within its jurisdiction, and the people who practice within it, are, by definition, carrying out the mandate of the State.¡± Hobb smiled sardonically. ¡°At the risk of dragging a legal debate onto the dinner table, Mrs. Hunter, it seems to me that you¡¯ve gotten to the heart of the problem here¡ªjurisdiction. The law courts are a relic of an old regime that the National Assembly has so far declined to reinstitute in the modern State. But, legal arcana aside, there are practicalities. The courts command respect and loyalty from some. They have a history, and Uellish respect history. Their place is in history, and we would prefer to usher them there gently, not to cast them into the dustbin. What are their terms?¡± ¡°For the disposition of the Foregrub and Quimble case to be respected by the Crown,¡± she said, ¡°and for the work of the courts to go on without interference.¡± ¡°And what is the work of the courts, Mrs. Hunter?¡± asked Mr. Robe. She blinked, and turned her head to one side. ¡°To hear and decide legal disputes, if I¡¯m not mistaken,¡± she replied. ¡°According to what laws?¡± he pressed. ¡°Mr. Robe,¡± said Hobb sharply, ¡°I implored you a moment ago not to drag a legal debate onto the dinner table, and you have now done so. Here it lies, kicking and screaming and knocking over wine glasses. See, I¡¯ve got a bit of legal debate on my cravat. I believe what Mrs. Hunter intended to discuss was, in fact, politics¡ªand that is a different beast. Considerably less kicking and screaming is needed for it to be discussed politely at a dinner table.¡± He turned his thin smile at Merrily. ¡°Your friend, Attorney Snort¡ªhe must have a sense of practicality. He and his friends in the courthouse are adrift from any source of real political power. The National Assembly is against them, the Republican Guard is against them, and the King and his Heavy Arms are certainly against them.¡± Perhaps realizing his presumption, Hobb glanced for a moment at the actual King, seated at the head of the table; Leeland III said nothing, but nodded slightly. ¡°No body claiming to be part of the State can survive without political support, and the judges have very, very little. ¡°But we have made progress, Mrs. Hunter, haven¡¯t we? Their demands are a fair opening position. It is better that we discuss terms, rather than principles, Mrs. Hunter. Terms are flexible, and principles are not. Would you kindly convey to the occupants of the courthouse, when you next see them, that the Crown is prepared to enter into negotiations on a legal settlement regarding the acquisition of Foregrub and Quimble¡¯s assets, and also on the release of the two men themselves from Hoel.¡± She leaned forward. ¡°If the judges truly have no support, First Minister,¡± she said, ¡°then what¡¯s stopping you from storming the courthouse? The lawyers and judges have only bailiffs to protect them, and they are lightly armed. They will present little more resistance than a few hundred priests.¡± Hobb¡¯s face darkened, and Merrily realized too late that she had struck a heavier blow against her adversary than she intended. The painful moment was interrupted as servants entered to clear away the remains of dinner. Others brought in a salad course. ¡°As a sign that you take negotiations seriously, First Minister,¡± she asked, ¡°would you release Messrs. Foregrub and Quimble from Hoel so that they can consult with their legal counsel on settlement negotiations?¡± Hobb leaned back in the chair and stared across the table at her. ¡°You are audacious, Mrs. Hunter. I admire that. Your mistress is well served by you, even if you are not well served by her. I will order the release of Samuel Foregrub, but not Hector Quimble.¡± Merrily looked away, and found that the Crown Prince was staring at her closely. His face revealed nothing beyond intense interest. ¡°They are separate business concerns, First Minster,¡± she began. ¡°They will both need¡ª¡± ¡°Foregrub only,¡± interrupted Hobb sharply. His pale eyes narrowed. ¡°I will offer further concessions only after I receive concessions from the other side.¡± The dinner was soon concluded, and Merrily rose to leave. Chancellor Pearsy and Mr. Robe departed together, and the King and his son left the room by another door. Boris reappeared; before she saw him, Merrily could sense his presence by the strange wash of unreality and d¨¦j¨¤ vu. Hobb, before he too departed, gave her a shallow bow. ¡°I sincerely hope, Mrs. Hunter, that we can reach a resolution with these people,¡± he said. ¡°And with your mistress as well.¡± ¡°You have said nothing more of your fairy tale Giant-men,¡± said Merrily softly. ¡°Have you found they no longer exist?¡± Hobb shook his head. ¡°They do exist; I know this to be true. The nearer danger is that our current divisions widen, and we lose lives in pointless bloodshed when we should be united in defense.¡± ¡°Queen Anne will need to know more about them before they factor into her decisions,¡± retorted Merrily. ¡°She won¡¯t be persuaded by your word that they are real.¡± ¡°One impossibility at a time, Mrs. Hunter,¡± said Hobb sadly. ¡°Good evening. My secretary will show you out.¡± And with that he left through the same door as the King and Crown Prince. Merrily turned to face Boris. ¡°Was it a productive dinner, Merrily Hunter?¡± he asked. ¡°Barely,¡± she replied sourly, leaving the room before he did. ¡°This way, Mrs. Hunter,¡± he said. ¡°The front gate is closed, and I will show you to a door in the side. Palace Naridium is large, and newcomers are often confused by its passages.¡± ¡°I found my way out on my own last summer,¡± she said, slightly ashamed at her own pugnacious tone. ¡°You broke a window and escaped onto a rooftop,¡± said Boris calmly. ¡°Had Rolland Gorp been less precise in his calculations, you would then have died on the stones of the palace courtyard rather than landing in a cart full of manure. Let me take you by a better-smelling, less dangerous route.¡± She acquiesced and followed him through the lamp-lit passages of the palace. They bypassed the Grand Ballroom, emerging through a side door into the rain-swept courtyard. Her carriage was standing by, lit by oil lanterns on its exterior. The liveried driver held open the door for her, and she gathered up her skirts and stepped in. She jumped; there was someone in the carriage with her. By the light of the lanterns, she could see a shock of blond hair, and the gangly, thin form of a young man. Her hand crept down to where Lady Triggle¡¯s dagger was strapped to one thigh, inside the skirts. ¡°Good evening, Mrs. Hunter,¡± said the future Leeland IV. ¡°I¡¯m sorry for scaring you. I don¡¯t mean you any harm.¡± ¡°Why are you in my carriage?¡± she asked. Her hand found the dagger and drew it out in the darkness. By the light of the lanterns, she could see his blue eyes glinting. ¡°Mrs. Hunter,¡± he said, ¡°I would like to ask you a favor. You are my mother¡¯s agent, yes? And are you loyal to her?¡± Merrily nodded silently. ¡°Good,¡± he continued. ¡°Then I want you to help me escape from this place. I want to return to Green Bridge.¡± ¡°How?¡± she asked. ¡°I don¡¯t imagine they¡¯ll let you walk out the front gate.¡± ¡°No,¡± he agreed. ¡°They won¡¯t. I¡¯ve tried. I¡¯m watched all the time while I¡¯m here. They¡¯re watching me now; I told Hobb that I wanted to give you a letter to my mother. He read it first, of course, and made changes.¡± He handed her a folded and sealed sheet of paper. ¡°Do what you like with it,¡± he said. ¡°It¡¯s nonsense. I wrote it so I could bring it to you, and we could talk for a minute.¡± She blinked. This was not what she expected from Leeland¡¯s son. ¡°How can I help you, Your Highness?¡± she asked finally. He leaned forward in the carriage, bringing his face into the light. She could see real fear and pain in the young man¡¯s countenance. ¡°Right now there is one place in the city where Hobb¡¯s spies and the Republican Guard can¡¯t go,¡± he said. ¡°One place that¡¯s off limits to them, where I¡¯ll be away from Hobb and Mr. Robe and father and all the rest of them; where I¡¯ll have people who will help me get back to mother.¡± ¡°And where is that?¡± Merrily asked, beginning to dread the answer. ¡°I want to retain the services of an attorney,¡± he said. ¡°A very specific attorney; one who¡¯s stuck his thumb in Hobb¡¯s eye for more than a year. He¡¯s in the Old High Court, and I want you to take me there, please.¡± Chapter 15: Weighty Precedents December 14th, III Leeland:15 To Her Royal Majesty Anne Linsey Gray Queen of Uelland Bastings Hall on Farley Island In the Charter City of Green Bridge
[Variant 5 block cipher, subtype A; as key, use word on fourth line, position corresponding to day of month, modulo word count of fourth line.]
Am safe for now in Uellodon, per my previous dispatch. Hope you received it. Found Spoon and academy friends in hiding. They oppose Hobb. Judges and lawyers, led by Wigglus, have occupied Old High Court to force Hobb to respect their¡ª
Merrily found she was sweating. The new Variant 5 block cipher was designed to be easier for non-experts to encrypt and decrypt, but cryptography was not her strength as a historian. Merrily¡¯s B grade in practical ciphers last semester had been her lowest yet at Triad. She gritted her teeth and slowly worked her way through the word.
¡ªjurisdiction.
Where are you when I need you, Rolly? asked the First Voice plaintively.
Burning in the pit, answered the Second Voice. I expect he produces an especially good flame, being fat.
How does that even work? asked the Third Voice. Do you suppose the soul¡¯s composition reflects the outward form of the body?
¡°Shut up, all of you!¡± Merrily barked aloud. There was a shocked, offended silence in her head, and she went back to her dispatch.
Hobb says he saw Giant-men near Roosterfoot and something else of which he will not speak. A returned exile is involved. Hobb insists we must put aside division to defend ourselves. I have not verified this information.
Your son wishes to come home. Arrangements will be complicated.
She paused in thought a moment longer. Then she turned back to the laborious cipher.
The man Boris is here. He is involved in some way, but I cannot tell whose side he is on. I will explain when I return.
Yours truly, Merrily
She rolled up the thin sheet of paper and bound it with a red ribbon, then stood up and started for the door. There was a pigeoneer up the street from the University grounds had a few Green Bridge birds; with any luck, her message would be in Queen Anne¡¯s hands within a week.
She opened the door and jumped. There was a man there.
He was a slim man; neither tall nor short, but with an inexpressible quality that made him seem much larger than he was. His eyes were a shocking, bright blue, and his brown hair was combed back elegantly, with one carefully placed curl escaping to lounge indolently across his forehead. He was dressed in a coat and pants that would have fit quite comfortably in any clerk¡¯s office, except that they were a deep purple in color. He wore a matching purple top hat.
The man bowed deeply to Merrily.
¡°Frederick?¡± she asked in astonishment. Then she repeated it. ¡°Frederick! Good gracious, please come in.¡±
He took her hand, bowed flamboyantly, and kissed it, then straightened up and swept into her borrowed office as if he were entering a royal ball. ¡°It is I, Mrs. Hunter,¡± he said. ¡°May I sit? Yes? Thank you. Do close the door.¡±
Stunned, she closed the door and sat down in her own chair. Frederick removed his hat and placed it on the desk, then crossed one knee over the other and leaned forward, one eyebrow raised.
¡°It¡¯s lovely to see you, Frederick,¡± she said. ¡°I¡¯d hoped we might cross paths while I was here. How are you keeping?¡±
¡°I molder,¡± he answered disdainfully. ¡°This city hasn¡¯t had a decent ball since last Midsummer, when you and your man lit up Palace Naridium like two stars, one very much brighter than the other. By which I mean you, Merrily. The better sort of people¡ªthe ones that have balls, I mean,¡± and he twinkled his eyes at her, ¡°all fled long ago. No one has taken up the mantle of Beatrice Snugg. All we have left are butchers, bakers, and brewers, each providing dinners to the community out of heartfelt benevolence and without the slightest thought for self-interest. And soldiers; we have a great deal of soldiers to make sure everyone else is exceedingly benevolent and disinterested. But none of these proletarian heroes has the slightest inclination to celebrate the fierce and fiery joy of living. They¡¯re all hiding in their homes, hoping the Republican Guard doesn¡¯t cite them for some new infraction and throw them in Hoel. That toad Hobb has even cancelled the Snow Ball.¡±
¡°I see you¡¯ve got a new suit,¡± she said helpfully. ¡°Your fortunes must have recovered.¡±
He sniffed. ¡°My father died last December, and to my great surprise I found that he left everything to me. I¡¯d always thought the man despised me. Wigglus helped me set up a trust, and now the money is all managed by a charming banker across the river in Ville Porpo, safely out of Hobb¡¯s reach. I visit him every month, and he takes me to all the best parties on the Carolese side. And he sends me back each month with a little sack to live on.¡± He stretched languorously in the chair. ¡°It¡¯s not that little, actually. My sack was quite large this month. We¡¯ve invested in the war industries. I salve my troubled conscience by spending conspicuously; I understand it all trickles down to the working classes.¡±
Merrily rolled her eyes. ¡°Did you pick a new name?¡± she asked curiously. ¡°You were going about in Green Bridge calling yourself Frederick n¨¦e Halfhouse.¡±
He smiled. ¡°It¡¯s Wholehouse-And-A-Half now. Because when I go to a party, it takes up the whole house and half the neighbor¡¯s. But you can just call me Frederick, Merrily.¡±
A great measure of his pretense dropped away then, and his look grew suddenly earnest. ¡°And Merrily, though it warms my tender and suffering heart to see you again, this is not purely a social call. I must ask a great favor of you.¡±
She sat back and raised one eyebrow.
¡°They say you¡¯ve been in the Old High Court,¡± he stated.
¡°Who¡¯s ¡®they,¡¯ Frederick?¡±
¡°The Republican Guard aren¡¯t the only ones watching the streets, Merrily,¡± he replied, lowering his head and looking up at her through long eyelashes. ¡°A great many people watch¡ªand some of them tell me what they see.¡±
¡°Frederick Wholehouse-And-A-Half, spymaster,¡± she said playfully, ¡°what do your watchful friends tell you? And what is this favor you want from me?¡±
¡°They tell me that the Republican Guard have increased their numbers around the Old High Court, and quietly moved stores of weapons into the surrounding houses. You don¡¯t need a spy to tell you how this ends. The favor is this: You are the only person in the Republic who the Guard will permit to enter the Old High Court. I want you to take a message to Wigglus for me. Just a piece of paper, but it must not be seen or deciphered by the Guard. And I¡¯d like you to bring me back whatever he gives you in return.¡±
¡°That¡¯s all?¡±
Her guest smiled wryly. ¡°I¡¯d also like him to walk out of the Old High Court alive, Merrily, but I think that may be too much to ask of you as a favor. So that¡¯s all.¡±
She hesitated a moment.
¡°Are you two still¡¡± she trailed off.
He blinked his lapis lazuli eyes at her. When he spoke again, his voice was changed, and the bitter, acidic edge was gone.
¡°I love him, Merrily. And we are. You understand, don¡¯t you? You can¡¯t choose to stop loving someone. If he changes, or leaves, or hates you, or dies, still you love him. And if it¡¯s to be death now for Wigglus, I won¡¯t live the rest of my life remembering something I might have done to save him.¡±
He withdrew a single, folded sheet of paper from his coat and handed it to her. She opened it curiously; it was filled with rows and columns of apparently random letters and numbers.
¡°A cipher,¡± she observed. ¡°He has the method and the key?¡±
Frederick nodded silently.
¡°I will take it to him, if I can,¡± she said.
Frederick rose to his feet.
¡°If I can be of assistance, Merrily,¡± he said, ¡°I will be offended if you fail to ask.¡± He turned to leave.
¡°Actually,¡± she said with a sudden smile, ¡°there is something you can do for me.¡±
???
That evening, Merrily Hunter rode out from the gates of the New Academy in a carriage borrowed from Chancellor Pearsy. She wore an evening gown of light pink that showed off her shoulders, a diaphanous shawl, and a fashionable hat with a light veil. Her face was rather heavily made up, but could be seen plainly enough behind the windows of the carriage. Four Guardsmen rode behind the carriage, and others, in plain clothes, watched its progress carefully.
The carriage went first to the Merchants¡¯ Post, where Merrily disembarked and put several letters in the mail. They were opened and read, according to Regulation Fifty-Six; but they were found to contain a few bits of unremarkable social news from the city and several pages of bad poetry.
The carriage then took its occupant to the docks, where Merrily tried to shop for fresh pears from Carelon and found that she didn¡¯t have the proper ration cards. But at a nod from one of the guards, the vendor gave her the pears and would accept no money in return.
Then Merrily and her escort travelled to one of the broad parks in the city, where happy pedestrians were quickly found to walk about in the dusk, and children appeared to play and laugh in a very natural fashion. Merrily spent several hours touring the park, sometimes sitting on a bench and chatting with the passers-by about the virtues of Rule by the People, on which topic they were all more than happy to expound at length. The official spies kept a respectful distance, for the sake of appearances. When the light began to fade, the people faded with it, and Merrily returned to her carriage.
Then she directed the driver to make a circuit around the city, and then another circuit, and another. She stopped at several public houses, but found them deserted. The guards and watchers tailed dutifully behind her, until at last she gave up her fruitless search for merriment and returned to the New Academy. In the starlit darkness she took a long walk along the walls that ringed the campus, and then went to bed.
???
Several hours earlier, a young man walked casually into the dining hall at the New Academy. He wore a sensible shirt of brown hemp cloth, canvas pants, and the short-billed cap favored by the students of the Revolution. He participated in the pledge of allegiance to the new flag of the Republic and ate a short meal with his comrades in silence. As they filed out, the young man hoisted his small pack and slipped through the large kitchen and into the narrow passage beyond. He ducked down the steep, narrow stair to the disused ale cellar.
Merrily¡ªwho had lent her dress and hat to Frederick several hours earlier¡ªpulled from her pack a pair of tall pants made of thick, oiled leather. The pants ended in rough boots of the same material. She slipped into the hip waders, lifted the hatch in the floor, and descended swiftly into the sewers. She lit a small, hooded lantern, narrowing its beam to a single thin shaft.
She knew the way; she had worked it out a year and a half ago with Cyrus and Jonathan, planning to escape Palace Naridium beneath the streets with Vicod Rayth. That plan had changed dramatically¡ but her memory of the route remained. She had, more recently, contrived to see the Crown Prince again at another of Hobb¡¯s grueling dinner parties, and had given him the day and time of the operation. Merrily prayed fervently that young Leeland had not been discovered, or changed his mind.
You see, said the Second Voice, when it really matters, we pray. What else could we do, when success or failure hangs by such a tenuous thread? We have already passed the outer limits of self-reliance. There are no atheists in sewers, attempting to sneak in and out of Palace Naridium on an errand that will end in our swift execution if we are discovered.
Merrily came to the narrow shaft that led where she needed to go. She listened carefully; there were no sounds of occupants above. She withdrew from the pack a miniature crossbow, cocked it, and checked the coiled line carefully. Then she aimed and shot upward toward a dim light.
Seconds later, Merrily pulled herself up by her arms, raising the lid and emerging from one of the indoor loos in the basement of Palace Naridium. She left the fouled hip waders hanging down into the shaft, stashed her pack in a corner not visible from the door, and stripped off the student¡¯s outer clothing. Beneath, she wore the sober, dark suit and white shirt of a clerk, just as she had seen on Mr. Robe. She donned a wig with care, then checked herself with a small pocket-mirror. Satisfied, the young clerk moved out into the halls of the palace.
Merrily presented a weary confidence, just as if she were contemplating the end of a long day shuffling paper in the increasingly well-stocked administrative offices of the civil service. Those few of the other staff she encountered in the halls at this late hour paid her little attention. Palace Naridium was a big place, and civil servants came and went.
She made her way upstairs, passing through Begley Gallery on her way to the private apartments. The broad gallery was nearly pitch black; only a dim light shone through one of the several doors out onto the balconies of the Grand Ballroom.
For a moment, she let herself pause, and her mind drifted back to that night in June of last year. She had been separated from Jonny, emerging onto the opposite side of the fifth balcony. He and Cyrus had roped up a chandelier, and, with Mari Snort, had swung, swung, swung, and reached just far enough for her to grab his fingers and pull them up and over the railing.
Then he¡¯d grabbed her around the waist. She¡¯d been surprised, but smiled.
He bent her over and kissed her, mirroring Wigglus and Frederick on the floor below. The kiss lasted a long time, and then he raised her to her feet again.
¡°Merrily Hunter, I love you. I love you more than I love anyone. Marry me, Merrily, and let¡¯s love each other forever.¡±
Her gaze drifted over his shoulder, and found Wigglus and Frederick on the floor below, still locked in their passionate embrace. Suddenly she saw. It all fit together. It was all going to be alright.
¡°Yes, Jonathan Miller,¡± she said, with a smile like the light of a thousand suns. ¡°I love you, and I will marry you and love you forever.¡±
A shadow moved at the far end of the gallery. It was a human form, walking along the wall at the far end. Merrily froze. She recognized it as the thin, weary form of Hobb the Wise, First Minister of Uelland.
Now, said the Second Voice. Now is the time. We prayed to God to protect us¡ªand here is Hobb the Wise, alone and without help in a dark corner of the night. We can carry out Father¡¯s command. It is God¡¯s will, and we are His instrument.
She reached into the dark coat and drew out the dagger that Lady Eustacia Triggle had given her as a gift when last she departed for Uellodon. Then she drifted slowly, silently to the wall of the gallery, moving toward the shadowy figure of Hobb. Her free hand reached up and buttoned up the coat, obscuring her white dress shirt.
This is murder, objected the First Voice. There is no rationalizing it. We¡¯d be¡ªnot an instrument, but a tool. Don¡¯t be a tool.
Hobb¡¯s death will be our doom, and the doom of an entire nation, agreed the Third Voice. But Merrily ignored them, and continued drifting toward Hobb, one quiet step at a time.
The shadow of the First Minister appeared to have stopped, and was regarding one of the paintings intently. Merrily drew closer, closer, gripping the knife, until she was just ten paces away. She tensed her legs and crouched, preparing to spring.
Somewhere in the distance, a door slammed. And, nearly simultaneously, the painting that Hobb was staring at came crashing to the ground. Its frame shattered and splintered, and Hobb danced just out of the way before it fell over on him. The First Minister looked up in astonishment, first at the wall where the frame had hung, and then at the shattered remains of the artwork. Merrily hurriedly ducked behind a suit of steel armor on a stand. She listened over the sound of her thumping heart, and heard footsteps walking away, along with the sound of angry muttering.
She closed her eyes, and tried to calm her breathing. Attacking him was out of the question now. And, in fact, remaining here was out of the question as well. More footsteps could be heard, approaching rapidly from the other end of the gallery hall.
Back to the sewers, commanded the Third Voice. It was a mistake to come here at all, and now we have a chance to escape before we do ourselves real harm.
No! hissed the First Voice angrily. We aren¡¯t the coward you would make us. We leave here with the Crown Prince, and without blood on our hands.
She slipped out of Begley Gallery, following Hobb toward the apartments. Ahead of her in the well-lit corridor, the thin frame of the First Minister stalked forward. She kept her head lowered, lest he glance back, watching him through her eyelashes. But he appeared to be on a mission now, and looked neither left nor right. Merrily kept a cautious distance.
The First Minister stopped outside the small audience chamber. Merrily recalled her visit there, last year, with Hobb, Chancellor Pearsy, Wigglus, and Cyrus Stoat. He entered, and the door was shut when she passed it. The muffled voice of the First Minster addressed some unknown person.
¡°What do you want from us?¡±
If there was an answer to that question, Merrily was not a witness to it.
At the Crown Prince¡¯s chambers, she knocked once on the door. The young man opened it, and she found him dressed in simple hose and a dark shirt. He carried no belongings, and his face was heavily smudged with grease.
¡°I am ready,¡± he whispered, without any greeting. ¡°Please show me the way out.¡±
There was a commotion in Begley Gallery, so they avoided it. Instead, Merrily led Leeland to the long, spiraling stair at the foot of the Rose Tower, and they descended into the warren of kitchens, storerooms, and servants¡¯ apartments below the palace. They found the loos unoccupied, and Merrily¡¯s pack undisturbed¡ªthough some local wit had pissed in one leg of the hip-waders. Merrily emptied and donned them, giving another pair to Leeland. And then together they descended into the rank sewage in the tunnel below.
The sewers beneath Uellodon were extensive and well-maintained, a little-discussed legacy of King Gerald the Last, who didn¡¯t care for the idea of his subjects¡¯ rear ends depositing their inevitable payloads into the streets and wells of the city. Sewage treatment being an idea whose time had not yet arrived, the tunnels led to the Green River, where the immense bulk of the watercourse tolerably diluted the effluvia.
The tunnels also led beneath the Old High Court.
Merrily emerged first from one of the holes in the public loo within the courthouse, followed shortly by the Crown Prince of Uellodon¡ªmuch to the surprise of several lawyers who were making use of the facilities. Nodding pleasantly, the two new arrivals stripped off their hip waders and hung them, then tidied themselves and made their way out into the main hall of the courthouse. The two lawyers pondered this solemnly, shrugged, and returned to a vigorous discussion of the briefings on the latest pre-trial legal dispute in the matter of Foregrub and Quimble.
Wigglus was flabbergasted when Merrily appeared in his office, trailing the Crown Prince and still smelling vaguely of sewage.
¡°Your Highness,¡± he stammered, rising to his feet behind the small desk. ¡°How did you get here? And why did you get here?¡±
¡°Use your nose, Attorney Snort,¡± replied the young man.
Wigglus did that.This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
¡°Ah. Strike my last; I detect that you arrived by a most unpleasant route. Very well. Why did you traverse the underworld of Uellodon to enter this hopeless building?¡±
¡°Because I want to retain you to represent me,¡± answered Leeland. ¡°I have a case in false arrest and false imprisonment.¡±
¡°My partners are quite capable, and are on the outside.¡±
¡°But Hobb¡¯s spies are on the outside as well, Attorney Snort. They are not in here; and if they are, at any rate there¡¯s little they can do if I choose to remain.¡±
Wigglus looked at Merrily in horror. ¡°You were party to this insanity? You brought him here?¡±
She nodded.
¡°Merrily, I love you, but you¡¯ve been a fool. This place is doomed. We will die in our own blood¡ªor else at the end of a noose. How could you lead a child into this?¡±
She could feel her face flushing. But before she could answer, the Crown Prince spoke again.
¡°She acted at my command, Attorney Snort. Do not fault her for obedience¡ªor for loyalty to my mother. And if I am not yet a man, I am no longer a child. In all candor, sir, I have come here to escape Hobb, but also to return to Green Bridge. I want to go back to my mother. And here, out of the reach of the Republican Guard, I can compel Hobb and Father to let me go.¡±
¡°No, you cannot, Your Highness,¡± retorted Wigglus sharply. ¡°This building is surrounded by armed men. If you want to get back to Queen Anne, then go with Merrily back down to the sewers and use them to make your way out of the city. There is no leaving here any other way. One day very soon the Republican Guard will storm this courthouse, and when they do, if you survive, you will end up back at Palace Naridium¡ªbut in considerably less comfort than the royal apartments.¡±
The prince looked agitated, but kept a firm grip on his voice. ¡°The waterfront is watched closely. It is too great a risk to depart there. But you also underestimate Hobb¡¯s preoccupation with the symbols of our history, Attorney Snort. The Republic is entirely without precedent in any of the Neighbor Kingdoms. Hobb has cut off the traditional roots of the King¡¯s power¡ªthe merchants, the landowners, the bankers and lawyers and owners of businesses. He has the army; but the officers of the army are overwhelmingly conservative. They respect the person of the King and the office of the Crown. And what is the future of the Crown? It is I, sir. Father has no other children, and isn¡¯t likely to sire any legitimate heirs with his wife at the other end of the kingdom, in open rebellion. He will be forced to accede to your demands and to grant me safe passage back to Green Bridge. To kill me, or throw me in Hoel, would be to destroy the only real legitimacy he still possesses.¡±
Wigglus leaned back in his chair, making a tent with his hands and pursing his lips in thought.
¡°You want to make a political statement,¡± he said finally. ¡°It¡¯s not enough to slip away in the night; you have to stick your finger in Hobb¡¯s eye on the way out.¡±
The prince smiled. ¡°Not only Hobb¡¯s eye,¡± he said softly.
Wigglus leaned forward again and put his hands on the table.
¡°This is an atrocity of a plan, and it will end in blood and death. But as you say, Your Highness, you are no longer a child. The halls of the Old High Court are open to any citizen of Uelland, and if you choose to be in them¡ªwell, then I¡¯ll do my best to see that no harm comes to you for as long as I can. And if you really want to bring a legal case against General Logwall, then I¡¯ll represent you. We can serve notice on one of the King¡¯s Counselors.¡±
He turned his glance at Merrily.
¡°I hope you don¡¯t come to regret this, Merrily,¡± he said. There was no anger or bitterness in his tone, but only sorrow.
She rose and walked around the desk, then gripped his shoulder, as if it were some tree she could hold on to in a hurricane. He looked up at her curiously.
¡°I have something for you,¡± she said. And she drew out Frederick¡¯s sheet of ciphered letters.
He stared at the cipher for several minutes, while Leeland and Merrily waited. Then he looked up at her. There were tears in his eyes. He drew a sheet of paper out of his desk and wrote in ciphered script on it, consulting a key on another piece of paper near at hand. The message was not long.
He folded the paper, sealed it, and handed it to her.
¡°Give this to him, please,¡± he said. ¡°He knows the method and the key. It¡¯s not a strong method, so please ensure it doesn¡¯t fall into the hands of the Guard.¡±
She nodded.
Wigglus rose and embraced Merrily fiercely, then stared into her eyes.
¡°Go now, Merrily. It is dangerous for you to come back by your secret, fragrant path. If the Guard should discover it, it would be bad for both you and for us. We won¡¯t leave that way; it would defeat all our purposes to slink away in the dark. If Hobb permits you to come back by the front entrance, then visit us again.¡±
She nodded, blinking back her own tears, and left the small office.
¡°Now, Your Highness,¡± she heard Wigglus say as she departed, ¡°let¡¯s discuss the elements of your claim against General Logwall.¡±
???
The next morning, Merrily was summoned to the palace, where she was escorted immediately into Hobb¡¯s private study. The First Minister¡¯s eyes were hollow, and there were dark circles beneath them. But he was carefully groomed, and his office was tidy.
¡°Were you involved?¡± he asked bluntly.
¡°Involved in what, First Minister?¡± she inquired.
¡°In the kidnapping of the Crown Prince,¡± he snapped.
¡°Has he been kidnapped?¡±
¡°He was seen on the roof of the Old High Court this morning, taking the air and having a bit of tea with the anarchists and traitors that presently occupy the building.¡±
She pursed her lips and gave the appearance of careful thought.
¡°I was not involved in his kidnapping,¡± she said, her pride clinging to the faint truth that the only kidnapping that had actually been committed was some eighteen months earlier, and she¡¯d been at the other end of the kingdom at the time. ¡°But it sounds as though he meant for you to see him. They must have been planning it for some time. I would like to go back to the Court this morning to see if we can negotiate¡ª¡±
Hobb rose abruptly to his feet.
¡°Come with me, Mrs. Hunter,¡± he said. And he stalked out of the room. Merrily, nonplussed, rose and followed.
He took her to a coach that awaited them at the gates of the palace, and together they rode through the streets of Uellodon. Hobb said nothing, but stared intently out the windows of the passenger compartment. Merrily rode in silence as well, with a sense of dread growing in her breast. She felt her control of events diminishing with each street they passed.
Eventually the coach rolled through the arched western gate of the city.
¡°Where are we going?¡± she asked, keeping her tone neutral and inquisitive.
¡°We are going to Hoel,¡± answered Hobb shortly.
The little towns and villages outside the city soon faded away, and they travelled through the rich farmland along the north bank of the Green River. The journey took perhaps an hour, as Merrily¡¯s panic grew with each mile. Then they arrived at a tall, gloomy fortress of dark stone blocks, frowning down on them to the north of the road. It was surrounded by a wall of stone, some twenty feet tall. A squad of red-cloaked Republican Guards stood to attention at the gate.
¡°Have you ever been to Hoel, Mrs. Hunter?¡± asked Hobb.
¡°No.¡±
¡°Then you¡¯re in for a treat. It is an ancient structure, of great historical significance. For nearly four centuries it has housed the worst criminals of the Kingdom of Uelland. And, coincidentally, it is also where we conduct executions.¡±
Hobb stepped out of the coach, into a broad courtyard in front of the hulking stone structure. The grass in the courtyard was a mournful brown. A line of tall gallows stood on either side, and a crowd of people were busy about the timber structures. Nooses hung from each gallows already, and a man was at each noose, adjusting it carefully. A long line of despondent looking people¡ªmen and women both¡ªwere arranged at one end of the row of gallows.
¡°Wait here, Mrs. Hunter,¡± said Hobb. As she stood still, he walked over to a man dressed in a gray suit. Merrily recognized the slight form of Mr. Robe. Mr. Robe disappeared inside the main structure of the prison, and Hobb returned to Merrily.
¡°I¡¯ve asked Mr. Robe to bring up some of the special guests,¡± he said, with an almost jovial grin. ¡°A visitor of your stature deserves better than common murderers.¡±
After a few minutes, ten people were escorted out of the yawning gateway of the main structure. They were men and women, and they were dressed in the shabby remains of what might once have been suits and simple dresses.
They were brought up onto the gallows. They went quietly, without resistance. Mr. Robe came to stand with Merrily and Hobb, and gave a shallow bow.
¡°What are their crimes?¡± asked Merrily. There was a hard lump of fear rising in her throat.
¡°Economic crimes,¡± answered Mr. Robe. ¡°The worst sort. A burglar or a murderer might hurt one or two people, or perhaps even more, if he is quite prolific. But a man who breaks the laws that govern prices, quantities, the quality of goods¡ªthose transactions that we all
rely on to live safely, and to preserve order¡ªthat man attacks the Revolution itself, and tears at the flesh, not merely of one or two individuals, but of the entire People. He must be made to deter other jackals by the consequences of his crimes.¡±
¡°This can¡¯t be right,¡± said Merrily, feeling sick.
¡°Can¡¯t it, Mrs. Hunter?¡± asked Hobb. ¡°Do you think that the punishment of death is disproportionate, perhaps, to the crime of selling fish at too high a price? Does it violate some sense of principle? Consider that it is civilization itself that is attacked, when a man violates the law casually. If we permit these black marketeers to go about their vile business, gnawing at the ropes that bind us together as a society, then what law will next be ignored? The prohibition against theft, perhaps? Or rape? Or murder? Where next will the chaos spread? At any rate, that was the finding of fact by the National Assembly; and the punishment to be applied here¡ª¡±
Hobb was interrupted as an executioner on the nearest gallows loudly proclaimed the name of a man. Then he pulled the lever, the floor dropped out below the condemned, and the rope snapped taught. The man¡¯s neck jerked into a horrible angle, and he hung limply.
¡°¡ªis the will of the People,¡± Hobb finished. ¡°Well measured,¡± he added, eyeing the limp form. ¡°No suffering at all; a quick snap, and the criminal pays his debt.¡±
¡°Why do you want me to see this?¡± Merrily asked. ¡°Do you think Queen Anne will be convinced by this spectacle to submit?¡±
¡°No,¡± said Hobb, shaking his head. ¡°Anne is a practical woman, and she will be persuaded by practical considerations. And you are a practical woman as well, Mrs. Hunter. But the fools occupying the Old High Court suppose that they do so out of principle. I want to save them, Mrs. Hunter. I don¡¯t want them to end up here. They must understand, and appreciate in the most immediate and practical way, that their principles are, not only wrong, but also the surest and quickest path to these gallows. Sometimes death here is quick and painless, but sometimes¡¡±
He looked up at the next gallows, and nodded.
¡°Hector Quimble!¡± bellowed the soldier at the lever. And he pulled it.
¡°What!¡± exclaimed Merrily. ¡°This man hasn¡¯t been convicted¡ª¡±
The rope snapped; but Hector Quimble didn¡¯t die immediately. Instead he wriggled helplessly, jerking and dancing for several minutes at the end of the line. Finally, he stopped moving.
¡°Sometimes death here is neither quick nor painless, Mrs. Hunter,¡± Hobb finished his sentence. ¡°Make them understand: They are irrelevant. Hector Quimble was convicted of his crimes. He was convicted by a panel of judges duly authorized by the National Assembly, under laws passed by the same body. Sadly, the man who tied Mr. Quimble¡¯s knot got the length a bit wrong. He didn¡¯t drop far enough to break his neck, I¡¯m afraid, and he had to be strangled slowly.¡±
Hobb turned to face her squarely.
¡°If the Crown Prince does not return to Palace Naridium by nightfall, Mrs. Hunter, we shall be obliged to retrieve him, and everyone else in that courthouse will share the fate of Mr. Quimble.¡±
He turned and walked calmly back to the coach, as more names were called out, and more ropes snapped taught. Merrily, helpless, followed him, and Mr. Robe walked beside them.
¡°Even in the realm of death, we are making progress, Mrs. Hunter,¡± said Mr. Robe, smiling casually and nodding toward the wall of the courtyard. A wooden frame was set up there, with a heavy blade suspended over a bench. A basket lay just in front of the end of the bench.
¡°The noose is inefficient, for large numbers of applicants. We are preparing to dispense justice at a much greater scale, and with a great deal less suffering. Soon there will be no need for the rope to be the right length; no need for rope at all, in fact.¡±
???
The Republican Guard would not permit Merrily to enter the yard in front of the Old High Court. So she stood just beyond the two bronze statues with their sad eyes.
¡°Wigglus!¡± she shouted, and waited for a response. Eventually he appeared on the battlements, recognizable even at a distance by his curly, black hair that was now a bit too long. Another man stood beside him. He was tall, dressed in hardened leather armor, and had a broad-brimmed hat. He carried a long bow.
Wigglus waved at her.
¡°They will attack tonight!¡± she screamed, not caring for her dignity as her voice cracked. ¡°If the Crown Prince does not return, they will come for him! Hector Quimble is dead, and Hobb says everyone in the court will be executed as well!¡±
She could see the figure on the wall nod. Then it waved again, and disappeared out of sight. The man with the bow stood for a moment longer, letting himself be seen by those below.
Even as he turned away, Merrily recognized the bowman with a shock; it was Wallingford Spoon, Chancellor of the Royal Academy in Exile. He disappeared after Wigglus, moving through a narrow door into the great slanted roof.
She sat down on the ground between the two statues, looking up at their faces and perfect, idealized forms. They were meant to be Justice, of course. One needn¡¯t have studied the past to see that.
What does it mean? asked the First Voice. What are these two women supposed to be, with their sword and shield and perfect bodies? And how would they judge what I have done, bringing the Crown Prince into that building? Have I killed Wigglus, and hundreds of others? Was there any principle at all? And if there was, was it the right one? How would I know?
There was no answer from the other voices.
She waited at the edge of the chilly yard as the afternoon wore on. The light dimmed early; it was nearly Midwinter. A bit of damp snow trickled down from the heavy, overcast sky. She wrapped her cloak tight around her, and shivered, but refused to leave. There was no sign of further activity on the roof of the courthouse.
In the streets beyond the barricades, beyond the space occupied by the Republican Guard, crowds had begun to gather. They meandered at first, pretending to be moving about on business, but soon most gave up the pretense and simply stood to watch. In the fading light, the torches and lamps at the guard posts, and the lamplight from inside the courthouse, were the only illumination of the building. The light flickered off the faces and bodies of the bronze statues, giving the illusion of dynamism to their expressions.
Merrily, now banished back to one of the houses nearby, watched helplessly from the rooftop as the Republican Guard brought up a stout, iron-headed battering ram. Crossbows were distributed among them, and boxes of bolts were passed around along the street at the front of the building. The Guardsmen strapped on breastplates and replaced their three-cornered hats with iron helms.
The assault began with little fanfare. Eight men simply hefted the battering ram and trotted up to the great oak double doors of the courthouse. A squad of perhaps twenty followed after them, their crossbows winched and pointed skyward. A handful carried torches.
She heard a heavy, slow, rhythmic thumping begin.
Merrily sat down on the rooftop and lowered her head. She couldn¡¯t watch.
Then there were cries from the doors of the courthouse, and the sound of many more thumps and thuds. By the light of the torches, she could see a rain of objects coming down from above, impacting heavily on the men in the narrow space before the door. She thought, at first, they were rocks. But then, observing their shapes and trajectories, she saw that they were not rocks at all, but books.
The law library of the Old High Court was raining down from the battlements, crushing the attackers below with thick, dense volumes of paper and leather and weighty legal precedent. Hurled spine-first from four stories above, they were nearly as deadly as stones, and far more plentiful.
The soldiers below tried to shoot upward, but there was nothing to see in the darkness above them. More plummeting books thinned their ranks even as they winched their crossbows. The Guardsmen at the door soon abandoned the attack, leaving behind the ram and a handful of prone figures and fleeing back out of range. As they ran, several more fell screaming, with arrows protruding from their backs.
There was a murmur from the crowd gathered in the streets behind the barricades. The failed assault was quite visible there, and she could see others, like herself, gathered on rooftops with a view. She glanced over her shoulder at the Rose Tower, observing a faint light in its uppermost chamber.
The next attack was soon organized, however. Masses of Guardsmen with dozens of long scaling ladders rushed to the walls, swiftly placing the ladders and beginning to climb them. A few arrows came whistling out of the darkness, and perhaps half a dozen of the attackers fell from the ladders. But the rest continued upward.
Again, the defenders were prepared. Long polls pushed the tops of the ladders out, overbalancing them and sending the red-cloaked attackers screaming to their deaths. Some squads reached the top, though, and in the darkness she heard the sounds of fighting, and agony, and dying. Bodies dropped from the battlements, and in the dim light she could not see whether they were dressed in the red of the Guard or the dark suits of lawyers. After several minutes, the sounds died down, and the ladders were drawn up into the darkness. The survivors of the assault limped back to the guard posts, or were dragged by their comrades.
The murmurs in the streets behind grew louder. She heard the bellows of the Republican Guard, ordering the crowd to disperse. It did not.
Hours passed in silence, and the night grew very cold. The snow began to come down more heavily. Merrily shivered in her cloak, but refused to cease her vigil. The crowd beyond the barricades remained as well, and coats were passed around against the cold and snow.
It was sometime after midnight that the crowd was forced apart, and a large, dark shape came through, escorted by crew of soldiers. They did not wear the red coats and cloaks of the Republican Guard, but the silver and black of the King¡¯s Heavy Arms¡ªprofessional soldiers. They pushed between them a large, wheeled siege engine, with a thick, heavy flinging arm and a basket at the end. A wagon followed behind, laden on one side with large round stones and on the other with slim barrels.
Merrily¡¯s heart sank to her toes.
The onager was placed between two of the guard posts at the edge of the yard, and the guardsmen on either side moved heavy slats in place to protect it against arrows from the roof of the courthouse. But then Merrily saw that something odd was going on around the siege engine. The black and silver-clad engineers were standing idly by, doing nothing. The Guard officers shouted at them, pointed energetically at the onager, and shook their fists¡ªbut the military men simply folded their arms and watched. At last, infuriated, the men of the Republican Guard set about winching the device themselves. One of them rather uncertainly adjusted the placement of the arresting bar. Then they loaded one of the barrels into the basket, carefully lit an oiled rope on its top, and released the tension.
The arm flung forward and hit the arresting bar. The flaming barrel wobbled uncertainly in a low arc, then landed in the cobblestone yard in front the courthouse, where it burned cheerfully¡ªand harmlessly. A sudden jeer came from the crowd behind them:
¡°Hooked it, ya daft hillbilly!¡±
Guffaws and snickers sounded in response to this anonymous wit, and the nearby Guardsmen glared hard into the crowd. The military engineers stood impassively by, their faces showing not a hint of emotion.
On the next shot, the arresting bar was too far forward, and the barrel of pitch flopped down and impacted on the ground just feet in front of the onager. More jeers and laughs erupted from the crowd of onlookers beyond the lines.
¡°Just missed!¡±
¡°A little to the left, Guardie!¡±
¡°Give ¡®er a citation, Captain! May¡¯aps she¡¯ll take ye seriously!¡±
The Guard switched to boulders, then, and commenced to probe their way toward the walls of the courthouse. Several shots, winched too energetically, went sailing over the courthouse and into the neighborhood beyond, causing sounds of destruction and guilty looks among the novice siege engineers. But others slowly found their way toward the walls, until eventually the crew managed to land several solid shots on the reinforced stone towers surrounding the doorway. The projectiles impacted with a terrific noise, causing a cascade of stone and roofing slates to detach from the tower and crash to the ground. But the tower itself stood firm.
¡°Another day or two, and they¡¯ll have it down,¡± Merrily heard one of the military siege engineers remark to a companion.
Then the Guard ran out of stones.
Having found their range, they switched back to pitch barrels, but discovered quickly that, although the burning pitch made a terrific spectacle on the walls of the Old High Court, the stone stubbornly refused to light on fire, and the burning pitch dribbled down harmlessly to the courtyard. They tried to adjust upward for the roof, but when the first barrel went sailing over the Old High Court and landed in the highly-flammable neighborhood behind, the military engineers turned the wagon around and marched away with the rest of the ammunition. And that was the end of the siege works.
Near dawn, the Guard made a final effort. More scaling ladders were brought forward by large groups of Guardsmen, and they advanced on the walls. Another squad, holding broad shields over their heads and supported by crossbowmen, ran back to the fallen ram and picked it up. Falling books smashed against their shields, and some fell back with broken arms; but the rhythmic thump of the ram against the oak door commenced again. From the guard posts across the street, more crossbowmen raked the dimly-visible battlements atop the Old High Court with wave after wave of bolts. They had no targets to shoot at, but the steady sweep of deadly projectiles made it a mortal hazard for any man to rebuff the scaling ladders. And, indeed, dark-clad forms dropped from the battlements to the courtyard below at regular intervals. Two of the ladders were pushed off, but the rest remained upright long enough for the teams to reach the top.
Merrily watched, and listened, in agony. She could see nothing from the rooftop, but the sounds of fighting and dying there were loud and fierce and painful. Men, and parts of men, dropped from the battlements to the yard below. At the gate, the ram broke through, and the whole group of red-clad Guardsmen seized their hand weapons and rushed into the portal.
There came, from within, the sudden noise of twanging crossbows, and of many more screams. Merrily remembered that the passage inside the door ended in a heavy inner portcullis, though which she had seen Wigglus weeks ago. The cries abruptly ended, and none of the Republican Guard re-emerged from the front door.
An odd quiet settled over the courtyard, and the fortress-like Old High Court. The fighting on the rooftop had died down, but in the darkness Merrily could make out no details that would tell her which side had prevailed. She waited, shivering in the snow, for dawn to come.
As the faint light around her turned gray and began to strengthen, there was movement in the street below her. She looked down, and saw, to her great surprise, that the crowd from the streets outside the barricades was moving in a great mass toward the courthouse. They came deliberately, without rushing, without violence. The few Republican Guard remaining at posts around the courtyard shouted and threatened, but they were too few to hold back the crowd, who simply flowed around them. The people carried torches and crude, improvised weapons, and were dressed warmly now against the slushy snow. Some bore large packs. They passed under and around the two female statues, making their way across the courtyard littered with bodies and the detritus of war.
Merrily wasted no time in descending to ground level, using the skills acquired in Lightfoot¡¯s Rope Swinging and Boulder Evasion Seminar to descend via a handy downspout. She joined the crowd as it flowed forward, and carefully made her way to the front.
When she reached the shattered oak doors, she found that the many bodies, which last night choked the narrow passage outside it, had been carefully moved and stacked on the sides. There were black- and gray-suited lawyers and red-cloaked Guardsmen in equal numbers. Passing the threshold into the building, she saw that more bodies littered the ground, riddled with bolts. These, too, were being drawn out to make room for the crowd.
She elbowed her way to the front, where she found one man in particular, dressed in a sober black cloak and a wool hat, speaking with a ragged-looking lawyer on the other side of the portcullis. Even as she arrived, the portcullis was slowly raised, and the man stepped inside. Merrily rushed up to his side, grabbing his arm, and looked at his face.
It was Frederick. He smiled wearily at her.
¡°Hello, Merrily Hunter,¡± he said, as the crowd flowed around them. ¡°I¡¯ve come to observe the public courtroom proceedings in the matter of Foregrub and Quimble, and I¡¯ve brought a few thousand guests with me.¡±
???
She soon learned that the Republican Guard had taken the rooftop, but the lawyers, bailiffs, and Applied Historians there had barricaded themselves inside the offices on the top level, denying the Guard entry. With a massive crowd now occupying the yard below and the surrounding block, the attackers were themselves besieged, and soon gave themselves up. When they yielded their weapons, they were allowed into the courthouse, where bailiffs escorted them back out of the building.
But Merrily paid little attention to the tactical situation. She and Frederick were directed to one of the large courtrooms on the ground floor, which had been converted into a field hospital. And there, among many other wounded and dying men and women, they found Wigglus.
His head was wrapped in a bandage of gauze that was dark with blood, and his white shirt was also stained red. His face was pale. There was a compress on his shoulder where a crossbow bolt had been removed, and his right arm was in a sling. His eyes were closed, and his chest moved faintly. But when Merrily spoke his name, he opened his eyes and smiled up at them.
Frederick woke him and gave him a sip of wine from a skin, and a little color returned to his face. Then Frederick smile and kissed him, and Wigglus returned the kiss unabashedly. Several of the other injured attorneys nearby smiled to see them, but no words were spoken.
Merrily walked out of the infirmary, and found she was exhausted. She sat down on a bench, watching scores of people move about in the broad, grand entry hall of the courthouse, now marred by debris and injured men. The droning sound of a lawyer¡¯s voice in some nearby courtroom went on in measured, elegant cadences; the endless, defiant proceeding on the Foregrub and Quimble matter, she surmised.
Someone sat down next to her. She looked up, and found that it was Chancellor Spoon, of the Academy in Exile. He still wore his leather armor and carried his long bow, but the quiver was empty. The academic¡¯s face was smudged and streaked with sweat and dirt, and blood spattered his armor, but he seemed more tired than injured.
She didn¡¯t ask him why he was there; the answer was too obvious. Instead, she said:
¡°What happens now?¡±
He smiled ruefully.
¡°Now,¡± he answered, ¡°events around us become more complicated and dangerous than ever before. And you, Mrs. Hunter, must leave while you still can.¡±
Chapter 16: Convincing Lies
December 18th
In the soft, velvet darkness of the night sky, ten thousand points of brilliant starlight bled their white energy down on Merrily¡¯s eyes. The June night was quiet, clear, and lit by nothing but the wanton stars. On the rooftop observation platform of Redbun Hall, the few lights of the city below faded into insignificance. Merrily shivered in the cool night air, and felt that ageless human smallness beneath the canopy of light. Rolly and Professor Tentimes attended nearby.
¡°What are they?¡± she asked softly, hardly daring to make sound beneath the shining heavens.
¡°The prevailing theory,¡± said Professor Tentimes, ¡°is that they are objects like our own sun, which we know to be a sphere of extraordinarily large and energetic fire, some hundred million miles away from our planet.¡± The professor was a middle-aged woman with a plain face, but a sparkle in her eyes that suggested deep intelligence and a kind of cerebral humor. ¡°They appear to be stationary, while our own planet rotates around the sun and its own axis. This gives stars the illusion of movement through the seasons that confounded our ancestors and led to all sorts of nonsense about gods and heroes and spheres and chariots. But why they burn, what makes them hang in the heavens, and how far away they hang, are all questions that our observations and calculations have so far been unable to tell us. Perhaps one day astronomers on this very rooftop will look back at our crude theories and wonder how we could ever have been so foolish. But for now, Mrs. Hunter, we think they are great balls of fire.¡±
¡°Goodness gracious,¡± Merrily commented.
There was a deep, almost offended silence above the city.
¡°Would you like to see the new one?¡± asked Rolly after a few minutes of communion. She nodded.
He led her to one of the larger telescopes¡ªa ten-foot octagonal tube of wood with brass fittings, all set on a sturdy iron frame and pointed skyward. Rolly peered into the finderscope and made several small adjustments to the position of the long tube, then stood up and invited her to look. ¡°Be careful not to touch the scope, or you might lose the view,¡± he cautioned.
She had to adjust the position of her head a few times before she saw it, but then it slid into view at the end of the tunnel of darkness inside the telescope. It resembled a nearly perfect circle of white light, as if someone had cut a tiny hole out of dark cloth, and revealed behind it bright daylight.
¡°It doesn¡¯t look like a ball of fire,¡± she observed cautiously.
¡°Neither do the other stars,¡± said Tentimes with a waspish edge. ¡°We infer their nature from what we know of our own sun.¡±
¡°But this one hasn¡¯t been seen before,¡± added Rolly. ¡°It was almost exactly a year ago that Professor Tentimes first observed it. Humans have been staring up at the stars for millennia, and in that time the more compulsive among us have made a number of fairly accurate charts. This star isn¡¯t in any of them. And we¡¯re fairly certain that past astronomers would have noticed it; it¡¯s quite bright, appears irregularly, and doesn¡¯t move like the other stars.¡±
¡°Don¡¯t give away all my secrets, Mr. Gorp,¡± sniffed Tentimes. ¡°Mrs. Hunter can read our paper when it comes out.¡±
Rolly winked conspiratorially at Merrily. ¡°I¡¯m sure you¡¯re dying to plow through fifty pages of celestial mechanics, aren¡¯t you? Like I¡¯m dying to put down Thom Verasee¡¯s latest novel so I can read your term paper on economic regulations in the old empire. Are there any love scenes?¡±
Merrily shook her head and looked again into the eyepiece of the telescope. She stared for another minute at the white disc of light.
Unbidden, the Second Voice spoke in her head, reciting a well-known passage of scripture.
God said: ¡°Let there be lights in the expanse of the sky to distinguish between the day and the night, and let them be signs to mark the seasons and days and years. And let them serve as lights in the expanse of the sky to shine upon the earth.¡± And it was so.
She took in a deep breath of the night air.
This is wrong, warned the Second Voice. We must tell Father.
???
Merrily woke up in the early December afternoon, after several hours¡¯ sleep in her quarters at the New Academy in Uellodon. She washed her face, brushed her hair, and re-applied a touch of makeup. She stared out the window, down onto the broad central lawn of the Academy grounds. There were knots of students there, speaking closely with each other, their bodies presenting tension and concern. She rubbed her eyes wearily.
I want to see Wigglus, said the First Voice. The Crown Prince, and Anne, and Hobb, and all the rest of them can go hang themselves. I want to go see if he is safe.
There was a sullen silence from the other two. The Second and Third Voices couldn¡¯t even find enough common ground for an argument anymore, much less a temporary alliance. So Merrily made her way down to the gates of the Academy, found that no coaches were to be had, and set off toward the Old High Court on foot. Her watchers tailed along behind her openly, making no effort at discretion.
Along the way to the courthouse lay Kavant Cathedral, with its defiant twin towers and boarded-up windows and broken glass. But the cathedral bore a new feature as well¡ªa squad of red-cloaked Republican Guard at the massive double doors, one of which was open. More guardsmen could be seen inside, apparently conducting a search of the building. Some were carrying out small boxes and loose belongings and loading them into a nearby wagon. Merrily stopped and approached one of the red-clad men.
¡°What happened here?¡± she asked.
The guardsman gave her a hard stare. ¡°Why do you care? Show me your papers.¡± He held out a demanding hand. Merrily withdrew from her satchel the diplomatic travel pass that Hobb had given her. Seeing the First Minister¡¯s signature and the instruction that she be permitted to pass freely, the guardsman grudgingly handed it back.
¡°We flushed out a cell of counter-revolutionaries,¡± said a rough-spoken officer nearby. ¡°Near twenty of ¡®em. The Security Bureau found ¡®em here. One of ¡®em was a big boss that¡¯s wanted at the highest levels. The highest levels, miss,¡± he emphasized, giving her a glowering look. ¡°Tried to run out through the sewers like the rats they are, but we had men there.¡±
A cold shiver ran down Merrily¡¯s spine, but she kept a studied calm on her face.
¡°Where were they taken?¡± she asked. ¡°I may wish to interview one or two, to give a more accurate report to my lady.¡±
The officer scowled at her. ¡°None of your business where they¡¯ve gone to, miss,¡± he said shortly. ¡°They¡¯ll all be given a good stretch before the week¡¯s out. The Security Bureau will see to their needs now. And yours too, if you keep asking questions.¡±
They¡¯ve taken them to Hoel, said the First Voice. A good stretch¡ªthey¡¯ll be hanged.
They deserve to hang, said the Third Voice. They are enemies of the State, and foreign spies.
We¡¯ll all get what we deserve, said the Second. And Spoon and his friends deserve to burn in the Pit for eternity.
Your mindless dualism is wearing as thin as our remaining sanity, growled the First Voice. But whatever spiritual rewards Wallingford Spoon deserves, I wonder if he¡¯d not be more use to us alive.
She abruptly turned away from the rough guards at the door to Kavant Cathedral. For a moment she glanced up at the two stone towers on the western fa?ade, but the overcast sky and broken glass offered no insight or inspiration.
At the Old High Court, the square and surrounding streets were still filled with people, though somewhat less densely packed. A few of the Republican Guard wandered the edges of the crowd, but none made any effort to prevent Merrily¡¯s approach. The people were surprisingly cheerful; some were singing, and others were cooking and selling food, or playing cards. Makeshift fires provided a bit of warmth against the cool, damp air of mid-December. Tents had begun to spring up here and there. The crowd¡¯s aim, it seemed, was simply to be there.
Merrily made her way to the infirmary, passing by the open door to the courtroom where the endless hearing droned on. Glancing in, she saw a judge in black robes and a powdered wig high on the bench, idly sipping at a mug and listening in apparent interest to a lawyer standing at a small table. Another lawyer sat at a different table nearby. The room, which showed evidence of lengthy habitation, was presently populated by a crowd of curious onlookers, watching with odd reverence the ritual of justice. She wondered if Hector Quimble¡¯s attorney knew his client was dead, or whether it mattered.
In the infirmary she found Wigglus sleeping. His chest rose and fell lightly, and his face was pale. Frederick sat quietly nearby, holding his hand. On a bench a little further away sat Prince Leeland, his clothing disheveled and his face drawn. He had several bandages on his arms and chest.
Merrily sat down next to them. Frederick gave her a thin smile and reached up a hand to grip her shoulder gently in greeting.
¡°Spoon¡¯s been taken,¡± she said.
Frederick¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°When? He and the other historians disappeared early this morning. I heard him telling Wigglus they were going back to look for someone.¡±
She nodded. ¡°They had a refuge at Kavant, but the Guard found them out somehow. I think they¡¯ve been taken to Hoel.¡±
¡°Merrily,¡± said Frederick, his eyes and face serious. ¡°You have to leave here. There¡¯s nothing more you can do. Get back to the Queen.¡±
¡°I¡¯m not leaving Wigglus like this,¡± she countered firmly. ¡°And I still have to figure out how to bring the Prince home. The Old High Court may not be under siege, but Hobb is smart enough to have his people watch the streets and check anyone leaving the city.¡±
¡°What about Jonathan?¡± asked Frederick softly. ¡°Don¡¯t you think he worries for you? Don¡¯t you worry for him? Don¡¯t you long to be with him, like I long to be with this man?¡± He ran a gentle hand down Wigglus¡¯s cheek. ¡°He, and your home, and your people¡ªthey¡¯re all in the North. This place is on the edge of a bloodbath, Merrily. You shouldn¡¯t be here.¡±
Merrily cast her eyes to the floor.
I love Jonny, said the First Voice. I miss him, and I want him. But I love Wigglus, and I can¡¯t go back to Anne, knowing I could have brought her son back.
You love a phantom that will never make you happy, said the Second Voice. We¡¯ve failed in our mission, but Father will forgive us and take care of us. Let¡¯s go home.
We¡¯ve committed crimes against the rightful authorities, sneered the Third. We should run and hide for a few more months, before the law hunts us down. Let¡¯s go home.
¡°You look like a woman with too many voices in her head,¡± observed Frederick sardonically. Merrily looked up at him sharply. How could he know?
¡°Just a figure of speech,¡± he added with a smile. She relaxed slightly. ¡°But anyone can see the conflict in you, Merrily. Go home. Find yourself again. I¡¯ll take care of Wigglus, and Wigglus will take care of the Prince.¡±
He leaned close to her and whispered in her ear.
¡°My man in Ville Porpo has a house prepared for us. The guards at the dock are used to seeing me come and go with friends; they won¡¯t look closely at two more. Once we¡¯re in Ville Porpo, it will be easier to move young Leeland upriver.¡± He leaned back and winked at her once.
Merrily stood up, in agony.
She laid one hand on Wigglus¡¯s chest, feeling his breath. Then a thought struck her.
¡°Who was Spoon looking for?¡± she asked.
Frederick looked up, his vivid blue eyes thoughtful.
¡°Really big men,¡± he said. ¡°I never figured him for¡ª"
She interrupted him sharply. ¡°Giant-men?¡±
Frederick nodded. ¡°That was it. Giant-men.¡±
???
Merrily located the corpse of an officer in the Republican Guard who was about her size, and found that his red uniform fit her nearly perfectly. She tied her hair up under the tricorn hat, cleaned off her makeup, and rubbed smudges of dirt on her face where a man¡¯s stubble might be. Going through the pockets, she also found a signed set of orders. It was the work of just a few minutes to write out new orders, forge the signature from the original, and transfer the seal with a new daub of wax. Transformed now into a captain, she walked confidently out of the Old High Court, through the milling crowd outside, and into the streets beyond.
Her newfound rank and orders were enough to procure a horse from a surprised lieutenant in the confusion at the edge of the crowd, and she trotted through the streets and out the western gate of Uellodon. Looking surreptitiously behind her, she saw no sign of her handlers, or any other pursuit.
Few civilians travelled the farm road west of the city, but she passed many small units of Republican Guard. All were headed east, toward Uellodon, and they bore long spears and heavy crossbows. Their faces were grim.
After fifteen minutes, she came upon a lone pair of guardsmen, walking briskly along the road to Uellodon. They were younger men, their beards still patchy and their clothes ill-fitting.
¡°Gentlemen,¡± she said, towering over them on her horse, ¡°you will accompany me to Hoel, where we will retrieve several prisoners.¡± She flashed the sheet of orders at them, then tucked it away.
¡°But, uh, we were ordered back to¡ª¡±
She interrupted the man furiously. ¡°You will address me as ¡®Captain,¡¯ guardsman, or I shall have you thrown into Hoel yourself. Try it again.¡±
¡°Sorry, Captain¡ª¡±
¡°That¡¯s ¡®Captain, sir,¡¯ guardsman. Last chance, before your friend here ties you to the back of my horse.¡±
The flustered young man saluted briskly. ¡°Sorry, Captain, sir!¡± he shouted. ¡°We were ordered back to Uellodon by the prison commandant!¡±
¡°My orders come from the First Minister, guardsman,¡± she growled, ¡°and I am authorized to personally flog any man who fails to obey them with alacrity.¡±
The two guardsmen looked at each other, visibly wondering what ¡®alacrity¡¯ meant, and then both saluted again.
¡°Your names?¡± she demanded.
¡°Guardsman Bedge! Guardsman Wiggs!¡± they replied loudly.
She nodded curtly. ¡°Double time, gentlemen,¡± she said, nudging the horse into a trot. She saw, through the corner of one eye, the two guardsmen jogging along behind.
How can this possibly work? demanded the Third Voice incredulously. You don¡¯t just bluff your way into a military command by wearing a dead man¡¯s clothes. It doesn¡¯t work like that.
It works exactly like that, replied the First Voice smugly. Attitude is the single most important element of any disguise, it added, quoting one Cyrus Stoat.
It was an old trick, well documented in the history of confidence artistry. You present a man with the appearance of authority, and convince him to believe just one reasonable little lie. You let him absorb the lie and make it real in his mind. He becomes attached to it, and he uses it to begin building a new reality. Then you add one more piece, and one more, and one more. Never ask too much of him all at once, but rather build on the lies to which he has already committed himself. He has come so far, he feels, and it would wound his pride and his sense of dignity to admit that he has been fooled. The further along you bring him down the path of deception, the harder it is for him to escape. And then you use him to bring along others. Alfus Sogblut of Svegnia, with the aid of a fake, poorly-sewn uniform, had used the technique to impersonate a major general so convincingly that he built up an army sufficient to take several castles, before eventually disappearing one night with their entire treasuries.
Merrily had somewhat less time available to her than Herr Sogblut, but she nonetheless managed to accumulate ten loyal and obedient members of the Republican Guard until, by the fading light of the late midwinter afternoon, she arrived at the gates of Hoel.
There were fewer men at the gate now, and those that remained were slouched on crude benches, drinking beer and throwing dice. They straightened themselves hurriedly when she approached, and waved her through the gate at the mere sight of her epaulets and sizable entourage.Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
A familiar black carriage stood waiting by the main gate to the inner keep. Merrily gulped and angled away, until she saw that the cabin was empty. She did not recognize the driver, and he gave no indication that he recognized her.
Two red-clad guards at the keep¡¯s gate took a slightly longer look at her orders, and glanced up at her smudged face. But seeing the epaulets and insignia, not to mention the gaggle of soldiers, she was permitted through.
Two clerks at identical desks in the dreary entrance hall, dimly lit by sputtering oil lamps and shivering in the cold, eyed her as she entered. She walked up to one brusquely and thrust the orders at him. ¡°I need Spoon and the other traitors from Kavant,¡± she said. ¡°They¡¯re to be brought back to Uellodon for execution.¡±
The clerk blinked at her and the men behind her, then took a huge, fat volume from off his colleague¡¯s desk and flipped through it.
¡°Third deep,¡± said the man in an oddly nasal, high-pitched voice. ¡°Row G, cell two. But we just put them on the list for Thursday¡ª¡±
¡°They¡¯ve been moved up,¡± she interrupted. ¡°There¡¯s a high-up that wants to see them stretch sooner.¡±
The bureaucrat twisted his mouth in derision. ¡°If you want them retrieved, comrade Captain, go fetch them yourself. Almost all of our duty complement has been ordered back to Uellodon. Some civil unrest in the city, I hear. It¡¯ll be put straight soon enough, but for now we¡¯re on a skeleton crew. I can¡¯t spare anyone to fetch prisoners.¡± He handed her a rusty iron key.
Merrily turned abruptly away from the clerk, then thought of something and turned back.
¡°I saw the First Minister¡¯s coach outside. Is he here?¡±
The clerk who had spoken twisted his mouth again; a sneer seemed to be his most natural expression. ¡°Oh yes,¡± the man said in his high nasal tone. ¡°He¡¯s here for one of his meetings. But don¡¯t cross his path, Captain, whatever your orders say. The First Minister is usually in a foul mood when he comes to Hoel, and the river is well stocked with the remains of people who irritated him.¡±
She borrowed a bag of filthy hoods that normally saw duty on the heads of the condemned, and marched her entourage down to the third deep.
¡°Be alert, guardsmen,¡± she warned. ¡°Spoon and his accomplices are cunning. They will try to wriggle free. Keep a tight grip.¡±
She found the erstwhile Chancellor of the Royal Academy in Exile chained to a wall in a damp, cold, and unlit cell.
¡°He could spring on you at any moment,¡± she warned. ¡°You, Guardsman Bedge, open the door, then stand back. I¡¯ll see to the chains myself.¡± The nervous guardsman opened the door, and Merrily strode in briskly to inspect Spoon.
One of his eyes was swollen shut, and there was a nasty cut across his face. Bloodstains marred his clothing, and his breathing was shallow. But his one visible eye was bright as he looked at her in the dim light of the guards¡¯ torches.
¡°You were foolish to come back to this city, Spoon, and doubly foolish to choose such an obvious hideout,¡± she snarled. ¡°You¡¯ll soon pay for your stupidity and for your crimes against the Republic.¡± Then she leaned closer to his ear, and whispered: ¡°But I¡¯ll give you a steep discount if you tell me where you saw the Giant-men.¡± She stared hard into his good eye, willing him to recognize her.
¡°The rabble cannot rule themselves; how could they rule a kingdom?¡± Spoon spat, his voice dripping with contempt. But, sotto voce, he added: ¡°They are here, in the deeps. Hobb goes to see them.¡±
Merrily jerked her head back and looked at him hard. He nodded slightly.
She curled up one first and punched Spoon in the ribs, where she knew it would hurt her more than him.
¡°Give my regards to the hangman, dog,¡± she said. Then she turned back to her soldiers. ¡°Take him, and all the others from Kavant. Put hoods on them and wait for me in the barracks. This must be handled with discretion, guardsmen. Gag them, and wait quietly. I will rejoin you soon, and we¡¯ll all be back in Uellodon in time for beer and supper.¡±
Merrily made sure that all of Spoon¡¯s students had been gathered up, and then watched the credulous squad of soldiers escort them upstairs. She borrowed an oil lamp from Wiggs. Then she turned and, her heart thumping with the need to move quickly, started searching for a way down.
It was at the back of the level, in a disused cell. A section of the floor appeared to have collapsed, and then been widened out, leading to an open space below. A sturdy stairway of wood led downward.
To Merrily¡¯s surprise, there was a light coming from somewhere far ahead of her. It did not flicker like flame, but was steady, like moonlight. It did not greatly illuminate the passageway, yet Merrily could see that she stood in a stone tunnel, rigidly square and nearly twelve feet tall. The tunnel ran straight forward into the distance, blocked behind her by the fall of rock. Rows of rigidly straight conduits, worn with age but still intact, ran horizontally along the walls. Metal protrusions punctuated these at regular intervals, though the metal was mightily corroded. Merrily felt a surge of recognition, as her mind snapped back to square tunnels beneath the ruined cathedral outside Roosterfoot.
She began forward slowly, gripping the lantern and feeling for the dagger strapped to one thigh.
There were voices in the darkness. She froze; but they were not coming closer, and seemed to be talking to each other. They were men¡¯s voices. She drifted forward again, drawing out the dagger.
When she came to the precipice, she nearly fell over it. The regular stone passageway ended abruptly at a vast overhang, though a broad ledge followed its circumference to her left and right.
There was a great circular depression in the chamber before her, plunging down perhaps a hundred feet into the bedrock, from which emanated the steady light. She saw that there was some bright light source at the bottom of the pit. All along its base, and climbing up the walls, were a vast array of strange shapes; some hulking and dark, others like long cables, neatly bundled in groups that ran among the huge, dark shapes. There was a smell of metal in the air, and of rust.
Smaller lights flickered on some of the dark shapes, and they illuminated the forms of people moving around among them. Merrily could not tell what they were doing, but only that they were occupied with tasks that looked directed, deliberate, and focused.
There was another light as well, at her own level, some distance along the lip that ran around the edge of the pit. Peering cautiously out of the tunnel from which she entered, Merrily glimpsed two people sitting, facing each other across a small table. The one facing her was Hobb the Wise, First Minister of Uelland. The second was plainly the form of a man, though he had long, blond hair and his back was turned to her. She could tell that he was perhaps six feet tall. She could not see his face. Their bodies were leaned toward each other, and their heads tilted inward, though the faint sound of voices carried across the open space. Other tunnels from other directions joined into the ledge that ringed the lip of the pit.
From one of these other tunnels there emerged a nine-foot tall man.
His proportions were like a human, though his body was fantastically muscled and sculpted. Merrily could not see the features of his face, but he wore a plain white robe. The hair on his head was blond, and his face was shaved. Behind him came three more giants. They wore plate armor of some metal that glinted in the dim light, and helms of what appeared to be steel. They moved, though, as if they wore nothing heavier than silk.
The giant figures began walking toward the First Minister and his human-sized counterpart. Their movements were fluid and graceful, unhurried but potent.
Merrily drew back, holding her breath. A sudden wash of fear swept over her. These things, whatever they were¡ªthey were not human. They were something else. Merrily had encountered many inhuman creatures in her young career: goblins, fey, snarfs¡ªeven, briefly, a Greater Snorl. Her training at Triad had prepared her to react quickly to surprise and novelty. But the appearance of these Giant-men filled her with a dread that she struggled to control or even understand. It was not the fear of their form; their features were pleasant, if imposing in scale. No, it was what they represented. They were like her, but better. They were perfect. They were creatures that, by their nature, could and would supplant humans.
They are demons, said the Second Voice. Run. Run, before they find us and drag us into the Pit at our feet.
Merrily glanced out again. The small group of Giant-men had reached the First Minister and the other man, and stood around them. Hobb rose to his feet and addressed the one in the white robe, angling his head sharply upward. Then the First Minister turned and began to walk toward the tunnel from which Merrily watched with one eye.
The tall man who had sat with him at the table rose, and turned to walk with Hobb. As she saw the front of his body, Merrily¡¯s stomach lurched, and she fought her rising gorge.
Where the man¡¯s face should have been, there was instead a smooth, silvery, featureless surface.
Merrily ducked back behind the tunnel entrance. She hurriedly removed the dead man¡¯s boots from her feet, and then, in her stockings only, she turned and ran as swiftly and as silently as she could back up the tunnel. She ascended the wooden steps, noticing as she went that they had been designed to be taller and broader than normal.
She put on the boots again, and forced herself to slow to a brisk walk as she ascended out of the dungeons. She nodded imperiously to the two clerks in the entrance hall, then joined her hijacked squad of soldiers and prisoners. She waited for long minutes at the door, posing as if in boredom at some tedious task. But her wait was rewarded when she saw the tall, rail-thin frame of Hobb the Wise emerge into the hall, ignore the clerks, and depart.
Merrily waited for another fifteen minutes, counting the seconds in her head. Her guardsmen looked curiously at her, but remained dutifully silent. When she judged that the First Minister had likely departed, she marched the squad and their prisoners out of the keep, through the courtyard with its gallows, and out the front gate of Hoel.
???
When Merrily and her entourage drew near to Uellodon, she sent six of the guardsmen ahead to a nonexistent barracks on the east side of the city, to report to a nonexistent colonel that she was arriving with prisoners who would certainly not exist by the time they arrived. Four red-clad men remained, with twenty bound and chained prisoners moving in a slow file. She sent two of the remaining guardsmen back to Hoel with a message for the commandant. That left two.
¡°Now, Guardsman Bedge, Guardsman Wiggs. Give me your spears for inspection.¡±
The two Republican Guard looked at each other incredulously, but dutifully handed over their spears. She looked at their tips for a moment, and noted that they had begun to accumulate some spots of rust. Then she carefully and deliberately laid them on the ground. She turned to the two guardsmen.
¡°Is that the First Minister¡¯s carriage?¡± she asked, looking at a nonexistent carriage on the road behind them. The two soldiers spun around and searched the road.
Merrily landed a carefully placed blow on the side of each man¡¯s head, just behind the ear. Bedge collapsed immediately, but Wiggs staggered backward and turned unsteadily, grunting in pain. Merrily drove one fist into his gut, knocking the breath out of him, and then kneed him vigorously in the groin. Once he was on the ground, she kicked him briskly in the side of the head.
Then she set about releasing the prisoners.
¡°What do you know of the Giant-men?¡± she asked Spoon, once the Applied Historians were free.
Chancellor Spoon stared at her with his one uninjured eye. ¡°We have not only lurked in the city, throwing pies and distributing pamphlets, Mrs. Hunter. I set two of my students to watch the Hoel Road, thinking they might transport political prisoners that way. While we did see many of these, we also saw that Hobb¡¯s carriage made regular trips to the prison. It made little sense for him to visit Hoel two or three times per week, and yet there he was. So I set more of my company to spy on the prison.
¡°These watchers first saw the Giant-men coming and going from a tunnel in an abandoned quarry at night. They would leave with great sacks and chests, storing them in an old outbuilding, and then return with food. They can run with tremendous speed, and we weren¡¯t able to follow them; but I fear the former owners of the supplies were not left alive to report the thefts. There have been rumors of murders and disappearances in the villages around Hoel.
¡°We have watched them for two weeks, since shortly after you and Hobb returned from Roosterfoot. If they were here before that, we did not know of it. But we are certain that they operate from Hoel, and I suspect the First Minister has an understanding with them. We saw him in the passage beyond our cells, before you came. What he does with them in Hoel, I do not know.¡±
Merrily thought, silently, of Hobb seated across the table from the man with the metal face. She said nothing to Spoon.
In her head, the Voices held council.
It¡¯s time to put aside this infatuation with Hobb and his Republic, said the First Voice. He is in league with creatures that steal and murder and are more perfect than us in every way. Whatever else they are, they are every bit the danger he claimed them to be.
Whether they are demons or monsters, said the Second Voice, they are outside God¡¯s creation. There is no place for them in our world, and we cannot support a man who would make allies of them.
There have been three of us for too long, added the First Voice. It is time to let go of one.
The Third Voice screamed, and Merrily heard it in the air around her. She felt the conflict begin between them as a tearing, twisting, ravening battle of wills and of blood and viscera. The certainty and comfort and order of the Third Voice was pierced by the others, then ripped open and devoured. She shuddered deeply as a perspective, a view, an understanding of the world, died. And she felt a shocking absence as the Third Voice dissipated.
She found she was sweating, and that Spoon was still staring at her closely. He did not ask if she was alright. Instead, he said:
¡°We have all discovered something we did not expect, Mrs. Hunter. It changes us, and it changes the world. But I think Stoat was right to put his trust in you. You will choose what to make of this new world and new self.¡±
She blinked, still feeling slightly unbalanced.
¡°What will you do now?¡± she asked.
Spoon took a deep breath, and looked around at the gathering dusk.
¡°I have gambled very much with the lives of these men and women. Not too much, but close. Had you not come along, we would soon be decorating the gallows at Hoel. We will slip back to Carelon, to rest and heal and make new plans. I will take some satisfaction in leaving Hobb with a mouthful of ashes.¡±
He offered a hand, and she shook it.
¡°I hope our paths cross again, Mrs. Hunter,¡± he said. ¡°If you see him, give me warmest regards to Professor Stoat, and tell him that the seeds he planted have grown tall and healthy.¡±
And with that he turned and led his students off into the gathering dark, toward the Green River.
???
Three days later, before Merrily left Green Bridge, she made a pair of social calls. The first was at Palace Naridium, where she was admitted to see Hobb the Wise.
The First Minister¡¯s face was drawn and pale, and there were dark circles beneath his eyes. His few wisps of hair were disheveled. But his suit was freshly pressed, his shirt was crisp, and his voice was steady.
¡°I will conclude my visit, First Minister, and return to Queen Anne. I am sorry that I wasn¡¯t able to resolve the situation at the Old High Court to your satisfaction.¡±
Hobb nodded slowly. ¡°As you wish. You are here with the privileges of a diplomat, and you may depart with those privileges. As for the matter at the courthouse¡ªit will be resolved soon enough. The people in the square won¡¯t remain there for long when their food begins to run out and the sanitation becomes questionable. The Crown Prince cannot leave the city without being detected by the Security Bureau. And I¡¯m afraid the traitors who presently occupy the courthouse will realize the legal consequences that are due to all traitors.
¡°Nonetheless, Mrs. Hunter, I am grateful that you have come. I wish we could be friends, you and I. You are already among the most consequential of citizens, and I truly believe that one day you will see that our way is right. When that day comes, I will be the first to welcome you back to the Republic.¡±
She kept an expression of polite neutrality on her face, in the way of diplomats who must suggest a thing is possible when it is not.
¡°Do you still desire a settlement with Queen Anne against a common enemy?¡± she asked.
Hobb leaned forward across the table eagerly.
¡°I do, Mrs. Hunter. Please tell her. The threat we face is one we absolutely must face together¡ªor it will consume us. If she will meet us in a neutral venue¡ªRoosterfoot, perhaps, or even on the river itself¡ªthen I am sure we can come to an agreement.¡±
Merrily rose to her feet.
¡°I will give her your message,¡± she said. ¡°Will you excuse me, First Minister?¡±
He nodded, and rose to see her out. As he opened the door for her, he suddenly stared hard into her eyes.
¡°Where were you on the eighteenth?¡± he asked. ¡°The day after the fighting at the Old High Court. The men I assigned to your protection reported that you vanished from their watch after you entered the courthouse.¡±
She smiled slightly.
¡°There was a great deal of chaos outside, that day,¡± she said. ¡°I¡¯m sure they just missed me. Be well, First Minister.¡±
¡°Be well, Merrily Hunter,¡± Hobb said softly. ¡°Be joyful, if you can. And do great things.¡±
???
Her second call¡ªnow openly flanked by two uniformed guardsmen¡ªwas to the courthouse. The guardsmen were made to wait outside by bailiffs, but Merrily promised she would return through the front gate and collect them. And then she went to see Wigglus and Frederick.
She found them in Wigglus¡¯s small office in the upper reaches of the courthouse. He was awake again, and his color had improved. He was eating from a bowl of soup when she found him, though his right arm was still in a sling. Prince Leeland was seated nearby when she approached, and he stood to leave. Frederick, dressed elegantly once again and sipping from a glass of red wine, stood as well, and winked at her.
¡°It¡¯s alright, Your Highness,¡± said Merrily to the prince. ¡°You may remain, if you wish. I won¡¯t be long. I have things to say to you too.¡±
They all sat together in the little office, looking out at the pale midwinter light.
¡°I will leave tomorrow morning,¡± she said finally. She found she was fighting back tears. ¡°I have to return to Green Bridge, and to Queen Anne. There are things she needs to know, that I can only tell her in person.¡±
And I want to see Jonny, said the First Voice. I miss him. I love him. I said things that were wrong, and hurt him.
We do NOT want to see Jonathan Miller, said the Second Voice. We will go and see Father, and we will tell him all we have learned and done. We will beg forgiveness and rejoin the Elect.
¡°I understand,¡± said Wigglus. ¡°I agree. You must go back to your home, and your queen, and your husband. Whatever you make of your destiny, Merrily, I think it will be there. And mine¡ªours¡ª¡± he turned to smile at Frederick¡ª¡°is here.¡±
She looked at the Crown Prince. ¡°Your mother wishes you would come home,¡± she said. ¡°I know you want to come as well. But you know you can¡¯t come with me, right now. I and my belongings will be searched thoroughly when I leave. You would be found out, no matter how we try to hide you.¡±
Leeland nodded. ¡°I have been speaking with Mr. Wholehouse-and-a-Half,¡± he said. ¡°He¡¯s told me his plan, and I agree. I hope I will see you again soon, Mrs. Hunter. Please tell my mother¡ªI will come home to her if I can. This place is not home any longer.¡±
¡°Why not?¡± she asked. ¡°I understand why you want to be with your mother¡ªbut, if you will forgive my curiosity, Prince, I don¡¯t fully understand why you wish to leave Uellodon, and your father.¡±
¡°Perhaps,¡± said the young man with a smile, ¡°if we meet again in Green Bridge, I can tell you the story.¡±
She turned back to Wigglus. Frederick stood and motioned with his head to Leeland; they both left the room, closing the door behind them.
Merrily and Wigglus sat in silence for a long time. She found it difficult to speak.
¡°I¡¯m afraid I can¡¯t play my violin with you any longer,¡± he said with a wry smile, glancing down at the sling.
¡°You will again, one day,¡± she said, feeling a tinge of desperation.
He shook his head. ¡°I don¡¯t think so, Merrily. I¡¯m not a seer; just a lawyer. But when I look at what¡¯s happening around us, I think this is likely where we say goodbye.¡±
She squeezed his hand fiercely, and he winced. ¡°Why don¡¯t you go over the river with Frederick?¡± she asked. ¡°You can recover in Ville Porpo, and maybe make your way to the Royal Academy in Exile. They¡¯d welcome you there. You can write pamphlets and essays and help organize people to fight against Hobb and the King and Mr. Robe and all the rest of them. You¡¯d do more good there than here, getting yourself killed. And I don¡¯t want you to die. I want to see you again, and make more music together.¡±
He gently withdrew his left hand from her grip, and held her own hand.
¡°Perhaps I will,¡± he said. ¡°But everything is uncertain. It may not come to be. We fear death, don¡¯t we Merrily? We fear the end. Life is sweet, no matter the circumstances. We want nothing more, really, than to keep struggling, keep reaching for some future where everything is better and wiser and happier and more just. We want to see the people we love one more time, and hold them, and kiss them, and laugh together. And we fear beyond all reason that moment of blankness and void at the end, when ¡®I¡¯ becomes nothing, and all perception and thought cease. But for all that fear and sorrow, death is the completion of every life. It¡¯s the moment when everything we¡¯ve done is finished and weighed, and judged¡ªnot by some old man in the sky, but by ourselves. When death comes for me, I will judge my life in that moment, and know whether I have led the best and most brilliant life I can. And here, in Uellodon, if death comes for me, I want to know that I lived and died, as best I could, for what I care about the most.¡±
She nodded. There were no tears. She felt acceptance, and love.
He stood up then, and reached up with his left hand to take his violin and bow down from the shelf. He carefully put them into a long, leather-clad case, closed it, and handed the case to her.
¡°It¡¯s Midwinter tomorrow,¡± he said with a smile. ¡°There should be gifts. Take this with you. Find someone to play it for me.¡±
She stood up and took the violin case from him and ran a hand along the soft leather. Then, thinking carefully, she unstrapped the sheathed dagger from her thigh.
¡°This was a gift to me from Lady Triggle,¡± she said. ¡°You remember her, don¡¯t you? We played together at her parties. She gave it to me before we left for Uellodon last year. I¡¯ve carried it in fights, and classes, and travels, and sneaking around, and everywhere else. I¡¯ve taken lives with it¡ªonce to protect you, when we were attacked in the streets here.¡±
She handed it to him.
¡°Will you keep it with you?¡± she asked. He nodded solemnly and took the sheathed dagger.
She embraced him carefully, and kissed his cheek.
¡°Goodbye,¡± she said.
¡°Goodbye,¡± he answered.
???
The next morning, on Midwinter¡¯s Day, Merrily rode out of Uellodon, alone.
Chapter 17: The Universe if a Pretzel
June 1st
¡°I killed Rolland Gorp,¡± said Merrily. Her hands gripped the rough stone parapet at the edge of the observation deck, and her gaze fixed itself on the gentle green of the farmland east of the city. Somewhere out there, at the edge of sight, she imagined she could see the little yard where they¡¯d laid his body in the earth.
Only a nearby sparrow heard her confession, and only the wind answered her.
One never knows, with an epilogue, if it really is the end. Who can presume that the events of a life, after a certain point, are beyond the arc of its defining drama? When does one say: ¡°Everything of consequence has happened now; this is what comes after, in case you aren¡¯t yet ready to say goodbye.¡± Standing in a moment, can one say it is an epilogue? No. It might be a false ending, or a resting point, or simply the close of a chapter. Or it might be the last moment before death. It is presumption beyond all measure to shear off time with the word ¡®epilogue.¡¯ Life does not have epilogues.
¡°I killed Rolland Gorp,¡± Merrily said again. The pain in her head throbbed and raged, and her vision blurred.
He deserved to die, said the Second Voice. God¡¯s law is perfect; if a man violates it, why should not his punishment be equally perfect? What mercy does he deserve?
She turned, walked away from the silent witness of the bird and the wind, and descended the long stair to the base of Redbun Hall. Then she made her way across the square to Bastings to attend her queen.
They met alone in Anne¡¯s bedchamber. The Queen was disheveled, her face smudged with dirt and sweat, and dark circles beneath her eyes. She wore leather riding hose and a simple brown tunic, and a jacket of hardened leather was slung over the back of a chair. But her long, black hair had been carefully brushed.
Merrily gave a brief curtesy, then seated herself at a wave of the Queen¡¯s hand.
¡°When did you get back in, ma¡¯am?¡± asked Merrily.
¡°Late,¡± replied the queen wearily. ¡°Or early, I suppose. We rode hard from Roosterfoot; the Guard nearly had us a couple times.¡± She sat down abruptly, and rubbed her eyes with one hand. ¡°If the city hasn¡¯t fallen already, it will soon. Logwall was moving his forces into place. We managed a few small victories, and some useful sabotage, but I didn¡¯t have enough men to dislodge him. And Snugg¡¯s guns aren¡¯t exactly discreet. We only used them when we wanted to draw attention away from our main body.¡±
¡°And then?¡± asked Merrily, raising an eyebrow.
¡°And then they¡¯ll come here,¡± said Anne flatly. ¡°They¡¯ll put the city under siege, set up a blockade of the river, and wait for us to starve. No more wizardry from Snugg¡¯s engineers will stop them, this time.¡±
Merrily folded her arms and leaned forward, staring at the small table between them. The pain in her head continued to rage, and she focused her will on enduring it. ¡°I suppose they can¡¯t be counted on to arrive before I have to take my final exams,¡± she remarked acerbically.
Anne smiled. ¡°No, Merrily. I¡¯m afraid the seasons of the University will endure a little longer. You and your friends must ride out to your battlefield too. And when it is done, I hope you will have time to finish your composition for my coronation. The players have already arrived from the south.¡±
¡°Do you still intend to go through with it, then?¡± asked Merrily.
The queen nodded silently.
¡°Why?¡±
¡°Because even under siege, the symbols of the Crown are potent. Our only hope of survival is for support from ordinary people. There are tens of thousands of farmers, and craftsmen, and traders in the North, and all other sorts of people, who don¡¯t want to live under Hobb¡¯s republic. They have bows and spears for hunting, and plowshares they can beat into swords. They are not soldiers, but there are a great many of them, and they can be made into an army if they have the will to fight. That is what we must create for them, Merrily. The coronation is not about the crown, or about my vanity or right to rule; it is a declaration. And if Green Bridge falls, and I am captured and executed, it will still have been the right and correct thing to declare.¡±
¡°What will you declare?¡± asked Merrily tensely. The voices in her head growled at each other in fury, and the splitting headache made her want to weep.
Queen Anne looked up at her. Even in deep fatigue, her green eyes were piercing and the lines of her face potent.
¡°Independence,¡± she answered.
???
As Merrily left Bastings hall, rubbing her head, a distant snatch of music in the air tugged at her attention and her memory. The tune was simple, and she found her mind constructing the chord progressions that would accompany it¡ªeven as the same chords emerged, played by a combination of strings and winds. Merrily¡¯s head snapped around, her headache suddenly forgotten as her ears searched for the source of the music.
Where have we heard this before? asked the First Voice, even as an inexplicable surge of excitement flooded her body.
She found the players rehearsing in a cramped storeroom just off the large dining hall on the first floor of Bastings. The din of food sellers and their customers faded away as she slipped through the door, and she stared in wonder at the motley collection of musicians. Their instruments¡ªstrings and flutes and horns of a variety of shapes¡ªwere shabby, as were their clothes. They were crammed into the small space, nearly on top of each other. The conductor stood wedged into a corner, glaring furiously at his little orchestra and waving his hands in cramped patterns. But the music was familiar, with a throbbing, pulsing pattern in the texture that drew her unstoppably inward.
Merrily looked closely at the conductor. He was a little man with a large mustache, wild hair, and a prominent, beak-like nose. He wore a pair of spectacles with one glass missing, and his tie was dirty.
And then it dawned on her, just as her memory of that night flooded back.
Below her, a spreading fountain of corks and bubbling champagne flew into the air, and the orchestra¡¯s music swelled up into a crescendo of the sheerest joy ever heard in the Neighbor Kingdoms. There was a rising chorus of wild, chaotic, exuberant cheers from below. There was¡ a backbeat.
She blinked, even as the little conductor turned his glare at her.
It wasn¡¯t real, said the Second Voice. Because it shouldn¡¯t be. It was a mistake.
She backed out the door and shut it. That was another time, and another place. Her eyes closed involuntarily as the torrent of pain in her head roared back to life.
Merrily sat in the cool dark of the library at Peacock Hall throughout the morning and afternoon, wearily studying for Cyrus¡¯s exam in five days. Gerald Hornhugger and Kel Maliss and Freddie Greensmith and Aristine Le Hen, and many others, labored there with her. She could feel Kel¡¯s eyes on her, and Gerald¡¯s, from a table across the library, but she did not speak to them. They would find her later.
The lunch hour came and went, and Merrily did not leave. But the echo of the music would not leave either. As she listened to it her headache diminished, and the pain became tolerable. And so, as the sun was setting, she made her way back to the small apartment she occupied at Bastings Hall. The musicians were gone, but the music had transformed into something else¡ªnot the same tune or the same rhythm, but something new, born of that thrilling spark of passion and possibility.
She found a stack of hemp paper in one of her drawers, carefully drew out staff lines, and started to write. When sleep finally came, she laid her head on pages and pages, filled with note heads that might one day be magic.
???
The sound of quiet chanting filled the dark air of the study. A man¡¯s voice rose and fell steadily in the ritualistic cadences of the Disciple¡¯s Creed, and the soft pad of massed human voices responded.
Praise be to God.
Merrily sat in the dim light of a candle, facing Father¡¯s bookshelves, rickety and filled with eclectic spines. There was a small table in one corner, and two unpadded wooden chairs facing each other, one of which she occupied. The curtains on doorways into other rooms were drawn, as they always were. In the large chamber of the under-temple, the service droned on.
There was a noise behind her, but Merrily did not turn. She sat, facing rigidly forward, as a person crossed behind her and sat in the other chair. It was not Father; it was Kel.
¡°Why do you come back here?¡± asked Kel. Her dark hair was loose, and the top buttons of her blouse were open, revealing fine collarbones and the curve of the tops of her breasts.
This isn¡¯t right, thought Merrily. Kel Maliss had grown exceedingly modest, near to prudery, since she joined the Elect. Though she was beautiful and athletic, she would never let herself be seen this way.
¡°This is a dream,¡± said Merrily flatly.
¡°Why do you come back here?¡± Kel asked again. She leaned forward, staring intently at Merrily. ¡°Of all the people and places you could dream, you return here to Father, to me, to Gerald. Why?¡±
Merrily looked around. The image of the study was skewed and improbable. She shook her head, disoriented.
It was Gerald, sitting in the chair now. ¡°Is it guilt, Merrily?¡± he asked. ¡°Does your soul know of its guilt for what you will do to us? Does it drive you to return here?¡±
¡°Which voice are you?¡± asked Merrily. She heard desperation in her own words. ¡°Which one is speaking?¡±
The voices chanting in the under-temple, grew louder suddenly, and Merrily jumped up in terror. They sounded just like the voices in her head. She closed her eyes. It¡¯s a dream, she told herself.
When she opened them, Father sat in the chair. His face was uncovered, and the scars were deep and terrifying in the dim light. He was nude, and the flesh of his body was surprisingly taught for an old man.
¡°You¡¯ve done well, daughter,¡± he said. ¡°You¡¯ve done as I asked.¡±
¡°I have?¡± she said in astonishment.
¡°Yes,¡± he answered with a broad smile. ¡°My angel is pleased. He tells me that God favors you.¡± He rose to his feet then, and walked to stand directly in front of where she sat. His body was close to hers, and she was forced to crane her neck upward. The space between them was very little. Father¡¯s hands moved slightly, and then he placed them on either side of her head, touching her cheeks.
¡°What have I done?¡± she asked, closing her eyes. Tears flowed down her face.
¡°You have killed Rolland Gorp,¡± he said softly. ¡°You have fulfilled your promise of duty and love.¡±
The grip of his hands on her head tightened, and she looked up again. The face looking down at her was a smooth, blank, curved surface of silvery metal.
???
The next morning Merrily went to see Cyrus in his office. He was little help. She found him pacing back and forth on his miraculously recovered leg, speaking earnestly to a potted plant. Gmork was useless; he could say barely ten words in Uellish. He smiled and waved at her, but could offer little else. Merrily¡¯s headache began to grow again, and she left the two of them to their own madness.
We need a teacher, said the First Voice. We have lost our way. We need the old Cyrus Stoat back again. He was an insufferable ass, and we need him.
We have a teacher, replied the Second Voice, and he knows the way. We will see him tonight.
Father is madder than Stoat, shot back the First Voice. He is madder and more dangerous.
She made her way back to Bastings in the hopes of hearing the music again, but the musicians were absent. She sat for several hours, scribbling at her score, then grew restless. The headache swelled, and she wiped more drops of blood from her nose.
And then it was time for Father.
As the sun dropped low over the Green River, she made her way to the Cathedral of Saint Bob. The quiet chanting of Vespers could be heard within. Merrily heard the voice of Bishop Wildrick, rising and falling in the ritualistic cadences of the Disciple¡¯s Creed. She shivered.
The man at the door was of the Elect, of course. How much Bishop Wildrick knew of the contents of his basement was still a mystery to Merrily, but the Elect were well-placed among his staff. The man glanced at her as she slipped into the stair down to the crypt, but said nothing. At the false tomb, she opened the weighted lid and let herself down the knotted rope, closing the lid after her. She walked down the dark passage toward the light that entered from the shaft in the ceiling of the forgotten old under-temple.
To Merrily¡¯s surprise, the floor of the under-temple was choked with boxes, crates, barrels, and chests. Though many were closed, enough were open that she could see they were filled with a variety of weapons¡ªspears, crossbows, polearms, and even the hilts of a few swords. Where yesterday there had been a place of worship for hundreds, now there was a small armory.
The hall was nearly empty of people, but a woman¡¯s figure stood in the dim light near an open barrel sprouting a bundle of spear heads. Drawing closer, Merrily saw, with a shiver, that the woman was Nicola Snugg. Her thin, pinched face turned toward Merrily.
¡°Mrs. Hunter,¡± said the severe older woman, seeing her approach. ¡°The peace of the Lord be with you.¡±
¡°And also with you,¡± replied Merrily automatically. ¡°What is all this? And when did it get here?¡±Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!
¡°Had you attended Communion last night, Mrs. Hunter, you would know well,¡± said Snugg accusingly. ¡°I arranged for these arms to be delivered here, and the Elect brought them down to the under-temple for safekeeping. May I ask what kept you away from us?¡±
Merrily hoped the darkness obscured her flushed face.
¡°I was up late studying for exams,¡± she said. ¡°I fell behind on my schoolwork from this past winter, when I was away, and needed to catch up.¡±
A lie, said the Second Voice. That is a sin. We will have to tell Father. Last night we were scribbling at that useless, amateur twaddle that will embarrass us if it is ever played.
It¡¯s for an exam, of a sort, rationalized the First Voice.
¡°Your classmates, Mr. Hornhugger and Miss Maliss, managed to join us,¡± continued Mrs. Snugg. ¡°God requires corporate worship, Mrs. Hunter. It troubles me to see you absent yourself. That way lies damnation. I fear for your soul, Mrs. Hunter; truly, I do.¡±
Merrily opened her mouth to retort, but Snugg¡¯s eyes drifted away from her, and Merrily followed her gaze. She turned. There was Father, standing in the mouth of the passage to the surface, and behind him were Kel Maliss and Gerald Hornhugger.
¡°We all risk damnation, Mrs. Snugg,¡± he said, ¡°simply by walking in the world. Every particle of substance we perceive is tainted by corruption. It is only through the endurance of our souls, and the grace of God, that we hope to escape the Pit. My angel has revealed this truth to me, and I reveal it to you.¡±
Father strode up to Merrily and stood close to her, not touching.
¡°Do you believe in God, Merrily?¡± he asked.
She nodded. ¡°I do believe, Father,¡± she said. ¡°I have faith in God and the prophets and scriptures and the revealed truth. But I really, really needed to study last night.¡±
We pile lies on lies, sneered the Second Voice. Next we¡¯ll tell him we are an angel ourselves.
Father smiled. ¡°I used to teach history,¡± he remarked conversationally. He looked at Kel and Gerald, and raised an eyebrow. ¡°I¡¯m afraid you all missed the finest course on offer, north of the Gulf of Carelon, in the history of the Ecclesia and Uellish politics.¡± He turned back to Merrily. ¡°But I¡¯ll give you the important points, Mrs. Hunter, and spare you all the reading and studying. The history of our land is a story of blood and lies. The Kingdom was founded by a mass murderer and atheist, and his heirs have continued that tradition with slavish dedication. And when one King dared to permit the servants of God to return, he was deposed by a woman¡ªa woman!¡ªand sent away into exile.¡± His voice began to crescendo in outrage. ¡°Whatever Cyrus Stoat and the other robed morons at Triad are attempting to teach you now, Mrs. Hunter, and whatever promises of glory and wealth they hold out if you should be given high marks on your final exams, I promise you that there is nothing you can learn there that is more worthy of your time than one second of our worship!¡±
Nicola Snugg smirked at Merrily, but Kel¡¯s and Gerald¡¯s eyes were filled with the light of fervor.
Father threw back his cloak, revealing the hilt of his rapier. It was a weapon that Merrily had returned to him not long ago. He had lost it, she recalled, in a duel with Cyrus Stoat on the roof of a house on Queen Anne¡¯s Square. It had an elaborate hilt, embellished with the device of the crowned eagle; the sign of the Uellish royal house. He drew it out with a faint sigh.
¡°Give her your sword, Maliss,¡± he said sharply. Kel Maliss grudgingly drew out her own rapier and extended it, hilt-first, to Merrily.
¡°Now, Merrily Hunter. I will give you a lesson of more value than your entire semester in Cyrus Stoat¡¯s classroom.¡±
He lunged at her with no salute or warning. Merrily hastily parried in Sixte, dropping into a crouch and drifting back to maintain the proper space between them. He lunged again, recklessly but with the speed of a viper; she parried and delivered her riposte.
¡°Your argument lacks conviction, Merrily,¡± sneered Father, parrying easily. ¡°It reflects the state of your soul.¡± He twitched Kel¡¯s blade aside lightly and struck at her again. Merrily¡¯s chest was unarmored, and Father¡¯s attack carried the full weight and momentum of his body. She flattened her chest into a line parallel to his thrust just in time, drifting to the side so that his blade could pierce the air in front of her.
He drove her around the under-temple in a continuous retreat, taunting her, quoting scripture, promising damnation. It was all Merrily could do to maintain space between her and him. Her ripostes, when she could manage one, were feeble, and rarely credible. She began to sweat, and her arms and legs ached from the effort of avoiding death at the end of his blade. The energy he unleashed in his attack was frightening¡ªand yet Merrily began to perceive that he held back his deepest fury.
At last she could no longer keep up. He slapped away Kel¡¯s blade and placed the tip of his own sword at her throat. He stood still before her, his face mocking. For all the relentless anger of his long attack, she could see that his chest was heaving. She reminded herself that Father was an old man.
¡°What have you learned from this lesson, Merrily?¡± he asked.
Her temples throbbed, and spots appeared in her vision. She felt something running from her nose.
Follow the Bright Path, said a familiar voice in her head, speaking in the fey-tongue. Instantly the headache cleared, and her vision was unmarred.
She fell backward, away from the point of his sword, her back toward the floor. Her right leg bent, and she extended her left leg straight; before her back hit, she caught herself with both hands. Then she hooked Father¡¯s feet with her own foot, jerking him off balance. His eyes widened with surprise, he tumbled backward. Merrily kipped up again with a quick thrust of her arms, flipped Kel¡¯s sword into the air with a foot, caught the hilt, and placed the point at his throat. Father stared up at her, his face unreadable.
¡°Faith,¡± she said. Then she turned and walked back to Gerald and Kel, giving the rapier back to her classmate.
¡°I remember that drop from Enderin¡¯s Dirty Fighting seminar,¡± said Gerald, in grudging admiration. ¡°I could never get the kip-up. He dinged my grade down to an A-minus.¡±
¡°You weigh too much,¡± sniffed Kel. ¡°It only works if you¡¯re light.¡±
¡°And young,¡± added Father¡¯s voice behind her. Merrily turned. He stood close by now, his sword sheathed. He was tall and erect; his breathing had slowed. Merrily felt a compulsion to kneel, and could see the same instinct in the faces for her companions.
¡°Sit, children,¡± Father instructed. They took seats on nearby boxes. Even Nicola Snugg, majority owner of the largest trading concern north of the Gulf, who nobody else had called ¡®child¡¯ for many decades, obeyed without comment.
Father remained standing, and spoke. ¡°My Order sent me to Green Bridge, many years ago, to wait for a sign that God¡¯s judgment drew near. I have endured the corruption and decay of the city and its people. I have worn my disguises with patience. I have prepared to greet His holy day with praise and humility. And now God has told me, through His angel, that He will reward my patience.
¡°In four days, God will cause this fallen city to be burned from the face of His creation.¡±
Merrily blinked. This was a very specific timeline for the apocalypse¡ªfar more specific than any scripture she had heard of.
¡°And when God does this miracle,¡± Father continued, ¡°those who He permits to survive must be taken into His kingdom, to worship Him and obey His law without question. We are His instruments, we of the Elect. A false and misguided man, who calls himself a Bishop, has delivered arms and armor to this holy place, thinking it secret, thinking to use them for his own corrupt purposes. The Elect will take them up, and, at the hour of God¡¯s judgment, use them to work His will on those who survive the flames.¡±
Nicola Snugg, Gerald Hornhugger, and Kelestine Maliss listened in apparent rapture. But Merrily struggled to pay attention over the din of warring, screaming voices in her head.
Father paced up and down before them now.
¡°You are my chosen among the Elect. You must make straight in this desert a highway for our God. When the fire comes, you will be spared¡ªbut before the fire, there are those among the infidel who must be put to the sword, so that none will stand in the way of the Elect. When the leaders of this city are dead, and the fire has swept over it, the Elect will be the only leaders left for its people. They will know God and worship Him. These are your tasks of duty and love.¡±
He looked at each of them directly. There could be no doubt what he intended.
Yes, said the Second Voice. Now is the time for us to make our final commitment to God and to Father. There can be no going back.
Can you not see the insanity in this? screamed the First Voice. He asks us to commit murder; to kill another living human being to prepare the way for some imagined holocaust.
¡°To obey without understanding is the essence of faith, Merrily,¡± said Father, looking directly at her. It was as if he could see inside her and hear the voices. ¡°The scriptures tell us that they are blessed who have not seen, and yet still believe. None of us can understand God¡¯s plan, but we may know our part to play in it. My angel has brought me all the knowledge I need, and I give to you all the knowledge you need. Now is the moment, Merrily, when you must ask yourself what, exactly, you have faith in.¡±
There is only one faith, said the Second Voice. And the time has come for this debate to end. We cannot be divided any longer.
She could feel the tearing, ripping, agony of the First Voice as it was devoured. She lowered her head and wept.
¡°I have faith in you, Father,¡± she said, when the silent screaming inside her had died.
Then Father gave them the names of the people they must kill, and when they must do it.
???
Merrily spent the next two days in a state of almost delirious joy. The voices in her head were gone, and her headaches as well. There was no conflict and no doubt; only certainty and faith. She spent her days in the Cathedral of Saint Bob, smiling to herself as she watched the coming and goings of the poor, deluded churchmen who were not of the Elect. For a whole day, she did not set foot on Farley Island, and spent not a single minute in preparation for Cyrus¡¯s final exam. After all, it would never be given. Her life as a scholar was over. She prayed, and felt the peace of one who knows that her prayers are heard, and noted, if not immediately and obviously answered.
And then on the morning of the fourth of June, as she listened to the sung Terce, Jonathan came and sat next to her in the wooden pew.
His blond hair was a little longer than she¡¯d remembered, and his face was thin. He wore a tidy suit of fine wool over his lanky frame, but she remembered the strength of the arms under that modest covering. He¡¯d shaved quite recently, and she noted with concern the remains of a nick on his well-formed jaw. His gaze was haunted, uncertain, even fearful. It suggested he was prepared for her to stab him right there in the church.
A convulsion gripped her heart, and the monument of her certainty wavered.
¡°Hello, Merrily,¡± he said softly.
¡°Hello, Jonny,¡± she replied. What else was there to say?
They sat in silence for a long while, as he visibly struggled to decide what to say next.
¡°I¡¯ve missed you,¡± he said finally. She looked hard at the back of the pew in front of her, and said nothing.
¡°I heard you went back to Uellodon,¡± he added. ¡°I¡¯m glad you returned.¡±
¡°That was five months ago,¡± she said flatly.
¡°I¡ I got the feeling you didn¡¯t want to see me. So I left you alone.¡± He looked down at his hands. ¡°But I wanted to see you. I¡¯ve missed you so much, since you¡¯ve been gone.¡±
She looked at the back of the pew, and said nothing.
He took a deep, shuddering breath. The choir at the front of the church began to sing a new tune; a rather pedestrian bit of hymnody, to Merrily¡¯s ear.
¡°I¡¯m leaving Green Bridge in a few days,¡± he said, as if searching for some excuse to make noise. ¡°I have some business for Miss Snipe. I could have some messages delivered in Hog Hurst if you like.¡± He was lying, or dancing around a lie. It didn¡¯t matter.
She shook her head. ¡°No. I have nothing for anyone there.¡±
He looked at her sharply. ¡°You¡¯ve changed, Merrily. Sort of; some part of you has changed. It¡¯s the part you¡¯re wearing on the outside right now.¡± His gaze drifted back down to his toes, and his voice softened to nearly a whisper. ¡°But I believe¡ª¡±
¡°There isn¡¯t,¡± she interrupted. ¡°There¡¯s no part of me, deep down, that is still who I was, and still loves you. Give up that hope. I¡¯ve grown up, Jonathan. I expect you have as well. But whoever you are, I¡¯m not the same person that said yes. Maybe it was the moment, or the music, or something else, but I said something up on that balcony that I never meant to say, and never should have said. And now here we are, paying for that mistake.¡±
She took his hand and looked him full in the face. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Jonny. I¡¯m really sorry. But I don¡¯t love you. I don¡¯t think I love anyone¡ any person,¡± she added lamely.
There was a whisper inside. It was the faintest hint of the dying breath of a point of view.
He took another deep gasp of air, visibly trying to control his face. He shut his eyes for a moment, then opened them and looked back at her.
¡°Do you suppose,¡± he said, ¡°there¡¯s another me that got it right? That asked the right question at the right time, and did the right things, so that this moment came out differently? Do you suppose in that moment when I made the wrong decision, some other me did it better, and went off and lived some other life? And¡ well, do you suppose some other you might love that other Jonathan?¡±
She shook her head. ¡°I don¡¯t know, Jonny. Those are questions neither of us can ever answer.¡±
He nodded slightly, then stood up. ¡°I think there is,¡± he said. ¡°It makes it easier to live this life, knowing some other me came out alright.¡± He thought for a moment longer. ¡°You left a few things in our home,¡± he added. ¡°I haven¡¯t been living there. But I paid the rent, hoping, I guess¡ well. Hoping it would be different. The things you left are there, in the bedroom. If you haven¡¯t fetched them by the time I leave the city, I¡¯ll have them taken away.¡±
He started to turn, then paused a moment longer.
¡°I love you, Merrily,¡± he said. And then he switched to the fey-tongue, the language of their childhood and youth, and of the strange people of the forest who drifted through their shared memories. ¡°Forever, in all the branches, I love you and my selves follow your path. Goodbye.¡±
As he walked away, her hand drifted toward him on its own. But if he saw, he gave no sign.
Merrily was left alone. She took a breath, put her hand back in her lap, and lifted her eyes to the Unbroken Circle behind the altar. And she smiled.
???
As the sun set on the fourth of June, Merrily finally turned her feet back to Three Fish Bridge and Farley Island. For all the imposing stonework that had been built up on both ends of the bridge, there were just a few Billies on guard at either foot. They nodded politely to Merrily as she crossed over the long spans.
She did not go to her small apartment in Bastings. Instead, her feet carried her to Peacock Hall, home of the College of Applied History. She peeked in the library, where her classmates studied frantically by the light of candles and lamps burning low. Freddie Greensmith and Arisitine Le Hen sat together at a table in the corner, comparing hand-written notes. Merrily smiled; everyone around them could see the budding romance they fancied a deep, dark secret. Even Kel Maliss and Gerald Hornhugger were there. She wondered why.
Her feet climbed the stairs to Cyrus¡¯s office.
There was a light beneath the door. She listened for a moment; it was quiet, but she thought she heard the sound of a pen on paper, and of muttering. She put her hand on the door. Her other hand reached down to a slim, well-sharpened poignard beneath her robe.
¡°Mrs. Hunter,¡± said a man¡¯s voice. She whirled around to see a figure in the dim light of the hall. He wore a broad, floppy hat, and a breastplate, and a broadsword was belted to his waist.
¡°Cyrus!¡± she exclaimed. ¡°You surprised me. I¡ was just coming to see you.¡±
Cyrus narrowed his eyes at her, then brushed past and opened the door. Gmork sat at Cyrus¡¯s desk, bent low over a single sheet of hemp paper and carefully sounding out words in Uellish.
¡°After dark, listening at my door, with your hand reaching under your cloak for a dagger? Of course you were. Come in, Mrs. Hunter,¡± he said, waving her toward the decrepit chair in front of the desk. He shooed the goblin off his own chair and seated himself, self-consciously rubbing his right leg as if he weren¡¯t quite certain it was there. ¡°And you are quite right to defend yourself,¡± he rambled on, ¡°as I may well grow a third or even a fourth leg while we sit here. I¡¯m afraid I can¡¯t control it. Strange men touch me, and out of nowhere¡ªpresto! A new leg. I¡¯m told the Second Prophet healed quite a number of cripples, who were probably quite whole to begin with, but so far as I recall nobody ever grew a new leg from a stump. I shall change my name to Cyrus Starfish.¡±
Merrily felt a familiar surge of irritation at her loquacious professor.
¡°Would you shut up a moment?¡± she asked him irritably.
He looked at her with indignation. ¡°Don¡¯t you want to stare surreptitiously at my leg?¡±
She shook her head. ¡°There is no part of your body I wish to stare at, Cyrus, including either of your legs.¡±
¡°Then why did you come here?¡± he queried.
Why did we come here? asked a voice inside her. It wasn¡¯t the Second Voice. It sounded, rather, like some ghostly fragment of a long-dead idea. She struggled to remember what it once stood for, and then gave up.
¡°I¡¯ve come to tell you that I won¡¯t be taking the final exam in your course this semester.¡±
He eyed her cautiously. ¡°May I ask why not? Your grades are good, but not that good. Has Anne sent you on some mysterious quest again? If so, you may have an extension, but not a pass.¡±
¡°No. No quests. I won¡¯t be taking it¡¡± she trailed off.
Because Cyrus Stoat won¡¯t be alive to give it, said the Second Voice confidently.
Merrily shifted in the uncomfortable old chair.
¡°Mrs. Hunter,¡± Cyrus said, abruptly sober. ¡°Is it time for this conversation again? I must have lost count of the weeks. The work I ask of you isn¡¯t easy because it isn¡¯t meant to be¡ª¡±
¡°No!¡± she interrupted him, laughing despite herself. ¡°Not that one again. I¡¯ve heard it at least half a dozen times.¡±
He sniffed. ¡°Eight, by my count. Then what¡¯s the problem with the exam? I could have sold the publishing rights to your last one if you¡¯d let me. I¡¯ve had letters from Groob, Parsley, and Ouellier all asking for this semester¡¯s edition.¡±
She blinked. ¡°Are you serious? Chancellor Ouellier? In Carelon?¡±
He smirked. ¡°Queen Keleste can¡¯t write personal notes to me anymore, as it drives her husband mad with jealousy. So she sends it all through Ouellier instead. The old dragon manages to make even a polite request sound like a sneer, but it warms my heart to imagine the tooth marks he puts in his own tongue writing me a civilized letter. So do me a favor, Merrily, and don¡¯t give me something substandard to send back to him. I¡¯d never hear the end of it. Whatever your latest emotional catastrophe is, put it aside, study for the exam, and write me something incisive and witty. You can fall apart after this week.¡±
Merrily smiled and stood up.
¡°Alright, Cyrus,¡± she said.
¡°I¡¯d stand up to see you out,¡± he added, ¡°but I¡¯ve got two legs now, and it bends the universe all into pretzels for me to walk about on them. Let¡¯s just pretend you can¡¯t see. But Merrily¡ªspeaking of final exams. I¡¯m sure you recall that the final graded exercise in Doctor Pierce¡¯s swordplay practicum is tomorrow. He¡¯s assigned me as your sparring partner. So if you do want to kill me, then I¡¯ll see you tomorrow on the practice grounds.¡±
Chapter 18: Death and Transmogrification
June 5th
Merrily looked up sharply at Father. ¡°Rolly? You mean Rolly, and Professor Tentimes¡¯ new star?¡±
The bandages twitched slightly; she thought it was a smile.
¡°You must kill him,¡± said Father.
Merrily stared at him. She knelt, and he knelt facing her. The stone floor of his office was cold and hard. In the under-temple, through the open door, there was a soft murmur of hushed voices, chanting together.
His face, swathed in bandages, was unreadable. But the pale blue eyes bored into her face and her mind.
¡°I¡ I don¡¯t think I can,¡± she stammered.
¡°Why not?¡± asked Father. His voice was soft, but a threat lurked beneath it.
¡°Because he¡¯s my friend.¡±
¡°Do you love him more than you love God?¡±
¡°No.¡±
¡°Do you love him more than you love me?¡±
¡°No.¡±
¡°Then you must kill him.¡±
She looked at his knees on the ground before her, fixating absurdly on the dirt stains on his shabby pants.
¡°It is a test of your faith, Merrily, and your commitment to the Elect. God requires that we live to elevate our souls beyond the dark seduction of the material world. Your shallow friendships on earth are as nothing compared with the bliss of Heaven. Did not the Second Prophet say:
And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell.¡°You must cut away from you what offends God. And I tell you, Merrily, that this man offends God. Cut him away.¡± She was silent. The First Voice and Second Voice growled and screamed soundlessly in her mind. A long minute passed. And then Father sighed and rose to his feet. She remained kneeling before him. ¡°You are sinful, Merrily. We are all sinful. Even I am plagued by sin.¡± His eyes rested on her for an unendurable space of seconds, as she knelt before him, looking up. ¡°But this is not the final test. You have failed, but you may still seek redemption through God¡¯s grace. Rise.¡± She stood up, looking at him uncertainly. ¡°What about Rolly?¡± she asked. The bandages shifted ever so slightly. ¡°My angel requires that God¡¯s will be done,¡± he said, his voice still deadly soft. ¡°The task falls to me. You need only remain silent, and I may yet continue to offer you the hope of salvation.¡± We cannot be silent! screamed the First Voice. Rolly can get away¡ªgo to his family, or to the Billies, or the Queen. We will be silent, responded the Second Voice. Father trusts us, and we must save our soul from the Pit. There would be no fault to us. We would not be responsible. The First Voice was not impressed. If we remain silent, then it will be we who killed him. ??? Merrily¡¯s eyes fluttered, and she awoke from the dream, sweating. It took her several long minutes to stop replaying the phantom conversation in her head, and to put it in the past where it belonged. The First Voice, after all, was no more. She put on her clothes, stretched, and walked across the broad square between Bastings Hall and the gates of Triad University. The early June morning was chilly, and Merrily found she was shivering by the time she reached the students¡¯ breakfast hall. She picked despondently at the food, forcing herself to eat a bit of bland porridge and cold roast chicken. Across the table from her, Gerald sat down with a large plate of eggs. His tall frame hunched over the table, and his shoulder-length brown hair was tied in a neat bun behind his head. ¡°Good morning, Merrily,¡± he said. And then he added abruptly: ¡°Tomorrow is the day. You know what I mean. Will you be ready to do the task he gave you?¡± She stared up at him over her porridge. ¡°Ready¡ for our final examination,¡± she stated flatly. She refused to think about the name that Father had given her in the under-temple. Gerald nodded, glancing briefly around at the other students eating nearby. ¡°Yes. You and I will be examined, Merrily, and our¡ instructor¡ will decide if we are worthy. You¡¯re his favorite, but I keep wondering when you¡¯ll prove you deserve his love.¡± ¡°What is it with you, Gerald?¡± she asked, keeping her voice low. ¡°What is it with you¡ and me? You and Kel get on fine, and you manage not to hassle her endlessly. We¡¯re supposed to be brothers and sisters in love and faith, but you never turn down a chance to remind me of everything you¡¯ve ever seen me do wrong. What did I do to earn your contempt, and how can I undo it?¡± His eyes widened in surprise. ¡°I don¡¯t feel contempt for you, Merrily,¡± he said, apparently genuine. ¡°Then why¡ª¡± ¡°Because I love you,¡± he said. She blinked. ¡°We¡¯re not supposed¡ª¡± ¡°I know. But I can¡¯t help it. When God burns the world away and takes us to Heaven¡ I hope¡ I hope to see you there. And to sit next to you at His table.¡± He stood up, picking up his tray of uneaten food from the decidedly less grandiose table at which he presently sat. ¡°Forget I said anything,¡± he said miserably. ¡°I¡¯ll see you at Doctor Pierce¡¯s practicum.¡± ¡°Why?¡± she whispered. ¡°What¡¯s the point? Why go to the trouble of taking these stupid final exams, when we both know¡¡± she trailed off, glancing around meaningfully. God¡¯s fire would come tomorrow, by Father¡¯s confident proclamation. He looked down at her. ¡°Perhaps it is the sin of pride,¡± he said. ¡°But I intend to finish what I have begun. I hope you do as well.¡± ??? Merrily thrust boldly at Cyrus¡¯s unarmored chest, the tip of her sword lancing toward him like all the fury that Hell hath not. He parried lightly in the economical Quarte of an experienced swordsman and struck back, using his superior weight to close the distance between them and force her backward. She deflected him contemptuously in Sixte and stepped to his right, bringing the basket of her sword up and toward his forehead in a quick, controlled punch. He ducked under it, reversing their positions, and kicked backward at the inside of her knee. Merrily didn¡¯t resist the blow, but instead used his force to roll herself out of it, coming to her feet facing him again. She teased her blade to his right, daring him to overcorrect; instead, he called her bluff and lunged directly at her. It was a predictable gambit. Father had taught it to her. Merrily dove forward past Cyrus, brushing aside his blade in a delicate Prime, and used her off hand to push against his back. He tripped obligingly over her extended leg and fell heavily on his chest. He rolled aside, but her blade was at his throat. Of course she¡¯d known which way he would roll. It was a natural as breathing to know. This shabby, irritating little man who presumed to tell her what was right for her was as easy to read as a page of scripture. She wanted to kill him right here; her practice blade would pierce his throat if she pushed hard enough. But Cyrus Stoat was not the name that Merrily had been given. If she committed murder in full view of dozens of witnesses, she would not be able to complete her assigned task. Cyrus laid down his own dull practice sword and reached up one gloved hand. Taking her blade delicately between thumb and forefinger, he drew it away from his throat and stood up. She reluctantly permitted the sword to be pushed aside. ¡°I yield,¡± he said calmly. She lowered the practice blade. ¡°You pass,¡± he continued. ¡°Congratulations. All that now stands between you and your fourth year at the College of Applied History is my written final exam. Also, Mrs. Hunter, I¡¯d take it as a personal kindness if you¡¯d recall that it¡¯s poor form to kill your sponsor on the practice grounds.¡± ¡°You¡¯re still slow,¡± she remarked, sheathing the sword. ¡°Is the leg giving you trouble?¡± ¡°I¡¯m not slow,¡± he retorted defensively. ¡°But you¡¯re fast. I¡¯ve honestly never seen anyone improve as quickly as you have this year; you¡¯re becoming a fencer fit for Robert of Gorham¡¯s rapier. Have you been seeing a tutor in swordplay?¡± A tutor far superior to you, Cyrus Stoat, gloated the Second Voice. In every conceivable way. She shook her head. ¡°You are slow. It must be difficult learning how to use your leg again after¡ well. After what happened. But you¡¯re slow. Even Greensmith would beat you right now, and he¡¯s dreadful with the Sabre.¡± Cyrus muttered something inaudible. His mind seemed to be elsewhere. ¡°Well,¡± he continued aloud. ¡°Highest marks for swordplay this year, Merrily. But don¡¯t get complacent¡ªI think you¡¯ll find my exam more than enough challenge for your mind, even if I¡¯ve become too old and feeble to exercise your body.¡± She cocked her head at him curiously. ¡°What?¡± he asked. ¡°You called me Merrily,¡± she said, bemusedly. ¡°Right here, inside Triad.¡± It doesn¡¯t matter, said the Second Voice. He¡¯ll be dead tomorrow. What Cyrus Stoat thinks of us doesn¡¯t matter anymore. He shook his head in disgust. ¡°It comes with the madness, Mrs. Hunter,¡± he explained, as they both walked toward the arched gateway out of the yard. ¡°When the roof of rational objectivity has rotted away, all manner of little niceties slip through the cracks in the rotten floorboards of cognition. Soon enough I¡¯ll be calling you Daisy and trying to ride you.¡± She suppressed a wave of startled empathy. Madness was a familiar companion. ¡°What ever happened to that rapier?¡± he inquired. ¡°The one you stole from Robert Franco after he¡ª¡± ¡°It¡¯s tucked away,¡± she interrupted. He needn¡¯t know, said the Second Voice. It doesn¡¯t matter. Nothing matters now but faith and obedience. We shouldn¡¯t even be here. But she had to suppress a smile as, on the way out of the practice yard, Cyrus distracted Gerald Hornhugger long enough for Professor Crisby to punch his nose. They parted ways at the foot of Peacock Hall. ¡°Go now unto the field of battle, Merrily,¡± he said, ¡°and let no personal nonsense distract you from the final struggle with words and thought and meaning.¡± He smiled gently. ¡°When I first saw you, sitting in Mrs. Miller¡¯s little library in Hog Hurst, you were halfway through Franco¡¯s brick on the Vereids. I knew then that you could be one of the best. I trust you¡¯ll prove me right once again.¡± She looked up at the pretentious pile that was Peacock Hall, and then over at the chaotic jumble of Redbun Hall nearby, home of the mathematicians. Tell him, came a whisper in her mind. If we remain silent, then it will be we who killed him. It was only a voice crying out in the wilderness. Merrily went back to her room at Bastings. She gazed long at the dusty violin case sitting under one of the tables, and thought of Wigglus, who had not written to her since she left Uellodon in January. She looked at the scribbled sheet music on top of one of the bookshelves, and heard the music in her head. And then, to her great surprise, she retrieved her notes and books, and returned to the library at Peacock. There she spent the rest of the day, and late into the night, studying for Professor Stoat¡¯s final examination. ??? Merrily gathered with her classmates the next morning. A small group of them drifted together¡ªGerald, Kel, Aristine le Hen, Freddie Greensmith. They spoke of nothing in particular, in that way students do before a test, probing each other for signs of weakness. It was the last time they would be together as classmates. The fourth year would see them split into smaller groups with different specialties, and the fifth year was the tutorial. ¡°Where will you spend the summer, Aristine?¡± asked Merrily. ¡°Are you going back to your family in Brasse?¡± ¡°We shall see,¡± she answered, with her sprightly accent. ¡°Much depends on the military situation. It may not be safe to travel south.¡± Freddie looked up at her sharply, but said nothing. ¡°You mean, it depends on whether the Republican Guard has placed Green Bridge under siege,¡± said Gerald. ¡°You should get out while you can Aristine.¡± Merrily imagined a thinly veiled threat; Aristine le Hen and Freddie Greensmith were not of the Elect, after all. ¡°Or perhaps I should remain, while I still can,¡± answered Aristine fiercely. ¡°If the Republic is to besiege this city, should not the College of Applied History be first on the walls to defend it?¡± At the head of the classroom, Cyrus cleared his throat loudly. ¡°You have three and a half hours,¡± he announced, handing out the stacks of thinly bound exam books. ¡°Points added for style and persuasiveness; points off for poor penmanship, amateurish grammar, and substantively wrong arguments. The third essay tests both your knowledge and your moral quality. I expect the best of both from each of you.¡± He looked over at the tall pendulum clock in one corner. The students quickly took their seats. ¡°Begin,¡± he announced. Merrily bent her head and read the first question. And then, her fatigue and confusion forgotten, she found that three and a half hours passed very quickly indeed. ??? When she put down her pencil and walked out of Peacock Hall, Merrily knew that the time left to avoid the inevitable grew short. She returned to Bastings Hall and sat alone in her room. She closed her eyes and prayed, as the afternoon passed, and the light in her window began to grow rosy with sunset. Now is the time, said the Second Voice. We know our task of duty and love. We know the name. Now is the time to be the instrument that God requires of us. She looked, incongruously, at the violin case tucked under her desk. Not that kind of instrument, you imbecile, rebuked the Second Voice. She wondered whether Wigglus was still alive; whether he had escaped with Frederick to Carelon. It doesn¡¯t matter! snapped the Second Voice. End these distractions! Do your job, and then go to wait with Father until God¡¯s judgment comes to Green Bridge. Join the Elect in the light. Merrily fetched her thin steel poignard and tucked it into her jacket. She remembered the elegant little dagger that it had replaced. A gift from Lady Triggle, and a gift she had given to Wigglus. Be calm, said the Second Voice. We do God¡¯s will. He will protect us. She left her apartment, the poignard still tucked into her jacket. Merrily¡¯s apartment was on the second floor of Bastings. In the lobby near the stairway up from the ground level there was a large desk, where there sat a clerk who ensured that only those with proper business could enter. When Merrily arrived, there was also a mercenary in each corner, each man wearing a breastplate and carrying a long gun. A man with a satchel bearing the sigil of the Merchants¡¯ Post stood before the desk, arguing rather heatedly with the seated clerk. ¡°I don¡¯t care if you¡¯ve got a message from Horace Carelon,¡± said the clerk sharply. ¡°You¡¯re not going to see Queen Anne in person. Give me the papers, and I¡¯ll have them delivered.¡± Convenient, said the Second Voice. Let us help this good man to do his duty. Merrily walked to stand next to the messenger, before the clerk. ¡°I¡¯ll take it,¡± she said. ¡°I have my own messages for the Queen.¡± The clerk looked up at her in surprise. ¡°You weren¡¯t expected today, Mrs. Hunter,¡± he said. ¡°The Queen said you¡¯d be taking a few days off for your exams.¡± ¡°They¡¯re finished,¡± she said shortly. ¡°And I need to speak with the Queen immediately.¡± She turned to the messenger. ¡°Give me the message, sir, and I¡¯ll take it to her directly. If you wait here, I¡¯ll bring her response. If she feels it¡¯s necessary, I¡¯ll bring you to see her.¡± The post rider nodded slowly, and withdrew a circular scroll case. He unlocked it and drew out a roll of paper with a seal of black wax and a bright gold ribbon. ¡°I¡¯ll wait,¡± he said. Merrily took the scroll and tucked it into the pocket on the inside of her jacket of hardened leather. Then she walked past the clerk, and into the narrow stairwell up to the royal apartments on the third floor. Her eyes drifted to a faint stain on one of the steps. She had seen it many times, climbing these stairs. She stepped over the stair, as she had always done. To step directly on it felt like stepping on a grave. Though the building¡¯s staff had labored to scrub the stain away, Beatrice Snugg¡¯s dying blood was as stubborn as the woman herself. It was immediately after her death that Robert Franco disappeared from Triad University. Beatrice Snugg¡¯s poisoned dagger had not killed her assassin, as most supposed, but it had left his face and body horribly scarred. It had not been difficult for him to reappear as Demetrius Filtch, twisted and ugly, to mop the floors and watch his old rivals. By the time Merrily learned these things, she had already committed herself to God in Father¡¯s congregation. We do God¡¯s will, said the Second Voice. She reached the door to Queen Anne¡¯s bedchamber, fingering the poignard under her jacket, and knocked lightly. ¡°Your Majesty?¡± she said. ¡°It¡¯s me. Merrily. I need to speak with you.¡± The door opened. Nicola Snugg stood there. ¡°Come in, Mrs. Hunter,¡± she said. Merrily¡¯s eyes darted around the chamber. There was no one else there. She walked in. ¡°Where is she?¡± hissed Merrily. ¡°You shouldn¡¯t be here. This is my task. Your name was Veridia Snipe.¡± ¡°It was,¡± said Mrs. Snugg. ¡°And I have not killed her, nor will I. The Queen is elsewhere. But we will not be disturbed. Sit down, Mrs. Hunter.¡± Astonished, Merrily sat in one of the overstuffed chairs in the Queen¡¯s private living room. Nicola Snugg seated herself in another. Well, this is not going to plan, observed the Second Voice blithely. ¡°Do you know that Father killed my cousin Beatrice?¡± she asked. Merrily nodded slowly. ¡°Do you know why?¡± she went on. Her usual, slightly pretentious solemnity had evaporated, and instead she spoke with a fierce urgency. Merrily shook her head. ¡°I can guess,¡± she said, ¡°from what I knew of Beatrice, and Father. But I don¡¯t know.¡± ¡°I know why,¡± said Mrs. Snugg. ¡°Father is a member of a very old religious order. They¡¯ve had many names over the centuries¡ªthe Holy Office of Purity, the Brothers of the Star Temple, the Thrice-Accursed Order of Keepers; but now they call themselves the Order of the Fallen Stars. What their original purpose was I do not know. Today, to outward appearances, they are in the business of buying and selling information. They make a great deal of money in that trade. But there are others among them who have a different purpose. They embed themselves in a place, wait for instructions from the Order, and then, at the appointed time, they kill. The Order believes, probably with some justification, that the right person killed at the right time can change the course of history in ways that suit them. This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. ¡°The man we call ¡®Father¡¯ was once Robert of Gorham, the uncle of King Leeland. But when Leeland was born, Gorham renounced his inheritance and wealth and went to the Order. And then he turned up here in Green Bridge, where he made himself Robert Franco, and waited for the moment to do God¡¯s will.¡± Her face was emotionless as she recounted this history; she might have been discussing yesterday¡¯s weather. ¡°He killed my cousin. He has killed many others. And now he would use you and the other Elect to kill Queen Anne, the Charter Council, Veridia Snipe, Vernon Vigg, and, yes, Professor Cyrus Stoat.¡± ¡°How do you know all this about him?¡± asked Merrily. Mrs. Snugg snorted. ¡°My family owns, and I control, the largest trading concern north of the Gulf of Carelon,¡± she replied, somewhat haughtily. ¡°My intelligence department is very nearly as effective as the Order itself. If I had to, I could find out what the Mouth of God had for breakfast this morning.¡± Merrily stared at Nicola Snugg, quickly putting the pieces together. ¡°You are apostate,¡± she said. ¡°Or you were never a believer to begin with.¡± Snugg looked down at the ground. ¡°I believe in God, Mrs. Hunter. I believe in the prophets and the scriptures. Father seduced me, in the beginning, through my faith, just as he seduced you through your desire for answers, and for solutions to the conflicts inside you. There was a time when I truly believed he was holy, and would have done anything I could for him. He asked me to deflect the investigation of Mr. Gorp¡¯s death onto the goblin, Smallhat, and I did. I used my resources to conceal the Elect, and Father¡¯s sanctuary in the under-temple. But where I once saw a prophet, now I have come to see nothing more than a man, self-obsessed and deluded. If he suspected I was less than committed to him, he would kill me with as little difficulty as he killed my cousin. All my bodyguards and soldiers would not protect me from Father. We are here, in the Queen¡¯s chambers alone, because I believe you see, as I do, that what Father offers is madness and threats dressed up as revelation.¡± ¡°But God¡¯s judgment is coming,¡± insisted Merrily. ¡°It is coming tonight.¡± ¡°The only judgment that is coming to Green Bridge,¡± scoffed Mrs. Snugg, ¡°are the spears and arrows and siege engines of the Republican Guard. If the Queen and the Charter Council and the Billies are wiped out, do you think God will reach down his hand to smite Hobb the Wise before he massacres every one of the Elect, and every priest, and every believer in God, throughout the North? God will do no such thing.¡± Nicola Snugg leaned forward urgently. ¡°The only miracles, Merrily, are the miracles we make.¡± Merrily blinked once, and thought. There was silence in her head as she struggled to adjust her point of view. There was, where surety and faith had once been, only a void of uncertainty. Who am I? ¡°What will you do?¡± she asked finally, taking comfort in a problem less daunting than internal inscrutability. Mrs. Snugg looked out the window at the waning glow of the sun. ¡°Father¡¯s killings were to take place at sunset. He¡¯s always had a weakness for pointless drama. Veridia is safe in the factor house with Mr. Miller, preparing for a¡ shift in our commercial activities. You have already failed to kill the Queen, thankfully. And she is in a safe place as well, in case you should also fail to change your mind.¡± Mrs. Snugg looked at her pointedly. ¡°I have not told her of your involvement, Merrily. I said only that my agents uncovered a plot against her. Whether she learns of your part depends on your actions, starting now.¡± Merrily began to rise, and then sat down again, torn by indecision. Mrs. Snugg, sitting with a relaxed posture in the Queen¡¯s overstuffed chair, gave Merrily a piercing look. ¡°If I¡¯m not mistaken,¡± she said, ¡°the name of Cyrus Stoat was given to Kelestine Maliss.¡± Merrily stood up again, and ran from the room. She ran down the stairs to the ground floor of Bastings, pausing only to retrieve her hunting bow and quiver from her room. She ignored the startled looks from the clerk, the post-rider, and the guards. The orange light of the setting sun had already given way to a dimming gray dusk, though the sky was still a pale blue. She whirled through the gates, ignoring the startled shouts of an oddly-dressed goblin who was emerging from within Triad. The streets were nearly empty of students and professors, as the usual occupants of the university grounds made their way home, or to the Pinny Purse, for their suppers. Before she reached Peacock Hall, Merrily spotted a familiar tall, lanky figure, lurking in an alley across the street from Redbun Hall. She ran up to him, and Gerald glanced at her in surprise. ¡°What are you¡ª¡± ¡°Where¡¯s Kel?¡± asked Merrily urgently. ¡°And why are you here? Did you¡¡± She trailed off in horror. He nodded grimly, though she fancied there was a hint of doubt written on his features. ¡°It¡¯s done,¡± he said, his voice quavering. ¡°Vigg is dead. God willing, Kel will finish her part.¡± He looked up at the rooftop of Redbun Hall. ¡°I was going to go up and help, but she said she wanted to do it alone. She thinks she has something to prove to Father, ever since Stoat got away from her last October.¡± ¡°What?¡± asked Merrily sharply. ¡°She didn¡¯t tell you?¡± he said with a quizzical look. ¡°No, perhaps not; we always thought you were too close to him. Father had preached on Stoat¡¯s evil and lies, and how we are all bound to wipe out evil whenever we find it. Kel took it on herself to hunt him down. He got away after a chase. She¡¯d covered her face, so he didn¡¯t know it was her, but it¡¯s rankled her ever since. She told me about it afterward. We prayed to God to forgive her weakness.¡± They both looked up at the rooftop. There was a faint sound of ringing steel. Merrily started forward, but Gerald grabbed her hand. ¡°Let her finish it,¡± he said. ¡°God will strengthen her arm.¡± ¡°Are you out of your mind?¡± demanded Merrily, wrenching free of him. ¡°Stoat has been swinging a sword for longer than Kel¡¯s been alive!¡± At that moment there was a faint cry from the rooftop observatory, far overhead. A body came floating off the parapet, falling slowly at first but accelerating downward at a constant thirty-two feet per second, per second. It took a horrifyingly long time to descend to the street, where it landed with a faint and terrible thud. Far above, the figure of a man could be seen against the pale blue sky, peering downward. Merrily and Gerald glanced at each other, then quickly pulled up their head coverings and tied strips of cloth around their lower faces. Merrily slung her bow over one shoulder. Then they ran to the fallen figure. It was Kel. Her body was twisted and broken, and her eyes were open, but lifeless. Merrily cried out, and found tears streaming down her cheeks. ¡°Quickly, Merrily,¡± hissed Gerald beneath the cowl. ¡°We have to get her out of here. If she¡¯s found, questions will be asked. It could lead back to Father. And he must know that Kel failed.¡± They wrapped what was left of Kelestine Maliss in Merrily¡¯s cloak and picked up the body. In the alley, Gerald casually folder her in half and slung her over his broad shoulders like a sack, and together they ran. And Merrily¡¯s thoughts ran as well. Who am I? What am I doing? Whose side am I on? Who¡¯s there? asked the Second Voice, fear tinging its dry tone with color. Gerald hurriedly bought a large chest at one of the street markets while Merrily waited in a dark alley, and together they heaved the sodden remains inside. Then they walked to the Cathedral of Saint Bob, entering through a side door to avoid the crowd for Vespers. Bishop Wildrick¡¯s voice could be heard from the main floor, intoning the opening prayer of the ancient ceremony. They each took an oil lamp from a small table at the head of the stairs into the basement. In the crypt, they heaved open the sarcophagus of Bishop Gristlewold. They placed Kel inside, on top of the dusty bones of the long-dead churchman. Merrily tried to arrange her body with as much dignity as she could manage, and then they closed the sarcophagus again. They lowered the empty chest down the hole beneath the false tomb of Bishop Crocklin. ¡°We have to tell Father,¡± said Gerald, climbing down the rope. ¡°Wait,¡± countered Merrily, lowering herself after him. ¡°Maybe we don¡¯t. Maybe this whole thing was a terrible mistake.¡± It was not a mistake! shrieked the Second Voice. The only mistake is from¡ Who¡¯s there? ¡°A mistake?¡± asked Gerald incredulously as they reached the floor of the passage. ¡°Any time now, God¡¯s judgment will descend on this city. We were supposed to eliminate the leaders who would stand in the way of the Elect when we seize control in the aftermath. Father¡¯s instructions come from an angel of God. Where could there possibly be a mistake?¡± He began walking down the passage toward the under-temple. Merrily followed close behind, fingering the grip on her bow. ¡°What if it wasn¡¯t an angel?¡± asked Merrily. Gerald stopped, ahead of her, and turned. From the under-temple at the end of the passage, she could see the faint light of dusk filtering down through the shaft over the altar, only faintly lighting Gerald¡¯s face. ¡°What?¡± His voice was flat. ¡°What if it was¡ something else. Or it was just something Father¡ imagined. What if we wait tonight, and nothing happens? And you¡¯ll have killed Vernon Vigg for nothing.¡± Gerald drew close. In the dim light of the lamps, his face was bleak. ¡°Where is your faith, Merrily?¡± he asked. Where is our faith? asked the Second Voice, despairing. She looked him full in the face. ¡°What if it was the wrong faith?¡± she asked. He narrowed his eyes, working through the implications. ¡°Did you kill Queen Anne?¡± he asked. ¡°What if it¡¯s all just a story?¡± she went on. ¡°Merrily!¡± he said, grabbing her shoulders. She didn¡¯t resist. ¡°Did you kill the Queen?¡± She found she couldn¡¯t answer, but instead followed the trail of her thoughts. ¡°Something to make us obey him. Something we wanted to believe¡ª¡± Before she could finish, his hand flashed out; she caught a glint of steel. It pierced her belly and she gasped in shock and pain. She slid to the ground, her mouth working silently. Gerald looked down at her. ¡°I am going,¡± he said, ¡°to finish what Kel started. And then I am going to finish what you should have started, but didn¡¯t.¡± He turned away from her, moving back toward the knotted rope that led up and out of the under-temple. Still slumped against the wall of the passage, Merrily drew an arrow out of her quiver, set it to the string of her bow, bent it, and loosed. The Second Voice screamed in agony, gnashing and writhing and gibbering in its torture. In the darkness, she heard the arrow strike Gerald in the back. There was a sound as he fell, and then silence in the passage, and silence in her head. Who am I? She crawled up the passage and found Gerald. The arrow had lodged itself deep in his back, slightly to the left. She pulled him up so that he sat against the rough stone wall, feeling warm, wet blood leaking from his back and from her own abdomen. His eyes were glassy, but they focused vaguely in her direction. He took a shuddering breath, and coughed. Blood dribbled out of his mouth. ¡°I¡ I couldn¡¯t kill Vigg,¡± he whispered. ¡°I lied to you. I was afraid. I looked in his window, and saw him eating dinner with his wife, and I couldn¡¯t do it. I hoped God would take him, when He brings the fire. But I could not. I was weak.¡± Merrily took his hand. ¡°I wish,¡± he began. He raised his head toward her, his lips close to hers. She jerked her own head backward. And then he slumped forward, and his hand dropped from hers. Merrily gingerly probed the wound in her belly, and concluded that she might live a few more hours. She wrapped it tightly with a long strip of cloth from Gerald¡¯s shirt, then covered it with her leather jacket. She picked up her bow. She took an uncertain step forward, grimacing from the pain. Then she took another, and another. She pulled herself up the rope with only her arms, unable to contract her abdominal muscles enough to use her legs. In the crypt, she collapsed for a few minutes, but then doggedly rose to her feet and walked forward. Somewhere within was a reserve of strength and endurance, previously unknown, that she seized and put to work. She made her way out of the cathedral, out into the darkening streets of Green Bridge. And then she turned her steps toward the trade quarter. ??? She found Cyrus in the streets before she reached the Snugg warehouse, and Jonny. His eyes were hollow and lifeless, and his face haggard. ¡°I know who killed Rolland Gorp,¡± she said. Cyrus stared up at Merrily in disbelief, curiosity lighting a tiny spark of life in his eyes. ¡°Did you kill him?¡± he asked. Her heart fell at the thought of how she might answer. She shook her head. ¡°No.¡± He took her outstretched hand and let her pull him to his feet. She swayed slightly, and she could feel the blood draining from her face, but her grip was firm. ¡°Who did?¡± She stared at him closely, tilting her head and looking through his eyes, into the man inside who had given her the gift of a university education, who had called her the best of his students, and who had never tried to kiss her. ¡°Mr. Filtch killed him.¡± Cyrus scoffed. ¡°He¡¯s a feeble old man. How? Why? Do you have evidence?¡± ¡°You can ask him yourself,¡± answered Merrily. ¡°Tonight. He¡¯ll tell you.¡± Oh yes, she thought bitterly. He¡¯ll tell you. At excruciating length, after he¡¯s stuck his rapier in you. But I don¡¯t have time, anymore, to discuss it. She protested when Cyrus insisted on going for Captain Vigg, and half expected to find the man dead after all. But he was alive, and he collected his clothes and two assistants while Merrily gritted her teeth and swayed on her feet, trying to keep her hand discretely pressed on the wound in her abdomen. The walk back to the Cathedral was a blur of pain and confusion. She was relieved when Bishop Wildrick appeared at the steps of the Cathedral, and explained the history so that she wouldn¡¯t have to. ¡°There is a murderer in your cellar, Bishop,¡± she said quietly. ¡°You are mistaken,¡± he answered. ¡°I went to the cellars just hours ago to retrieve holy elements for the Compline. There were no murderers there.¡± ¡°You went to the wrong cellar,¡± she answered. And she told them about the old Church of the Joyful Commandment and the under-temple. She looked hard at the Bishop, and wondered: How much do you know? But she could feel her time slipping away, and discounted it as a question to which she would never know the answer. ¡°There is legal process!¡± demanded the Bishop. ¡°You may not enter without a special warrant from the Queen¡¯s Bench!¡± Merrily slung her hunting bow across her back and approached Wildrick, who eyed her cautiously. She leaned in next to him and whispered into his ear, recalling Nicola Snugg¡¯s revelation of Father¡¯s origins. ¡°The Order of the Fallen Stars requires this of you, my son.¡± She had no idea if the Bishop would feel compelled to obey such an instruction, or if this was even a proper form of address. But his face blanched, even under the flickering yellow light of the oil lantern, and he drew back to stare at her. There was horror in his eyes. They stared at each other for a long moment. Then the churchman wordlessly turned and walked next door to the large, ornate rectory. She led them down into the crypt. ¡°Faith is a choice,¡± she heard the Bishop say to Cyrus in the darkness. When she revealed the false sarcophagus of Bishop Crocklin, the churchman seemed singularly unsurprised at the appearance of the passage below it. He must know, she reasoned, that Nicola Snugg had delivered enough weapons for a small army to his basement. But the spreading warmth around her belly told her that there was no time to confront him. They must reach Father. Vigg, and his Billies, and Cyrus Stoat¡ªtogether they would be able to overpower him. When they found Gerald¡¯s body in the tunnel, Merrily was silent. Vigg took the broken arrow shaft from his back and compared it to the others in her quiver. ¡°This is one of your arrows,¡± he stated flatly. ¡°Now hang on, Captain,¡± interjected Cyrus. ¡°There are dozens of fletchers in Green Bridge, and they have many customers. Just because this arrow¡ª¡° ¡°I killed Gerald,¡± said Merrily. Her voice was flat, and she leaned against the stone wall of the passage. ¡°Well,¡± remarked Cyrus. ¡°That was unhelpful to your defense.¡± The Billies bound her hands behind her, and the pain in her abdomen jumped tenfold. She gasped, and felt the bandage slip, and she struggled to remain upright. ¡°I killed him because he was going to kill Professor Stoat,¡± she continued through clenched teeth. The Billy behind her held her wrists up, forcing her down slightly. Something began to slip out of her abdomen. Vigg looked at Cyrus. ¡°We all need to go take a trip back to William Hall,¡± the law man said firmly. ¡°How do you know Hornhugger was going to kill me?¡± demanded Cyrus, holding up one hand to Vigg. ¡°Did he tell you?¡± She lowered her head. ¡°Because Robert Franco¡ªRobert of Gorham¡ªtold him to. And he was going to do it. He would do anything that Father said. I tried to stop him, and we fought. I killed him.¡± ¡°Wait. Father?¡± asked Cyrus in astonishment. ¡°And¡ªRoberto Franco? He¡¯s been dead for two years now! What does Franco have to do with anything? And where is Filtch?¡± ¡°If you want to know who killed Rolly,¡± Merrily said, raising her head and speaking through the pain, ¡°then you must go forward.¡± She stared down the passageway, toward the silvery moonlight beyond. Cyrus looked at Captain Vigg. Captain Vigg looked back at Cyrus. Neither spoke. Then Wildrick, lurking behind them, stepped forward. He held his lamp high in front of him. ¡°I would like to know who is in the cellars of my cathedral,¡± he announced firmly, ¡°and who he has killed.¡± And with that, the Bishop walked slowly forward. Merrily felt the life slipping from her as she walked. She could barely hear Wildrick as he explained the presence of the weapons in the under-temple; utterly wrongly, in reality. They were meant for the Elect. But the Elect were nowhere to be seen. They had gone out on their tasks. Where were they? And then Father was there. He killed the two deputy Billies from behind casually. ¡°I killed Rolland Gorp,¡± came Father¡¯s voice from behind Merrily. But I could have stopped you, and I didn¡¯t. And now I will pay the price that you should have. He stepped out from behind her. As the men shouted at each other in rage, Merrily¡¯s strength finally left her, and she fell backward. Her hands were red with her own blood. She perceived only snatches of the conversation that would inevitably end in bloodshed. She saw, in a haze, as Father¡¯s sword emerged from Captain Vigg¡¯s broad chest. ¡°I am an instrument of God¡¯s will,¡± she heard Father say, ¡°and so is Merrily Hunter.¡± She was aware of the furious struggle between Cyrus and Father only as the ugly sound of steel on steel, as two blades sought to pierce flesh and bone. Bishop Wildrick knelt over her, silently applying a fresh, tight bandage and pressing his hand against the wound in her abdomen. But she knew it was too late. Too much blood, and other things, had left her. The bishop propped her up against a low chest, padding it with his cloak. ¡°May I pray with you?¡± he asked. She shook her head. ¡°I would not like to die hearing words I don¡¯t believe,¡± she answered weakly. She began to feel a burning heat in her chest. Who am I? she said again. Follow the Bright Path, said the soft voice in her head. It was Jonny¡¯s voice. Her eyes snapped open, and the heat in her chest became greater. It did not come with pain, but only a fiery strength, a kind of final, spreading fulfillment. As Bishop Wildrick looked on in astonishment, she got to her feet. In the center of the under-temple, Cyrus tripped over a pile of rubble, and fell on his back. He was abruptly still, and Father brought the tip of his rapier¡ªthe rapier that Merrily had given back to him¡ªto Cyrus¡¯s throat. ¡°Dead end, Cyrus Stoat,¡± said Father. With a motion swifter than a diving hawk, Merrily¡¯s hand shot to the quiver on her back, and she drew forth an arrow. She set it to the string of her hunting bow, and loosed it in one fluid motion. It pierced Father¡¯s chest, and she could see from the depth of the shaft that it must have emerged from the other side. He turned, astonished, to look at her. He did not fall. He swayed, but then broke off the arrow tip that emerged from his chest. ¡°Merrily,¡± he said. ¡°Come to me. Redeem your faith.¡± Behind him, the figure of a tall man moved in the shadows beyond the shaft of light. It had long hair, and a glint came from its face. She walked forward, feeling the burning in her chest grow and spread. She set another arrow to the bow, raised it, and loosed. Father swatted it aside casually with the rapier. His hand flicked out, and a knife came from it, flying through the air. She twisted to avoid the knife, and it grazed her cheek, ripping the flesh deeply. But Father had not been idle while the knife flew. He sprang forward, lunged toward her exposed flank, plunged the rapier of the royal house of Uelland into her armpit, through her lung, and into her heart. She felt the metal pierce her, and sank to her knees. Father looked down at her, and did not speak; there was sorrow on his face, and loss. He looked suddenly very old. Then he walked backward toward the old stone altar at the head of the under-temple, bathed in silvery moonlight. The figure of the man in the shadows stood there, waiting for him. Merrily¡¯s vision faded out, and all voices within her ceased. She tumbled backward, as the only thing she could still feel was the burning fire spreading from her chest, into her arms and belly and legs. And then she closed her eyes. ??? And then she opened her eyes. There was stillness in her, and she did not know how much time had passed. She lay on something hard, and there was a silvery white light. She blinked, and turned her head to the left. There lay Cyrus Stoat, his eyes closed and his face smudged with sweat and dirt. She sat up. There was no pain; not in her chest, or in her belly, or her face. Directly ahead of her, Father lay on the floor before the altar. The man with the metal face stood behind him, holding a long knife. It dripped with dark blood. She got to her feet, without the slightest concern for her own safety, and walked toward him. He was, without a doubt, the same tall, blond-haired man that she had seen beneath Hoel. She drew closer. Her eyes fell on Father; he was lifeless, and a long gash ran across his throat. Her own arrow shaft protruded from his back. ¡°This result is indecisive,¡± said a dry, emotionless voice, coming from the steely mask. ¡°It is a dead end. Our tools have not produced the resolution we require.¡± ¡°If you had the slightest shred of romance in you,¡± she heard her own voice say, ¡°then you¡¯d realize this is a victory for me.¡± ¡°Many paths remain,¡± replied the dry voice from the man, ¡°before either of us may declare a resolution. What you call ¡®victory¡¯ is only an adjustment.¡± There was a shuffling sound behind Merrily, but she did not turn. Instead, she kept her eyes fixed on the man with the metal face, as he drifted up, silently, into the moonlight of the shaft. Cyrus stood next to her then, looking at her chest in astonishment. She felt with her hand; there was a hole burned in her shirt. The edges still smoldered, and her hands came away smudged with ash. She remembered Boris¡¯s odd ornament that she had worn there, and felt for it, but the beggar¡¯s gift was gone. Only the leather cord remained, its two ends dangling freely. Cyrus raised his searching eyes to her face again. I am Merrily Hunter, she said inside, no more and no less, because I choose to be Merrily Hunter. There were tears, now. She put her arms around Cyrus and held him, and he held her in return. She began to sob. She gripped Captain Vigg¡¯s hand as he died, and heard the deep tones begin to sound, somewhere in the stone and darkness above her. ¡°Those are the bells,¡± said Wildrick. ¡°The cathedral bells. Someone is ringing the cathedral bells.¡± He stood up, picked up the oil lamp, and made quickly for the portal. ¡°Come on!¡± shouted the Bishop over his shoulder. ¡°Come on! They¡¯re ringing the bells!¡± Cyrus looked at Merrily, and they stood up. Remembering a detail, she wordlessly retrieved the rapier from Father¡¯s still body. Then she turned to follow Bishop Wildrick. ¡°Wait,¡± said Cyrus, grabbing her arm. She turned back, looking at him, tears still clouding her eyes. ¡°Who is the man with the metal face?¡± he asked. ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± she replied. And it was true. ??? There was fighting, and fear, and urgency, as Merrily, Cyrus, Bishop Wildrick, and the refugees in the cathedral made their way toward safety on Farley Island as Green Bridge burned. But it was not the wrath of God; she could see the arsonists moving through the streets, killing indiscriminately, setting fire to the buildings. When men attacked the refugees and Cyrus ran forward to defend them, she ran with him, dancing back and forth along the flanks of the small mob, stabbing at their unarmored backs with Father¡¯s rapier. Her training¡ªfrom Cyrus, from Doctor Pierce, and from Father¡ªflowed through her muscles, and she moved as if everyone else in the world were made of clay. When Cyrus was struck down by a mace, she drifted behind the two men and placed the rapier with surgical precision through their chests. Her mind drifted from the urgency of fighting and killing, away from the heat and smoke and terror of the flames. She didn¡¯t need to think to kill. Instead, she thought of one man who she very much wanted to be alive. ¡°Where is Jonathan?¡± asked Cyrus, as if reading her thoughts. ¡°He¡¯s at the Snugg factor house, I think,¡± she replied anxiously. ¡°He was going to leave tomorrow for Hog Hurst. Snugg is doing something up there that he¡¯s supposed to take care of. I don¡¯t know the details. But he¡¯s¡ somewhere¡ nearby,¡± she trailed off. There were tears in her eyes. Cyrus looked out again at the dim shapes of men in the darkness, torching the city in the night. He listened to the sound of distant gunfire. He looked back at the frightened faces of the men, women, and children standing behind them. ¡°Go,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯ll stay with these people until they reach Three Fish Bridge. Go to Jonathan. Save him, if you can.¡± She embraced him quickly, and started to turn back toward the crowd behind them. The Snugg factor house was in the opposite direction from their travel. ¡°But Merrily,¡± he added, catching her with his voice. ¡°This is important. Find me, when you are finished. I need to know the truth.¡± She smiled, and nodded. ??? When she reached the Snugg factor house, it was already on fire. But it was also abandoned. There were no people, no carts, no horses; it was simply a sprawl of burning buildings. She looked around in confusion. What now? She was sure Nicola Snugg had said Jonny was here, preparing for some new venture with Veridia. But no one was here. ¡°They¡¯re gone,¡± said a high-pitched voice with an odd accent, coming from near the ground. She looked down. There was a goblin there. He had a squat gray head, and was rather small, even for a goblin. His eyes bulged, and he was wearing a small mismatched suit. His head was adorned with a flamboyant hat, decorated with all manner of comical and grotesque artifacts. It had been rearranged to resemble the tricorns of the Republican Guard. ¡°The Gizzard?¡± she said in surprise. ¡°What on earth are you doing in Green Bridge? And where did Jonny go?¡± ¡°He¡¯s with King Simon, and some little snarf woman,¡± said The Gizzard. His Uellish had improved, but it still had a lilting, purring quality, as if everything he said were some ludicrous joke. ¡°They¡¯re going to an old dungeon with a machine in it. I don¡¯t know¡ªI was hungry, and I didn¡¯t get all the details.¡± She scratched her head. The night couldn¡¯t possibly get any more confusing. She tried to figure out which question to ask first. ¡°Why aren¡¯t you with them? You¡¯ve been searching for Simon since last fall.¡± The Gizzard shrugged. ¡°Well, I found him. If he don¡¯t get ¡®et, he¡¯ll be back in the Gray Kingdom soon enough, and put the ferals straight. But he left me with a message.¡± Merrily stared at him. ¡°For whom?¡± ¡°For youm.¡± ¡°What is it?¡± The Gizzard grinned. ¡°Check your pockets,¡± he said. ¡°That¡¯s it? That¡¯s the message? King Simon left you in a burning city, with a message to give me if I happened to showed up, and the message is ¡®check your pockets¡¯?¡± The Gizzard nodded. ¡°Yup. Got anything to eat in there?¡± ¡°No,¡± she said sharply, checking her pockets. There was her poignard, a garrote wire, several flasks of poison, a hand crossbow, a length of thin, strong line, and a piece of paper. She took out the piece of paper. It was badly battered, stained with her own blood, and the seal had been ripped off. ¡°Oh well,¡± she muttered. ¡°The Queen will have more to be angry about than breaking the seal on a secret message.¡± She unfolded the envelope, withdrew the paper inside, and read by the light of the flames in nearby buildings. It was encrypted, but it was an older cipher, and easy to read. The key was encoded in the first line. They taught it in the first year at Triad. She¡¯d written one of her first-year final exams in it.
To Anne Linsey Gray, Pretender to the Throne of Uelland. We have recovered your son and his accomplice, the lawyer. The boy has become more trouble to King Leeland alive than he would be dead. Another can be produced¡ªand there are unfortunate rumors about his parentage beginning to circulate. If you wish him to be exiled to Carelon rather than drowned alive, present yourself to me on my barge in the Green River off the village of Lesser Sack no later than sundown on the ninth of June. Otherwise, he shall make his way to Carelon in the Green River. Yours in service, etc. General Sir Warren LogwallShe looked down at The Gizzard, who was looking up at her expectantly. ¡°Come on then, The Gizzard,¡± she said. ¡°Adventure calls.¡± He reached up and took her hand, and together they walked out of the burning city. Chapter 19: Breaking the Law June 9th As the sun set on the ninth of June, a lone barge swung gently in the turbid, brown waters of the Green River. Though the spring flood had come and gone, the waters still flowed strong with the last of the snowmelt from the far-off mountains beyond the wild frontier to the north. The barge, some sixty feet long and equipped with a stout mast to aid in navigation, drifted back and forth on its anchor line like an enormous pendulum. A single, tiny rowboat drifted toward it from upstream. A squat figure, robed and hooded, manned the oars, working the craft slowly toward the center of the watercourse even as it drifted downstream. A woman, much taller by comparison to the diminutive oarsman, sat in the stern of the little boat. She wore a white gown, and a broad-brimmed white hat with a veil. She carried a delicate, lacy parasol against the setting sun. Men in red coats and breeches watched them approach from the rail of the long barge. Two other men¡ªone a grown-up, and the other a teenaged boy¡ªstood on one rail, their hands bound behind their backs. They, too, watched the approaching rowboat with singular interest, as it bobbed slowly toward them. ¡°Here comes a queen to kneel down in front our general,¡± remarked one, laughing crudely. ¡°Do you expect we¡¯ll all get a turn after he¡¯s finished?¡± His voice carried across the water, where it was quite audible to the woman in white. ¡°You will treat her Royal Highness with every shred of respect at your disposal, corporal,¡± remarked a steel-clad man standing just behind him, ¡°or you will make the return journey to Uellodon attached to the underside of this barge by a stout rope about your feet.¡± The knight wore a black and gold surcoat over his armor, and his polished helm gleamed in the sun. The guardsman shut his mouth, but smirked at his companions out of the knight-general¡¯s sight. It would take many days to return to Uellodon, with many opportunities to pay a visit to a pretty young woman locked in the hold below. Lots had already been drawn with the barge crew to see who would go first. The lonely little boat drifted closer on the current, its oarsman struggling clumsily at his work. A short set of stairs was lowered from one gunwale of the barge and secured with thick wooden pins, so the pretender could step aboard more easily. General Logwall walked briskly over to the stairs and stood at their head, his back erect and his chin thrust out like an axe waiting to fall. At last the rowboat bumped up against the stairs, and a red-clad guardsman seized the painter. The oarsman¡¯s face was obscured by a hood, but no one looked at him anyway. All eyes were on the slim, stately figure of the woman in white as she stepped gracefully onto the stair and ascended to the deck of the barge. She wore a richly jeweled necklace and several wrist bangles on each hand, all of which jingled promisingly as she moved. Green eyes peered out from a heavily made-up face beneath the veil. They surveyed General Logwall, and his cohort of soldiers, and the two figures standing on the opposite rail, their hands bound. ¡°Take my son and his lawyer down from the rail, General,¡± she said in a soft voice, almost inaudible. ¡°I have come to purchase their lives.¡± She extended a slender, graceful arm and presented the top of her left hand. ¡°Of course, Highness,¡± said the knight-general. He removed his helm and gauntlets, took the proffered hand in his own, and pressed his lips to it lightly. His thick black hair was oiled and neatly brushed, and his steel armor gleamed in the evening sun. He nodded at two of the guardsmen, who roughly pulled the two prisoners from the rail. ¡°We¡¯ll all go back to Uellodon together and have a long chat with your husband. I think you¡¯ll find there are many ladies in the capital who are eager to come and visit you again in Palace Naridium.¡± Behind them, the diminutive figure that had manned the oars clambered aboard carrying a large chest, which he set down near the rail and proceeded to open. No one paid the midget the slightest attention. General Logwall, meanwhile, found that his hand was held firmly, and the woman in white stepped close to him. The green eyes flashed up through the veil. ¡°Have you done what is right, general?¡± she asked, moving her right hand behind her back. General Logwall peered at the face beneath the veil carefully, his eyes squinting as if in some confusion. ¡°I believe, madame,¡± he replied, ¡°that I have done what was necessary.¡± Behind her back, the woman¡¯s right hand opened, and the little porter placed in it the wooden haft of a razor-sharp hatchet. The arm swung around from behind her back, dropping downward with the grim determination of the headsman¡¯s blade. The hatchet severed Logwall¡¯s right hand neatly from his arm. Before he could howl, the steel head came up sharply beneath his unarmored chin, and the knight-general collapsed to the deck of the barge. There is a moment, when the small and reasonable order of things begins to collapse, that the small and reasonable mind collapses with it. At the moment Merrily severed the knight-general¡¯s hand, the score of Republican Guard on the deck of the barge occupied a reality in which princesses wearing poofy white dresses and hats and veils did not suddenly produce wicked looking hatchets and begin to hurl them with horrific accuracy at the chests of all those nearby. It was simply not possible that knives could flash from her hands into the throats and eyes of reasonable, disciplined, orderly soldiers of the new Republic. It was, in fact, completely against the rules for the hypothetical princess to then take from the handle of her parasol a slim rapier of fine steel and proceed to systematically stab her way through a fully armed and armored squadron of vastly superior number, stationed defensively in a vessel of their own choosing. By the time they had worked their way through this outrage against the proper order of reality, half their number were down. And Merrily, who was quite accustomed to dealing with the outrageous, unreasonable, and stupefying, was at the throats of the other half. She advanced without fear or doubt or mercy, feinting contemptuously when necessary, taking a step back before taking two forward, but invariably dipping her rapier gently into the chests of her adversaries with as much concern as a man swatting a fat and lazy fly. Her white gown and hat were soon stained red with blood, and her heavy white makeup was streaked with it. The off-duty squadron of marines, hearing screams and shouts from their comrades, came boiling out of the forecastle. And there they might have overwhelmed the lone and furious assault of the woman in white; but a colossal boom came from the direction of the small oarsmen and his chest, and half their number melted instantly to the deck. The chest had been turned on one side to reveal a pair of stubby, wide-mouthed cannon secured within, now pointed out of its mouth, and one of these had just discharged a great load of canister shot in the general direction of the forecastle. The oarsman¡ªhis hood thrown back now to reveal The Gizzard¡¯s gray skin and squat, hairless head¡ªwas whistling cheerfully as he touched a taper to the fuse of the second gun. After the discharge, the few marines who still had the requisite number of body parts to do so scampered back inside the forecastle and barred the door. The barge captain and his crew made themselves entirely invisible; those who could swim, did. Merrily, meanwhile, walked calmly over to the Crown Prince of Uelland and his lawyer. The Gizzard sauntered after her, nibbling idly at Logwall¡¯s severed hand. He had, as well, taken the liberty of setting the barge on fire. Merrily¡¯s eyes widened in surprise as she drew close to the captives. Leeland looked approximately the same as she recalled him¡ªtow-headed and masculine, but otherwise a near-replica of his mother. But Wigglus Snort looked nothing at all like Wigglus Snort. Instead, he looked exactly like Frederick Wholehouse-and-a-Half. ¡°Where is Wigglus?¡± she asked in confusion. Frederick held his hands forward, presenting the bindings. His eyes were hollow and red, and his face was dirty. His clothing was simple and shabby, and he had a nasty bruise over his right eye. ¡°Can I tell you the story while we make our escape?¡± he asked. Merrily slashed the bonds of both Frederick and Prince Leeland, but continued to look around her in confusion. ¡°Logwall¡¯s note said Leeland was here with his lawyer,¡± she said. ¡°You¡¯re not his lawyer; Wigglus is.¡± ¡°I might have lied a little bit when they captured us,¡± shrugged Frederick. ¡°The Crown Knights are squeamish about murdering attorneys, and anyway Logwall deserved to be lied to. Wigglus isn¡¯t here.¡± She led them back to the little rowboat. Leeland and The Gizzard crammed into the bow, and Frederick took the center seat at the oars. Merrily thoughtfully slashed away the straps of General Sir Warren Logwall¡¯s steel armor and heaved his prone form into the bilge as well, then sat down in the stern. Frederick took the oars and rowed the overburdened little vessel away from the burning barge. ¡°Where is Wigglus?¡± asked Merrily tensely, starting to bind Logwall¡¯s arm above the severed hand. Frederick took a deep breath and shut his eyes for a moment. ??? After you left Uellodon, Merrily, we made plans to slip across the river to Ville Porpo with Leeland. The crowds kept on gathering around the courthouse, and the Republican Guard gave no sign they would attack again. We all went out and sang carols together on Midwinter¡¯s Eve, and some of the Guardsman joined in. There was ale and wine given out freely in the courtyard, and people brought food to share around. In the week between Midwinter and the new year we made our plans. I sent a message to my banker on the Carolese side, and told him to make a place ready for us. We worked out a route, and a disguise for the Prince, and a cover story. And all that time Wigglus kept working in the court. They were getting ready to finally try the Foregrub and Quimble lawsuit¡ªthe one about giving their businesses back to Samuel Foregrub and Hector Quimble¡¯s daughter. Wigglus and the other attorneys spent all day and late into the night haggling with the two King¡¯s Counsel and the judge and going over witnesses and evidence. I don¡¯t know all the details; I¡¯m not really a lawyer, after all. But Wigglus seemed to think it was important that he help get ready, even if secretly we meant not to be at the trial. I¡¯d never seen him so full of life. But then in the new year the KCs did something odd. The details are above my head, to be honest, but apparently they appealed the judge¡¯s decision to go ahead with the trial. The way Wigglus explained it, that sort of thing is normally supposed to happen after the trial is finished, but they did it beforehand. So the High Justices gathered and read the papers, and scheduled arguments for the third of January. After the new year, we began to see more and more of the Republican Guard in the city. Hobb must have called up units from the countryside, because overnight it seemed as though Uellodon was carpeted in red cloaks and those silly three-cornered hats. They weren¡¯t singing with us anymore, either; they began to push people around in the streets, and to find foolish little infractions of the new rules and regulations everywhere they looked. The civil service put out a curfew, which everyone ignored. But there began to be more arrests, and more people disappeared off to Hoel. On the third of January the High Court heard arguments on the Crown¡¯s appeal. The Justices were quite sharp with King¡¯s Counsel, and the KCs seemed almost apologetic, as if they were making arguments they didn¡¯t really believe. The whole thing seemed to turn on whether the courts have the power to decide whether an order of the King is valid. Wigglus was brilliant; he had all kinds of soaring language about right and wrong and the source of law and all kinds of other things I don¡¯t remember now. The Justices retired for about fifteen minutes, then came out again, and said the trial had to go on. We all thought it was over then, but about an hour later an order came back from Palace Naridium forbidding them to start the trial. It said the King himself had heard an appeal from the High Court¡¯s order, and flipped them. Well, the Justices didn¡¯t take that well, let me tell you. Foregrub and Quimble¡¯s side made a motion right on the spot to overrule the King¡¯s order, and the High Court set a hearing for the next morning so the KCs could come up with an argument they could make with a straight face. We all stayed in the courthouse that night¡ªme, Wigglus, the attorneys for Foregrub and Quimble, the King¡¯s Counsel; even the Justices and the lower judges. It was like the siege all over again, with everyone sleeping in their offices and taking turns on watch. But most of the other attorneys had gone home to their families and their own offices, as they weren¡¯t trapped in the building anymore. The old court was lonely. Wigglus and I stayed up late that night. I persuaded him to put aside his papers for a little while, and we sat on the roof in coats and looked up at the stars. The other attorneys and the judges had never made much bother about him and me, you know; they treated us like some old married couple. So we had that night together, alone on the rooftop. Just give me a moment. It didn¡¯t last. No night, however perfect, survives the dawn. We cleaned ourselves up, and Wigglus shaved his face and fixed his hair and put on his best coat and tie. We went down to the hearing, and Prince Leeland sat with me, while Wigglus went up inside the well of the court. A whole gang of lawyers from the city had shown up there, and they were just sitting quietly as it got started; all coats and white shirts and ties on the men, and black dresses on the women. I remember the KCs looked like they¡¯d just swallowed poison and hadn¡¯t gotten quite around to toppling over. But they all stood up when the High Court came in, and both sides said their piece. Chief Justice Woodbrow spoke for the Court, and he had some very colorful things to say about the King¡¯s writ. He didn¡¯t curse; a judge doesn¡¯t curse in court, at least not in the way that mere mortals understand. But he used some very long words that made the lawyers around me blush. And then¡ well, it all got to be quite a surprise. You remember, Merrily, that old rule that a sitting court can¡¯t be interfered with by anyone, even the king? It¡¯s why they held one long hearing, all the way through the siege. Well, the Justices hadn¡¯t forgotten that rule. Their clerks all came out, and they ran poles under the Justices¡¯ benches, and lifted them up in the air on their shoulders. And others lifted up the chairs, and carried them, four clerks to a judge. Woodbrow was talking the whole time¡ªhe never took a break from explaining why the King¡¯s order was a pile of tripe. It started to dawn on us, then, that he wasn¡¯t just striking down the order; he was working his way around to holding King Leeland in contempt of the High Court. And then the whole procession¡ªJustices, clerks, benches, chairs, lawyers and all¡ªjust marched right out the door of the courtroom, and out of the courthouse. The bailiffs went out in front, and they cleared a way through the crowd outside. People gawked at first, but then once a few heard what the Chief Justice was saying they gave up a cheer, and crowded along behind. The lawyers who had been watching came too, after the court, and Prince Leeland and I went with them. They walked right through the square, underneath those two bronze statues of the ladies of justice, and started up the street toward Palace Naridium. King¡¯s Counsel were right there at the head, and they suddenly looked whole and healthy again, like men who¡¯d been given back an arm they lost. You probably remember, Merrily, that it¡¯s not a long walk to the palace from the Old High Court. You can see the Rose Tower from the plaza. Well, the whole procession marched along Sheepford Street. And out of all those hundreds of law offices clustered around the court, there suddenly came spilling out every attorney in the city. They dropped what they were doing when they saw the Justices go bobbing along in the street, and ran out, carrying whatever big thick law books happened to be near at hand. They gathered around the procession like an honor guard, holding up their books in their air or in front of their chests. At some point Woodbrow finished his pronouncement, and he recognized Justice Ellen Willoughsby, and she started to give a concurrence. Wigglus and Leeland and I were back in the crowd a bit¡ªthe young prince had come along, though I tried to convince him not to. Said he was safer in the middle of a crowd of lawyers than anywhere else, and I had to give him the point. So there we were, marching along behind Justice Willoughsby while she bellowed out her concurrence, in the middle of every lawyer in Uellodon and a whole host of regular citizens too. For a little while, it seemed as though we might make it to the palace. The Republican Guard were all over the streets around us, but when we set out they didn¡¯t make any move to stop us. But then, when we were about two blocks away, there was a whole army of them in the street ahead. The front rank had tall shields that they set on the ground, and all the ones behind had heavy crossbows or longbows. We could see archers, too, in the windows and on the roofs of the buildings on either side of Sheepford Street. And more soldiers appeared in the streets on the sides¡ªRepublican Guard, not the regular army¡ªso we couldn¡¯t get out. We¡¯d been allowed to come only so far, just so we could be penned in. The crowd drew close together, but they didn¡¯t run, and didn¡¯t push.If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. The clerks carried their judges right up to the edge of the shields. Woodbrow sized up the mass of guardsmen ahead of them, and then he spoke directly to them, still perched in his chair behind his bench, all on the shoulders of clerks and lawyers. I remember what he said. ¡°If you would live, sirs, in a world where your freedom is the highest and most precious charge of the law, then you must make way for this Court do its duty.¡± The first arrow from the mass of soldiers was a keen shot, and took him in the throat, coming out the other side. He toppled off the chair, and his clerks caught him and lowered him to the ground. More arrows and bolts followed, raking the crowd from all sides. The Justices held up books in front of their faces and chests to protect themselves, and soon they looked like pincushions. Then the soldiers started in with long spears. You must understand, Merrily, that other than the bailiffs the crowd was entirely unarmed. From the back, Leeland and Wigglus and I couldn¡¯t see what happened after the Justices fell. But we could hear it. There were so many screams, they merged into one voice, as if every man and woman and child in the city were one creature, crying out together. I remember turning to Wigglus, certain we were going to die. But in all the chaos and blood and death, he was the only one that still had his head on straight. He took out of his satchel three red cloaks and hats, captured from guardsmen during the siege. We put them on, and he led us toward the back, where the soldiers were still thin. There was pushing and shouting and trampling, now, but we made our way through, dragging Leeland behind us. It occurred to me, then, that if we could make it to the docks, with all the soldiers right here, we might stand a chance of slipping across the river. When we reached the edge of the crowd we saw the guardsmen stabbing at the bodies of the people in the street with long spears. But we just held our backs straight and our chests out and walked through their ranks. In the heat of mass murder, I suppose the mind has little room for anything beyond the color of a cloak to distinguish men from animals. We might well have escaped, had we not been spotted by someone with more than the normal aptitude for murder. We heard a cry from behind us, and turned to see a little man with spectacles and a clerk¡¯s gray coat and tie. It was Mr. Robe, who I think you have met. He was standing on a cart, surveying the carnage from this vantage point with a little notebook and a pencil. But he had seen Wigglus walk past, and by some dark miracle recognized his face. ¡°It¡¯s Snort, the traitor!¡± Mr. Robe screamed, abruptly animated by emotion. He turned and waved frantically at the nearby soldiers. Wigglus grabbed me, and he pressed his lips to mine for the briefest moment. Then he shoved me and Leeland around roughly, so our backs were to Robe; and he walked back toward the cart. I knew what he wanted me to do, and I could not dishonor his sacrifice by failing to do it. I took Leeland by the hand and led him away from the killing. As we left, I made the terrible mistake of looking back, and I saw his body. Robe was crouched above it, like some vaguely anthropomorphic vulture, and he did not look up at us. I did not weep then. I held my tears for later. We ran to the docks, and we found a fisherman to whom a gold crown was precious enough to risk an unlicensed departure. That night we were in Ville Porpo. And there I wept, long and hard enough for the loss of ten true loves. Leeland stayed with me, and held me, and then we went to find my banker and take refuge. The next months were horrible. There was no news from the city, and no safe way to voyage upriver. We dared not send a pigeon; my people in Ville Porpo told me that Hobb¡¯s spies had deeply compromised the Merchants¡¯ Post on the Carolese side. So we waited for the winter to pass, and the river to become safer for travel. I cannot tell you how I mourned him, Merrily, and you would not want to hear it. You will understand yourself, as you walk through that valley. It is enough for me to say that I did mourn, long and bitterly and in the blackest dissolution. We tried to come north in May. I sent messages with men I trusted, but your look tells me that none arrived. It must be that one of them was intercepted, and led to the undoing of our plans. The Security Bureau men caught up with us in Lesser Sack, and Logwall made a special trip from Roosterfoot to see to us personally. Leeland and I have spent the last week convinced that we¡¯d soon be making a personal survey of the riverbed. And then you stepped onto the barge with that goblin, killed everyone, and set us free. I wish it were me that Mr. Robe had recognized that day, and not Wigglus. But wishes are cheap. He is gone, and I am here, and the only thing left for us is to bend our backs and walk on through the valley. ??? Merrily stared at Frederick for many minutes after he finished his story, while he bent his back to the oars. Then she looked off into the empty blue sky, and smelled the blood of men on her clothes, and felt the caked white makeup on her cheeks where she had not yet begun to weep. She dipped her hands in the river and washed off the makeup. They landed on the sparsely populated west bank of the river. Even this far south, the wilderness crept close to the Green River; Uelland¡¯s foothold to the west was tenuous. Merrily bought a horse and cart from a woodcutter who had decided to move on to the north, and they laid Logwall in the bed with the rowboat above him. And then, moving as quickly as they could on the rough paths of the wastes, they made their way upriver again. As they hiked through the day and night, pausing only for brief rests, Merrily¡¯s mind was blank, and her eyes glazed. The silence inside was overwhelming. The younger Leeland came and sat down next to her one night, as they prepared for a short, cold rest beneath the dark canopy of trees. He had a few whisps of beard coming in now, and his light blond hair glistened in the starlight. Merrily looked up at him dully. ¡°He was a good man, Mrs. Hunter,¡± said the Crown Prince. ¡°He¡¯s the sort of man that they ought to make statues of but never do. He died, I think, in just the time and place he needed to. That¡¯s no comfort to you, right now. Maybe it will be sometime later on.¡± She narrowed her eyes at this. These were not the words of a teenaged boy. ¡°Alright,¡± said Leeland with a rueful smile, shaking his head. ¡°I didn¡¯t make that up. Frederick told me to say that to you. He thought it might mean more coming from me. But I think it¡¯s true. I don¡¯t know about how you¡¯ll feel later, because I¡¯ve never lost anyone like that. The philosophers that Hobb made me read all say grief dulls with time, until eventually you forget it¡¯s there. I wouldn¡¯t know if that¡¯s true, or if they¡¯re just writing it to sound smart. But for you, Mrs. Hunter, I hope it¡¯s true.¡± She sighed, and closed her eyes slowly. ¡°Thank you, Your Highness,¡± she managed. ¡°Get a few hours rest. We still have a long walk tomorrow.¡± ¡°You needn¡¯t call me that,¡± he answered. ¡°It¡¯s proper,¡± she replied. ¡°There¡¯s an awful lot that depends on you being the Crown Prince of Uelland.¡± ¡°Unfortunately, I¡¯m not.¡± Her eyes snapped open. ¡°What?¡± He sighed. ¡°I¡¯m not the Crown Prince of Uelland. Leeland III isn¡¯t my father.¡± ¡°How can you know that?¡± she demanded. ¡°Because he told me. My father was a Crown Knight that mother loved years ago. I never met him, but I¡¯m told he died in the August Uprising.¡± The young man stood up. In the starlight, she studied his features. The blond hair certainly didn¡¯t run in his father¡¯s line, and Anne was a brunette. His nose and cheeks strongly resembled his mother¡ but not the King. ¡°Does Hobb know?¡± she asked quietly, glancing at the sleeping forms of Frederick, Logwall, and The Gizzard. Leeland shrugged. ¡°I assume so. He knows everything else. I don¡¯t think it matters to him, as long as everyone believes I¡¯m the heir. But I don¡¯t believe it anymore. And I won¡¯t let him use me to prop up his Republic anymore.¡± Merrily lay alone under the stars. Sleep did not come, and she stared, alone, into the darkness. They crossed the river again at Green Bridge on the eleventh of June, in the late morning. Merrily abandoned the cart that had borne Logwall and turned the horse loose; there was no way for it to safely cross the river, and one of the few settlers on the west bank would likely welcome a new beast of burden. As they passed the fortified perimeter of Farley Island, she heard the sound of a great crowd. But she could not see over the new walls, and the only landings were on the mainland. So she rowed the little boat to the ashen remains of the commercial docks and put ashore with Frederick, Logwall, Prince Leeland, and The Gizzard. A few Billies were standing a despondent guard over the ruins of the waterfront, and she deposited the injured Logwall into their care. ¡°Take him to Bastings Hall,¡± she instructed the surprised policemen. ¡°I expect the Queen will want to have a few words with General Logwall.¡± ¡°Today¡¯s the execution, Mistress,¡± stammered one of the Billies. ¡°The Queen¡¯s presiding over the beheading of the Traitor of the North.¡± Merrily cursed under her breath. An execution was not the ideal moment to show up unexpectedly with the Crown Prince. ¡°Then take him to William Hall, and lock him up,¡± she said. ¡°And have a physician see to his arm, before it turns gangrenous. He¡¯s far more valuable to the Queen if he¡¯s alive.¡± Logwall moaned as he was led away, but made no move to resist. His face was pale, and he could barely stand. Merrily turned her eyes to the long spans of Three Fish Bridge, and then looked at Frederick, Prince Leeland, and The Gizzard. ¡°There¡¯s no sense in waiting,¡± she said. ¡°Your mother won¡¯t fault us for getting you to safety sooner rather than later.¡± She surveyed the ash and ruin of Green Bridge, the little tents here and there, and the knots of people. ¡°And anyway, there¡¯s nowhere else to go,¡± she added. ¡°I will go to the Gray Kingdom,¡± said The Gizzard. ¡°The ferals will hear that King Simon is alive, and I¡¯ll need to knock some heads and kick some balls to get things ready for him to return. And the Quiet Ones need to be brought back from Devi Valley before they get mashed by giants and roasted by the dragon.¡± Merrily shook her head in bemusement. The Gizzard, at least, had not given up any of his lurid imagination. She knelt down and looked him in the eyes. ¡°Thank you, The Gizzard,¡± she said. ¡°If you hadn¡¯t come along and brought that mimic gun, I would have been overwhelmed on the barge. I owe you a debt.¡± The goblin¡¯s eyes widened in confusion, and he stared at her. Then, to Merrily¡¯s enduring surprise, he threw his arms around her neck. It was an oddly human gesture; goblins didn¡¯t hug. ¡°You and Cyrus Stoat saved my life, and King Simon¡¯s life, and the lives of all our tribe, when you first met us,¡± he said solemnly. ¡°And you brought us the magic of trade and beer and sandwiches. You and Cyrus and Jonathan may be gangly big-folk with too-small heads and ugly teeth, but you will always be friends of the Gray Kingdom.¡± Then he disentangled himself, and walked away, nibbling on the upper half of a rabbit he¡¯d brought from over the river. Merrily shook her head in amazement at the oddity of the world. But as the small gray person disappeared from view, the full weight of grief and horror and disbelief came crushing down on her again. She focused as best she could on the task at hand, and led Frederick and Leeland across the bridge to Farley Island. The small riverine island was packed with hundreds of people, and the square was so tight that Merrily could barely move. Whatever sorrows waited for them in the ruins of the city on the mainland, the people of Green Bridge had come to be amused for a few hours by the death of a man they could all hate together. There was laughter and raucous shouting, and food vendors plying the crowd. Some dandy with a lute was standing on one of the low rooftops, giving an impromptu rendition of the Battle of Hog Hurst. Merrily felt slightly sick, recalling how many of her friends had died that day. She elbowed her way sharply through the crowd, making for the broad wooden doors of Bastings Hall. And then suddenly she was face to face with a man she recognized. He had a fringe of brown hair around his head, a wide girth, and a simple brown robe with a rope belt. Four armed Billies walked in a tight escort around him, and his hands were tied in front of him. A muscular, broad-shouldered woman walked behind. The man¡¯s eyes were peaceful. Gregory and his escort stopped for a moment. The crowd immediately behind Merrily began to shout in recognition and anger as they saw him, and a roar went up from the square. ¡°Hello, Merrily Hunter,¡± he said calmly. He gave her a smile that looked like it teetered between weary and sad. ¡°Hello Gregory,¡± she replied. For some reason, she couldn¡¯t bring herself to call him ¡®Traitor of the North.¡¯ Once upon a time he had been too pathetic to deserve it; now he was somehow too dignified. ¡°We are at a crossing, you and I,¡± he said. One of the Billies prodded him, but Merrily held up a hand. ¡°A point of inflection,¡± he went on, ¡°where the branching pathways come together and then split apart in a million, million new directions.¡± She just stared at him, remembering the echoes of the fey-speech that lurked in her thought and memory. It was a language of indeterminacy and possibility, evolved to recognize and describe the vast concurrent web of existence. ¡°Which way lies/lay the Bright Path?¡± she asked, instinctively switching to that other mode of thought. ¡°Our paths cross, and the paths of my love-self are far distant. I cannot perceive/walk the way toward that land we share.¡± He smiled at her, and the weariness was gone. The crowd jostled and screamed, and a stone struck him in the head; blood sprang from the wound. But he smiled. ¡°It is a matter of choice, Merrily,¡± he answered, as if he had understood her. ¡°Your choice. This time is ending for me. You will have to choose where you go next, and why. If you seek her, Ash will open all choices to you.¡± Another rock struck him, and he winced. ¡°I am sorry, Merrily, for the way I behaved when we met. I hope you will see in time that the man I passed through opened pathways of choice that led you toward that final and perfect happiness. But there is no excuse for me; I can only ask forgiveness, and only from you.¡± The Billies shoved him forward, and he began to move past Merrily into the crowd. ¡°I forgive you,¡± she said. And then he was gone. The woman who walked behind him stopped for a moment and looked closely at Merrily, holding her eyes. ¡°You are one of us, even if you don¡¯t know it yet,¡± she said, with a soft accent from the eastern borderlands. ¡°I will see you again, and soon. Ash loves you, as she loves all.¡± And then the woman too was gone, into the crowd after Gregory and his escort. Merrily was jostled to the side of the building, and slowly made her way back around the outside of the great throng. Frederick and Leeland trailed after her. She could see a platform at the far end of the square, next to the gates of Triad University. Queen Anne was there, and a man with a large sword. Gregory was making his way up onto the platform. Merrily worked her way into the crowd, lost in the sea of angry humanity and lost inside herself. What choice do I make? Why can¡¯t I see the way? ¡°Gregory!¡± came Queen Anne¡¯s clear, ringing voice from across the square. The crowd hushed. ¡°You have admitted, before a court of law and a judge of my bench, to the crime of treason!¡± Merrily was looking into the crowd, away from the platform. She was searching for someone¡ªanyone¡ªto fill the void of doubt and endless choice. Someone who would know just what to do, without any mystery or hidden meaning. ¡°You gave aid and comfort to an enemy who sent armed soldiers to wrest the sovereignty of Uelland from its rightful monarch!¡± continued the queen. A man pushed through the crowd roughly, and stood in front of her. He wore a floppy hat and a battered old breastplate. ¡°Cyrus,¡± she breathed in recognition. Her shoulders collapsed a bit, laying down the burden that Gregory had placed on her. ¡°Cyrus,¡± said Frederick, behind her. ¡°Frederick?¡± Cyrus asked in shock. ¡°Frederick n¨¦e Halfhouse?¡± ¡°Just Frederick,¡± said the man. ¡°It¡¯s just Frederick now. It¡¯s good to see you, Cyrus.¡± ¡°What are you doing here?¡± demanded Cyrus. ¡°You were in Uellodon with my¡ªwith¡ª¡± he struggled with the words. ¡°¡ªwith Wigglus,¡± he concluded lamely. ¡°I know he is your son, Cyrus,¡± said Frederick. ¡°He knew too, at the end. Mari wrote to him.¡± Cyrus stared at him. ¡°What do you mean? ¡®At the end?¡¯¡± ¡°He is dead, Cyrus,¡± answered Frederick. ¡°Wigglus is dead. He died when the judges and lawyers marched to Palace Naridium. He gave his life so that I could escape with Leeland.¡± Fresh tears stained the dirt and grime on Frederick¡¯s face. Cyrus, true to form, fixated on an utterly irrelevant detail. ¡°King Leeland? You escaped Uellodon with the King of Uelland?¡± Frederick shook his head. ¡°No. Not King Leeland. Prince Leeland.¡± He nodded at the crown prince standing next to him. Cyrus looked down. He scrutinized the boy¡¯s face. ¡°I would like to go to my mother,¡± said Leeland. ¡°I¡¯m going to check out now,¡± said Cyrus confidently. ¡°This is too much. It¡¯s too much for one man to carry. Well¡ªanyway, it¡¯s too much for me. I shall be in my room, gibbering madly to a potted plant. Berble-berble-berble. Gibbering. Goodbye¡¡± Merrily slapped him, hard. The people in the crowd looked at them in irritation, but neither Merrily nor Cyrus paid any attention. ¡°Shut up, Stoat,¡± she said. Her voice was soft, but sharp. ¡°Who do you think¡ª¡± ¡°Shut up and listen. Somewhere under that ridiculous breastplate is the old Cyrus Stoat, who always knew what to do. He always had the right answer. I looked up to that man, because he was smart and wise and cunning and better prepared than anyone else, and never let the world turn him around, and never tried to kiss me. He¡¯s still in there. This cripple you¡¯ve become is someone else, but you need to find the real Cyrus Stoat. Right now. I need him. I need him, Stoat.¡± She shook him by the collar. Cyrus wobbled his head in confusion. He looked at Merrily for a long moment; and then he turned to Frederick. ¡°Take the Crown Prince to his mother,¡± he instructed. ¡°After the execution. Be quiet. Don¡¯t make a scene. Hobb probably has people here. Go to the Billies in William Hall, and tell them that Cyrus Stoat was right about Obilly Smallhat and they¡¯d better listen to you too.¡± Frederick, looking at him in astonishment, nodded mutely. He turned back to Merrily. ¡°Will you help me?¡± he asked. She smiled in response. Duty and love, she thought. ??? She stood and watched as Queen Anne sentenced Gregory, Traitor of the North, to die for his crimes. But as the sword flashed and fell, her sight was obstructed by the crowd. She turned away as the silence fell with the sword, and there was a sad, dull thud from the other end of the square. ¡°I¡¯m going with Cyrus,¡± she said to Frederick and Leeland. ¡°I see it now. It¡¯s in Devi Valley. I have to go there with him. I don¡¯t know what¡¯s waiting for us, but that¡¯s where I have to go, because that¡¯s where the Bright Path is. Maybe it¡¯s peace, or maybe it¡¯s death, or maybe it¡¯s both. But whatever it is¡ªnow I know what I choose.¡± She turned to the Crown Prince. ¡°Your Highness; tell your mother that I love her and I will return if I can.¡± The young man nodded silently, and squeezed her hand. Then she raised her eyes to Frederick. ¡°Don¡¯t say anything,¡± he said. He held her fiercely, and then pulled back and looked at her for a long moment. His eyes were that old, startling electric blue again. He gave a half-smile, as if they shared some secret; and he was so convincing that Merrily was suddenly sure they did. There was a growing murmur from the front of the crowd. Merrily gave another look at the ugly platform; but whatever was happening there now was out of her view, and she was not a witness. She turned and walked out of the square, going to meet Cyrus at the east gate. ??? Merrily and Cyrus and Gmork travelled north many days along the east branch of the Green River. They left the settled farmland of Uelland behind, and ventured into the wilds that lay between them and that wind-swept valley where not so long ago Merrily¡¯s and Jonathan¡¯s lives had been wrenched in a new direction. At night, they made camp and shared food, drink, stories, tears, and laughter. Merrily and Cyrus told each other everything. And then, on the twentieth of June, they arrived in Devi Valley to hear the big guns booming in the north, and to see the great, black form of a dragon flying high above. Interludes III: Falling Devi Valley, June 22nd, III Leeland:16 ¡°There¡¯s always a way back, y¡¯know.¡± The older mercenary winked as his younger companion hurriedly reloaded a long gun with fresh powder, wadding, and a lead ball. The thunderous crack of black powder discharge filled the chamber around them with chaos, and the acrid smell of smoke stung their lungs and noses. The finery ventilation shafts were still open, but there was a limit to how quickly they could draw out fouled air. Rain from the storm above dripped down the shafts and splattered on the billed caps of the soldiers. The wind howling over the openings, hundreds of feet above, added a haunting descant to the cacophony below. ¡°What do you mean ¡®always a way back,¡¯ Rigg?¡± asked the younger man. His black Finery Corps uniform was tattered and smudged with dirt, and the smart silver trim and buttons were decidedly bedraggled. The embroidered ¡®S¡¯ on his cap was missing the tail. His eyes were fearful. The younger soldier handed the long gun to his partner. The older man turned and raised his head over the wall, sighted, breathed out, and pulled the trigger. There was a terrific bang, and a scream from beyond. ¡°Always a way back from wherever you are, Sal. Maybe you don¡¯t see it, is the thing. Take us, now. Here we are, about to get ourselves killed in a cave, so as that big engine thing over there has time to heat up enough to get the last of the workers and scholars out over the river and the western ridge. Ain¡¯t what I hoped for in this trip¡ªseemed like an easy job, low risk. But here we are, doin¡¯ our duty for coin they¡¯ll give to our families. Gun.¡± Sal handed him a fresh gun, and took back the one he¡¯d just fired. ¡°But my point is, Sal¡ª¡± he crouched, raised the long gun, and fired again. There was a thud, barely audible amidst the cacophony of gunfire, screams, and shouts. ¡°Pretty gold buttons he wears, Dickie Redcoat. Shows up nice against the torches down the passage. What was I saying? Here you go. Oh, a way back. There¡¯s always some way you come out of this alive, Sal, and go back to your wife and sons in Bad Hurl. You just can¡¯t see it right now. Maybe you get on the train, or maybe you put on a red uniform and make like a Dickie until you get away, or maybe you make it up to the ridge and ride out with Rufus Snugg. See what I mean? You just gotta look out for your own way back, Sal. Gun.¡± Behind them, a worried lieutenant hurried over to the company captain, standing near the massive iron steam engine and its gray-skinned crew. A tiny, six-inch tall man rode in a cup at the top of a staff held by the captain. There was a shouted conversation, of which Sal and Rigg caught a few snatches. ¡°¡more Giant-men on the other side of the river¡¡± ¡°¡outpost is running out of powder¡¡± ¡°¡enough balloons¡¡± ¡°¡up from the south¡¡± Sal and Rigg looked at each other, and Sal handed Rigg a freshly-loaded gun. ¡°Just keep lookin¡¯ for it, Sal,¡± said the old soldier, as a crossbow bolt suddenly appeared in his cap. ??? ¡°By all twenty-seven Black Testicles of the Nine Black Gods of Broob!¡± barked Cyrus furiously. ¡°Could we not instead have searched for twelve specific mirrors in the Mirror Shaft of the Black Catalog? Or perhaps twelve of the King¡¯s turds in the sewers of Uellodon? Because we¡¯d have a better chance at either of those than finding twelve marked scroll cases in these stacks. Whoever was responsible for cataloging this place ought, if there were any justice, to have been buried alive under the weight of his own misplaced tomes.¡± The distant sound of gunfire echoed through the dark library, and Jonathan, Merrily, Cyrus, King Simon, and Devi all looked back sharply at the great iron doors. Devi, riding in her pouch behind Jonathan¡¯s shoulder, brought her lance up defensively. But as yet there was no sign of either the Giant-men or the Republican Guard. Jonathan, Cyrus, and Merrily were frantically pulling books, scroll cases, and all other manner of dusty oddities off the shelves. They paused long enough to glance at each group, looking for the sign that King Simon had described: A circle in the center of two equal lines crossing at right angles. Following along behind them, King Simon and Devi inspected the heaps of discarded volumes, scanning for something that the taller humans might have missed. ¡°It¡¯s ¡®opeless,¡± muttered Devi acidly. ¡°We¡¯ve made ¡®ar way down jes¡¯ this one row.¡± She glanced around in the darkness, seeing the lanterns left by the Snugg librarians receding off into the black on either side. There must be a hundred rows in the ancient stacks; or maybe even more. ¡°Nothing is ever hopeless, Devi,¡± answered Simon in his musical lilt. ¡°It is only very improbable. And, considering how improbable are our lives, our capacities for thought, our speech, our very existence¡ªnot to mention our presence together in this place¡ªa little more improbability is nothing to be afraid of.¡± He discarded a long, elaborately carved scroll tube. ¡°Behold: The pornography of the ancients,¡± remarked the little goblin. ¡°Evidently we¡¯ve found the human adult section.¡± Ahead of them, Cyrus, Jonathan, and Merrily had finally reached the far wall of the vast stacks, still desperately flinging books over their shoulders. ¡°When do we give it up?¡± asked Merrily breathlessly. ¡°What if we can¡¯t find the scrolls?¡± Cyrus turned and glowered at her. ¡°I still haven¡¯t heard a good explanation for why that imbecile Franco killed Rolly¡ªbut after your story, Merrily, I¡¯m certain he didn¡¯t know either. Someone was using Robert Franco, and that someone levitated fifty feet in the air while I stood and watched. So, before Hobb the Wise gets his dirty paws on it, I want the missing element to Rolly¡¯s calculations. Watch it, Miller¡ªthat book¡¯s at least two millennia old. Have some respect for the vast and terrible knowledge of the ancients. If Professor Weaselbeer-Yourfork were here, she¡¯d have your kidneys for dinner, dumping a book on the floor like that.¡± Cyrus casually cleared an entire shelf with a backhanded swipe, then quickly pawed through the detritus. ¡°You¡¯re a hypocrite and a liar, Cyrus Stoat,¡± said a woman¡¯s voice from behind them. ¡°Your hypocrisy is self-evident, and you¡¯re a liar because you know perfectly well that I eat the eyeballs first.¡± They all looked up. Behind them, holding a single oil lamp, was Prunella Weaselbeer-Yourfork. Next to her stood the slim figure of Elizabeth Karn. ¡°What are you two doing here?¡± demanded Cyrus irritably, turning back to ransacking the next shelf. ¡°I thought you were turning tail to run with the #1 engine.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve spent the last year and a half of my life trying to wring secrets from this library, Professor Stoat,¡± she replied. ¡°When you first left here, I took you for a fool; if you now think I¡¯m going to let you sneak in and poach the find of a lifetime from under my nose at the last minute, then you¡¯re also a half-wit. No one¡¯s going to publish on this collection without my name on it.¡± He shrugged. ¡°Come on, then. Help me with this shelf.¡± ¡°Hang on,¡± said Miss Karn. ¡°I can see from the trail of destruction that you¡¯ve just plowed right down this aisle. There¡¯s a more efficient way.¡± Everyone else stopped what they were doing and looked back at her. ¡°What exactly are you looking for?¡± asked the young linguist. ¡°Twelve sealed scroll tubes,¡± answered King Simon, ¡°marked with two crossed lines and a circle.¡± ¡°And what¡¯s in them?¡± ¡°Mathematical formulae, we think,¡± supplied Cyrus. ¡°Why?¡± ¡°Because the ancients were as obsessed with taxonomies as they were with labelling,¡± answered Miss Karn. ¡°What you¡¯ve described is one of the graphemes we see regularly in the materials; we haven¡¯t translated enough to know exactly what it means, but I have a theory that it¡¯s linked to their religious texts. You see, there were several varieties¡ª¡± ¡°Get to the point, Elizabeth,¡± snapped Professor Weaselbeer-Yourfork. The sounds of shouts and distant gunfire punctuated the flat urgency in her voice. Elizabeth Karn blushed, but straightened her back. ¡°Do a binary tree search,¡± she said. ¡°The stacks are indexed for it. The books on the ends of each row are set up to direct you left or right to later rows, depending on a piece of the information you¡¯re looking for. And after those it¡¯s the same arrangement for the cases in each row. It goes all the way down to the shelf level.¡± She pointed at faint etchings near to her shoulder on one of the towering bookshelves. Gathering close, the others could see a great many arcane symbols etched in two columns, each symbol accompanied by words written in the strangely spiky script of the Dawn Imperials. ¡°What did you call it?¡± asked Cyrus. ¡°A binary tree search,¡± Elizabeth replied, motioning with her hand and walking back toward the entrance. ¡°You start at the root, with the broadest possible two-way decision. Then you do the same thing at the next branch, narrowing down the information with another two-way decision. One of the Snugg cryptographers taught it to me. They use it to quickly search for information in the intelligence archives. If your index is set up right, you can find anything, within any amount of information, in a tiny fraction of the time you¡¯d need with a traditional subject index. The Snugg people thought they were very clever to invent it¡ªbut apparently it¡¯s as old as dirt, because the Dawn Imperials used it too.¡± ¡°Branching pathways,¡± muttered Merrily darkly. ¡°What was that?¡± asked Cyrus. ¡°Just something Gregory said to me before he was executed,¡± she answered, shaking her head. ¡°If this binary tree is so efficient, why doesn¡¯t every book in the world have an index like that?¡± asked Jonathan. ¡°I¡¯ve never heard of it before.¡± Miss Karn shrugged. ¡°Because the index is enormous¡ªsometimes larger than the information itself. It would take hundreds of times longer to create one than to actually write down the words of the book.¡± They all glanced around at the towering, ancient stacks of the library, stretching into dim obscurity in all directions. ¡°How much of this is index material?¡± asked Merrily, her face still troubled. Miss Karn shrugged. ¡°We don¡¯t know. We haven¡¯t had time to read it all. We¡¯ve only worked out the basics of the Dawn Imperial written language, and translating even a single book is still a labor of years. But I think we know enough to follow their path.¡± She stopped at one of the stacks nearest the door, traced her fingers along the etchings on its face, and then examined the volumes on the shelf. She removed one, turned the pages delicately, and then nodded in satisfaction. ¡°First decision point,¡± she said, replacing the book. She pulled out a small writing tablet and made notes on it. ¡°The directions are simple enough for a child to follow, if she knew the language. Come on.¡± The group followed Miss Karn in wonder as she moved confidently through the stacks, taking a winding path through the labyrinth of books and scrolls. When she withdrew a book from the stacks to search for the decision point by lamplight, they held their breaths, sure that she must be lost; but each time the young linguist closed a book, she added a note to her paper and set off confidently in a new direction. The echoing sounds of gunfire and of close fighting seemed to grow louder beyond the library. After less than five minutes she stopped in front of a dusty, unremarkable stack that only time had touched for millennia. She reached up, scanned the shelf, and then turned to Cyrus. ¡°Let me stand on your shoulders, Professor,¡± she said. Cyrus obligingly knelt, and Miss Karn stepped up onto his shoulders, reaching up into the stacks above. ¡°You are a giant, Elizabeth, standing on the shoulders of midgets,¡± said Professor Weaselbeer-Yourfork sardonically. Cyrus glared at her, but kept still. Miss Karn passed down a long tube of some dusky gray material. ¡°First scroll,¡± she said. They crowded around to look at the case, and King Simon brushed some of the dust off the end. There, indeed, was the symbol he had described: Two lines crossing at right angles, with a circle in the center. The material was firm, but not as hard as metal, and it was lighter than anyone expected.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. ¡°Second scroll,¡± came Elizabeth¡¯s voice above them, and she passed down another tube. ¡°Third scroll. That¡¯s all that¡¯s here; the others must be in another location.¡± She stepped down off Cyrus¡¯s shoulders. ¡°How will we find them?¡± asked Jonathan, looking around at the darkness. His voice was tinged with urgency. ¡°By going back up the tree,¡± replied Miss Karn, consulting her notes and moving off into the stacks. ¡°Sometimes you have to go back to an earlier decision point.¡± She led them back, and then on again; and three more sealed scroll tubes came off the shelves. And then again, she doubled back, read the indices, and led them to another grouping of three. The long, light tubes began to pile up in Jonathan¡¯s arms, and he shared some of them with Merrily. Miss Karn¡¯s sheet of notes grew crowded. ¡°They seem to have shared our affinity for the numbers three and twelve,¡± remarked Professor Weaselbeer-Yourfork, as they followed the young linguist again to an earlier index point. ¡°No one has ever explained that to my satisfaction, but perhaps we inherited it from the Dawn Imperials, through some hidden cultural meme.¡± ¡°Sounds like ¡®uman nonsense ta¡¯ me,¡± said Devi. ¡°Like sayin¡¯ ¡®bless ye¡¯ after ye sneeze, or them silly metal prongs ye use fer eatin.¡¯¡± ¡°Here¡¯s the last common ancestor in the index,¡± said Miss Karn, reaching up for a book. But before she could bring it down, there was a terrific explosion from behind them, and the room was suddenly lit up by the flash of black powder discharge. The sounds of men shouting and dying grew suddenly and shockingly close. Torch light could be seen flickering from the entrance. ¡°We leave¡ªnow,¡± said Cyrus firmly. ¡°We¡¯re out of time. We need to get to the train.¡± ¡°But we¡¯re missing three scrolls!¡± protested Jonathan. ¡°And if we stay, we¡¯ll be missing our ride out of here,¡± snapped Cyrus. ¡°And probably some vital organs. I¡¯m going to my son, and to Veridia. If you and Merrily want to see another sunrise, you¡¯d best follow.¡± He turned to Professor Weaselbeer-Yourfork, who nodded in grim agreement. ¡°Nothing in this room is worth dying for,¡± she said. ¡°When the political situation settles down, we¡¯ll return. For now, I expect those nine tubes are quite enough to keep the mathematicians at Triad busy.¡± They moved quickly toward the door, before which were scattered prone black- and red-clad figures. Long guns with fixed bayonets littered the floor around the bodies, mixed with the spears and short stabbing swords of the Guard; but the living combatants appeared to have moved on. Weaselbeer-Yourfork bent to pick up one of the long guns, a powder horn, and a small box from one of the Snugg mercenaries. Miss Karn followed her lead. ¡°Take what you can,¡± said the older woman. ¡°If it comes to it, I can show you how to use them. Rufus made all of us learn.¡± Cyrus, Merrily, and Jonathan obligingly retrieved guns, powder, and shot, slinging the long firearms over their shoulders by straps. They moved cautiously into the broad, tall, well-lit corridor outside the library. More bodies littered the floor, and the sounds of harsh orders and screams was all around. ¡°This way!¡± said Weaselbeer-Yourfork, beginning to cross the hall to the stairs leading down. But even as she spoke, a swarm of red-clad soldiers suddenly boiled up out of it. They carried long spears with steel tips, and wore breastplates and helms. Weaselbeer-Yourfork raised her long gun and fired swiftly, causing one man to drop. But the thicket of spears drove forward, piercing her body. Weaselbeer-Yourfork staggered backward from them into the library, groaning in agony and pressing a hand to her abdomen. Cyrus and the others retreated in the other direction. ¡°Come on!¡± screamed Miss Karn, turning to run back up the corridor. They ran. Merrily and Cyrus knew their hand weapons would do little good against a forest of long spears. The fifteen-foot tall portals on either side showed the strange, ancient machinery of the upper level, but there was no time left for investigation. ¡°Where are we going?¡± bellowed Cyrus as they ran, looking back over his shoulder. The Guard, heavily armored, were slower¡ªbut there was no getting past them to the lower levels. ¡°The vent shaft!¡± shouted Miss Karn. ¡°We can climb up! There¡¯s scaffolding there, so we could get to the upper passages and circle back!¡± At the end of the long corridor, the tall passage opened up into blank, empty space. A wide, perfectly circular shaft, perhaps fifty feet in diameter, ran up and down. Around the edge of the shaft was a narrow platform of braced wooden slats, newly-constructed, and a series of thin ladders and platforms led upward. But the central hole of the shaft opened into blackness below, with only a flimsy rope ladder to provide a descent. A vast, dry heat billowed up from beneath, and the smell of sulfur. There was a faint red glow from below them. ¡°I know that smell,¡± said Jonathan, his stomach churning in sudden fear. ¡°We must be above the vents in that huge room with the giant wheels!¡± ¡°Aye,¡± agreed Devi from her pouch. ¡°Me¡¯n Daven near ta died down thar, along wi¡¯ ye. I¡¯ve no desire ta¡¯ go back innit. ¡®Tis a good t¡¯ousand ¡®eights of a snarf town ta¡¯ the bottom. Five ¡®unnered of yer feet, the way big-folk measure.¡± ¡°I¡¯d tell you all about what we found down there,¡± said Miss Karn, also panting, ¡°but we¡¯re all about to die if we don¡¯t start climbing.¡± She took two of the long scroll tubes from Cyrus and started up the ladders into the scaffolding above. Jonathan, Merrily, and Cyrus redistributed the remaining tubes, handing one to King Simon and taking two each. Then King Simon scampered up the scaffolding, followed by Merrily. And then the Republican Guard drew near, their spears held forward in a bristling mass. Jonathan, backing away suddenly, teetered on the edge of the abyss beyond the narrow lip of wood. ¡°Go on, Miller!¡± shouted Cyrus, pulling Jonathan back and handing him two more scroll tubes. ¡°Get out of here¡ªI¡¯ll hold them off a bit!¡± He drew his old broadsword and turned to face the Guard. ¡°Are you insane?¡± bellowed Jonathan, starting up the scaffolding ladder and awkwardly gripping the four tubes. ¡°You can¡¯t fight long spears with a sword!¡± ¡°Go!¡± screamed Cyrus. ¡°I¡¯ll follow! I won¡¯t die here¡ªVeridia would never let me live it down. And I have a son to¡ª¡± Whatever Cyrus Stoat was going to say about his son was lost to posterity, as the spears of the Guard found his chest. As Jonathan watched in horror from above, he tumbled into the blackness of the shaft, and fell down into the heat and smoke of the vent chamber below. Sheria Sheria lies next to Michael Rider in the bedroom above the inn. Outside, the March snowstorm howls and batters at the windows, like some animal wanting to get in to share their bed. In most close realities, the crude slats of the window keep the beast at bay; but in a few, it breaks, showering their bodies with frigid snow. She draws close around Michael, drawing warmth from him here and passing it to her other selves. Her hands grip around his broad chest, still breathing deeply, and she nuzzles her head into his neck. His sweat dampens her face and hands, drawing her in to his definiteness and substance. In all the branches, there is only one Michael Rider. ¡°I love you,¡± she says in the crude human speech of this land. She could say it more completely in her own tongue, but she has never taught it to him. She must not; if he knows the language of the fey, then the path is lost to her. ¡°I love you,¡± he replies in awkward Uellish, turning to smile at her. He runs a hand along the curve of her jaw. ¡°Do not leave, Michael Rider.¡± She sits up on one elbow and looks into his eyes. ¡°Do not go on your errand to the north. Come with me to the west, and the home of my people. Come to our dwellings of air and light in the old trees, and there you will be my prince. Every day you will sing and eat and drink and laugh; and every night will be like this night. That way lies the Bright Path.¡± ¡°Would your people welcome me as a prince?¡± he asks with a laugh. ¡°That would be like the King of Brasse marrying a dog.¡± ¡°They will bend as I wish,¡± she says, her eyes flashing. The smile fades from his lips. ¡°I can¡¯t, Sheria. Not yet. I love you, and I want you to be with me, in your way, whenever you choose to. But I have a duty¡ªa message I have to carry. It¡¯s from the First Minister to Queen Anne. When I¡¯ve delivered it, I¡¯ll come away with you.¡± ¡°No!¡± She says the word sharply. ¡°Do not! Come with me tonight! Leave behind your bag, Michael Rider, and your horse, and walk with me in the snow. Walk with me to the west, and leave this sad place of men behind. That way lies life, and here there is death. I do not desire for you to die. You must be mine, because I want it.¡± As he looks at her, she sees the pathways in him, and all the different Michael Riders that are one. Some blink, and some move their heads one way or another; some kiss her, and some turn away. In some of the pathways, they make love again, and in others¡ Here, in the most probable realities, he lies still. ¡°I gave my word,¡± he says. The blood tingles in Sheria¡¯s veins, and she can feel the inflection point slipping past. ¡°Break your word! What is your word, but air in your lungs? It is my air!¡± ¡°What I said will be done, because I said it,¡± he answers. She looks down, gripping his chest and shoulders tightly. Her hands creep up to his neck. ¡°Your word is your death, and my death,¡± she says, and kisses him again. ¡°I will not allow it.¡± Jonathan Steward Jonathan dreamed of Merrily every night. He saw her holding a sword and standing over the body of a man, looking at a creature with a metal face. He saw her running through underground tunnels, carrying strange gray cylinders. He saw her sitting with him in a cathedral, telling him she didn¡¯t love him; and her hand drifting toward him on its own as he walked away. He saw them standing together beneath great trees underground, looking up at a hole in the roof that let in the sky. He saw himself stab her in the chest as war raged around them, and he lowered her to the ground, weeping. Jonathan¡¯s eyes fluttered, and he woke up. The bright, hot light of the high hills flowed in the open window of his bedroom. His pillow was covered in sweat, and his chest dripped with it. It took several minutes before his heart calmed, and the sunlight returned him from that other world to this one. ¡°Another dream, love?¡± asked the woman lying next to him. Kmesha Mistress had black skin, full lips, and a finely chiseled jaw and chin. Her eyes were deep brown, and her hair wiry and curly. It was streaked with gray; the lines under her eyes were deep, and her body had lost some of its firmness. But she was still beautiful. He touched her hand and nodded. ¡°Was it her again? The woman from your youth? What was her name?¡± ¡°Merrily,¡± he said, looking out at the orchards and fields of the plantation. ¡°I am insanely jealous,¡± proclaimed Kmesha Mistress. ¡°Don¡¯t be, mistress,¡± answered Jonathan with a smile. ¡°She¡¯s dead. She¡¯s been dead for twenty years. I got a letter from her old professor after it happened, before the ships stopped coming from the north. She fell at the Battle of the Four Corners.¡± ¡°And yet still you dream of her,¡± said Kmesha Mistress accusingly. ¡°Twenty years is enough time for the waking mind to govern the heart,¡± he said, ¡°but not enough to escape the dreams. And I love you, mistress.¡± She nodded approvingly and stood, drawing a gown over her naked body. ¡°As it should be, Jonathan Steward,¡± she said, in her dusky voice. ¡°You are mine, and you should love me. But I will tolerate this ghost in your head. The heart, once given, cannot be un-given, and it is dishonest to pretend otherwise. You will love me in the day, and may love her at night. It is acceptable to me.¡± Jonathan rose, and put on pants. ¡°Come with me to the market, steward,¡± she said. ¡°I will buy a new suit for you, and make all the other owners jealous.¡± ¡°As you wish, mistress,¡± he answered. They spoke in Broobian, of course; it was the language of the mistress, and of her household. Kmesha Mistress had made Jonathan Steward teach her his own native tongue once, so that she could read his letters and his diary. But she lost interest after a few years, and now they only spoke Broobian. The mistress was wealthy. Her plantation had thrived selling food to the Holy Empire after the invasion from the north cut off their richest farmland. She owned mines, too, that produced iron and copper and coal to fund the great struggle on the coast and plains. As men and giant-men and dragons fought and fell on the fields of the shrinking Imperium, Kmesha Mistress grew rich from their suffering. She bought slaves to work her fields and mines, and then she bought more fields and mines to give productive work to her slaves. Kmesha Mistress had bought Jonathan, too. It was his own doing; he had arranged to be put up for sale just at the right time, and for her to see him on the platform during the auction. He whispered to himself in the fey-tongue, and her eyes fell on him, and she smiled. ¡°I will take that one,¡± she had said firmly to the auctioneer, putting out a bid that dwarfed all others. ¡°I need a new secretary, and a new lover. He will do for both.¡± His new mistress was willful and petulant, but canny. Jonathan had trodden the paths of her life carefully, first earning trust, then affection, and then love. She took him to her bed, and made him the majordomo of her house. When he proved himself, he became the overseer of her farmlands. Jonathan watched her, and watched the paths, and made the right choices, though he could not see where exactly they led. He even loved her, after a fashion, for she could be kind and gracious when she wanted to. She made him the steward of all her lands, and her heir. They took a carriage to the market. ¡°You look best in black,¡± she said critically, eyeing him in a dark suit at the tailor¡¯s shop. ¡°Black is hot in the sun, mistress,¡± he said calmly. ¡°I will sweat, and you don¡¯t like that.¡± ¡°I like it well enough when you are on top of me,¡± she replied with a smile, ¡°and I will assign slaves to follow you with a shade and wave fans at your body. It must be black. Your hair is gray, and your eyes are blue, and you shall wear black because it suits me.¡± They went to buy wine to serve for the feast that night. ¡°The price continues to rise, mistress,¡± said Jonathan in her native Broobian. ¡°Now that there are no more grapes from Carelon and Brasse, the vintners must rely on inferior varieties from the south. And the Giant-men took the Kavarik Hills last fall, where the best Imperial varieties grew. I¡¯m afraid we¡¯ll have to rely on apples and pears for wine before long.¡± ¡°Then we will drink the best wine that remains, while it remains,¡± she said. ¡°And when the dragons come for Broob, Jonathan Steward, we will raise a glass to them while we burn.¡± ¡°Not for many years, pray,¡± said an obsequious merchant nearby. ¡°The Holy Empire is ferocious in defense of their homeland, and their new weapons are most ingenious.¡± ¡°Tell this peon,¡± proclaimed Mistress Kmesha to Jonathan, ¡°that they will all burn, and then this market will burn, and he with it. And then you and I will burn, Jonathan Steward. We will burn before they take our faces, and we will raise a glass of the finest wine that remains to the giant-men and their dragons and their metal god.¡± Jonathan dutifully repeated her command to the wine merchant, and then paid an inflated price for ten barrels of the best that was left. They went to a man who sold fresh fruits. Of these, there was no shortage; Broob¡¯s fields were still rich and its trees laden. I find the Dark Path, and it leads me into the wasteland, whispered Jonathan to himself, speaking in the old fey-tongue. I follow and I search all the days of my life, until one day I stand in the Great Place of Change and enter the loophole. There it was, before him: a black thread running through the shifting realities around him. It led from the fruit sellers, through the infinite tree of choice and outcome, to an inflection point¡ªtonight. He bought fruit for the banquet with great care, and they rode the carriage home from the market. In the afternoon they made love again, mingling their sweat and breath as the bright sun flowed through the open windows. In the evening, the guests gathered for the banquet. Kmesha Mistress showed off her wealth to the Broobian elite, and she paraded Jonathan Steward about on her arm like the trophy that he was. He smiled, and bowed respectfully to all. He laughed at her jokes, and loved her for everyone to see. After dinner, the fruit was passed around. Jonathan had nothing at all to do with it. But Kmesha Mistress¡¯s pear was found to have a tiny worm inside after she had taken a bite. She threw the pear away in anger, and had one of the house slaves sent out to the fields. The guests looked away in embarrassment, and no one thought any more of the pear or of its worm. That night, Kmesha Mistress and Jonathan Steward made love for the last time. In the morning, she was dead. Her eyes bulged open, and her tongue protruded from her mouth. Jonathan sadly closed the eyes and arranged her body with dignity. The physician was called, and he said it was the poison of a tiny worm, very rare in these parts. She would not face the fire when it came, and Jonathan had need of her wealth. He had made her happy in her life, and she would serve him in her death. He sent for the attorneys and arranged for the execution of the will. Chapter 20: More Like Me Uellodon, October 1st, III:Leeland 15 Hobb the Wise strode deliberately through the familiar halls of Palace Naridium, his rhythmic footfalls punctuated from time to time by deep, ground-shaking thuds. The paintings in Begley Gallery were askew from the vibrations, and some had been taken down altogether to avoid the danger of being shaken loose. Chandeliers and hanging lamps swung from the impacts, and plaster trickled down from the walls and ceilings. ¡°We must add lamp oil to the ration list,¡± Hobb instructed the small, soberly-dressed man following along just behind him. ¡°If the Brassens complete their encirclement and the Carolese blockade continues, we shall need to conserve fuel for the lanterns of the night watch.¡± ¡°Fifty barrels arrived yesterday on a Foregrub caravan from Roosterfoot,¡± replied the smaller man, taking a note on his writing tablet. ¡°I¡¯ll classify it as property essential to the war effort and move it to Warehouse Two.¡± He briefly paused to push a pair of wire-framed spectacles back up to the bridge of his nose. Another massive crash interrupted their conversation, this time much closer and louder. An oak door on one side of the hallway swung open, unlatched by the force of the impact. ¡°Sloppy,¡± remarked Hobb disapprovingly, closing the door. ¡°They overshot the walls.¡± ¡°What our unwelcome guests lack in precision, they more than accommodate in numbers,¡± remarked his companion dryly. ¡°I counted three trebuchet this morning, and they¡¯ve taken over the granite quarry in Arpette. If the Brassens are permitted to finish constructing their engines and establish a supply chain, we shall have to discuss terms.¡± Hobb looked coolly over his shoulder at the small man. He wore the dark gray suit and starched white shirt of a clerk, with a small gray cravat. ¡°I am not prepared, Mr. Robe,¡± he replied, ¡°to surrender the capital of the Republic and a hundred thousand citizens within it to Brassen and Carolese despots. The National Assembly looks to us for the defense of Uelland¡¯s blood and soil. History will not judge us kindly if we fail that trust.¡± ¡°The road of history runs toward the unity and freedom of the People, First Minister,¡± agreed Mr. Robe. ¡°One wonders only whether we are riding within the carriage of progress¡ªor beneath its wheels.¡± He pronounced the m-dash in the sentence with special emphasis. ¡°I quite like that,¡± remarked Hobb, nodding idly at the two red-clad guards stationed at the base of the stairway to the Rose Tower. ¡°Did you come up with it just now?¡± They began to climb. Mr. Robe shook his head in modesty. ¡°I¡¯m afraid not, First Minister. It¡¯s from the draft of your next speech to the Assembly. I¡¯ve been working it over for a few days. I had a bit in there about ¡®comfortably ensconced upon the cushions of principles within the wagon of social progress,¡¯ but it seemed like too much.¡± Hobb nodded. ¡°Too many prepositions. Less is more, when you¡¯re summarizing the fundamental social struggle of mankind. I look forward to reading your draft.¡± As the two men climbed the long, spiraling stair to the peak of the Rose Tower, Hobb began to puff. He concluded, ruefully, that his years of casually ascending four hundred stone steps were now well in the past. As they climbed by the makeshift cells that lined the outer wall of the Tower, Hobb glared vindictively at one in particular, from which a smug and irritating professor had escaped eighteen months prior. He gritted his teeth and looked up the narrow stair, wishing he¡¯d personally thrown Cyrus Stoat from the top of the Rose Tower that night. But that chance had slipped by, like the years of his life. If such a chance came again, Hobb had no intention of wasting it. The observatory at the top of the Rose Tower was spacious and open, with naked windows permitting the light and air to flow through. In August the perch was a welcome relief from the heat of the city; but now, at dawn in October, it was plagued by a chill, piercing wind. The sky over Uellodon was dark and overcast, with the heavy threat of a cold rain. Hobb shivered, and donned a thick fur coat from a box near the hatchway. Two military flagmen were stationed at the parapet that ringed the peak of the tower. One busily relayed signals among the posts along the walls, while the second watched the open farmland around the city with a long field scope, looking for signals from the surrounds. Long lines of siege works were plainly visible around Uellodon, despite the distance, the overcast sky, and the smoke and wrack around the city. They began to the east at the riverbank and described a respectable portion of an arc around the capital; only a wedge of land to the west had no sign of enemy occupation. Trebuchet emplacements could be seen studding the fortifications at regular intervals, though most were still under construction. But at least four of them were indisputably operable, as they were flinging heavy boulders at Uellodon¡¯s tall, gray walls. The sound and vibration of the impacts set the wooden floor of the observatory shaking. Soldiers, as tiny in the distance as the little toy armies that Hobb had played with in his childhood, could be seen milling about in and between the fortifications. ¡°I didn¡¯t realize there were so many,¡± said Mr. Robe in a subdued voice behind Hobb. ¡°It¡¯s mostly conscripts, according to General Watt,¡± Hobb replied. ¡°The Brassen professional army is tied up with their invasion of Svegnia. But they sent some of their siege engineers this way with the conscript army, and a smattering of officers and cavalry to keep it all holding together. While the King¡¯s Heavy Arms were engaged further north with the Svegnians around Enderly, this lot made a forced march through the southeastern hills near Coopmaster. A clever game.¡± Another barrage of giant boulders crashed into the eastern walls, and one of the guard towers crumbled suddenly. In his head, Hobb thought to himself: This was not part of the agreement. It was to be raiding along the border only, without attacks on major cities or open field engagements. Brasse and Carelon will pay for this treachery. ¡°More than clever,¡± said Mr. Robe gloomily. ¡°They¡¯ll be inside the city within a week at this rate. The Guard units stationed here are brave men and true patriots, but they¡¯ll be swarmed under.¡± Hobb smiled thinly at his lieutenant. ¡°Have some faith in the Republic, Mr. Robe. I didn¡¯t climb four hundred steps to watch our side lose.¡± Mr. Robe shuffled his feet nervously and picked at a sore on his chin. He was in his twenties, with curly brown hair and dark, piercing eyes that were still lit, beneath his spectacles, with the husky fire of a young man frustrated that the world had not yet given him his due. Hobb found him useful. They watched the siege engines work for many minutes in silence. And then, out on the plain of brown fields and farmsteads to the north of the siege lines, a commotion began to arise. It began with a glint of light, reflected from the dim cloud-veiled sun by some distant piece of metal. The prick of light caught Hobb¡¯s eye and drew it in. More glints followed, emerging from a low valley and forming, with agonizing slowness, into solid squares. Slightly larger blobs of brown and white and black, speckled with metallic light, flowed out and round the squares, coalescing into long lines that waved in the harsh October wind. ¡°What is that?¡± asked Mr. Robe, squinting at the far-off spectacle. ¡°That is the King¡¯s Heavy Arms, Mr. Robe.¡± ¡°But they¡¯re in Enderly!¡± protested his companion. Hobb raised an eyebrow and stared at him. ¡°And you¡¯d rather they¡¯d stayed there?¡± he asked with a slight smile. ¡°I ordered General Hyden to make a forced march south as soon as our scouts discovered the Brassen conscript army. They abandoned most of their materiel in Enderly and have been moving the soldiers day and night by horse and wagon train. There¡¯s a swath of farms between here and the Haalsterne who are now without their horses or wagons, I¡¯m afraid. I received a pigeon from Hyden last night with an update on their position.¡± ¡°Why didn¡¯t you tell me?¡± demanded Mr. Robe. There was more than a hint of petulance in his tone. ¡°Because it wasn¡¯t necessary, Mr. Robe,¡± replied Hobb urbanely. On the plain before them, the distant army of silvery steel, with multi-colored blobs of heavy cavalry in the vanguard, began to advance against the hasty siege lines. A disorganized smattering of Brassen infantry came out to meet them, but were swept aside. The pace of the action, viewed from the Rose Tower, was peculiarly slow. A thin cloud of horsemen spread out from either side of the main Uellish force, circling around toward the rear of the siege engines. ¡°Scout cavalry,¡± said Hobb approvingly. ¡°They¡¯ll fire the trebuchet parks while the main force is engaged. The Heavy Arms has adjusted its doctrine since Baldwick. ¡®House Fire,¡¯ they call it. Some sort of military joke.¡± Robe looked at him blankly, not getting it. Nearby, the signal flagger watching the city increased the pace of his arm-waving, and the man watching the plains began to gesticulate as well. The noise of the signal flags whipping through the air caught Hobb¡¯s attention, and he looked over at the two men. ¡°What are they on about?¡± asked Mr. Robe. Hobb strode quickly over to the southern windows of the observatory, and looked out over the well-planned neighborhoods and squares of Uellodon below. There was a commotion at the harbor. A large mass of small boats had entered, enough to cause a crowd even in Uellodon¡¯s spacious river port. The docks and streets beyond swarmed with human activity, painted in red and white and black with flecks of silver. Hobb quickly withdrew a telescoping spyglass from his pocket and peered through it. Then he lowered it, looking with his own eyes in horror at the distant scene. ¡°What is it?¡± asked Mr. Robe in agitation. Hobb did not answer him, but instead turned to the signal flagger. ¡°You, man! The Carolese are at the docks! Tell Watt to send a message to the Guard barracks to assemble at once in Justiciar Square!¡± The flagger ignored him. ¡°I speak for your King!¡± shouted Hobb. ¡°You must obey!¡± ¡°King¡¯s Eyes only, sir,¡± returned the man shortly. ¡°Can¡¯t take civilian messages. Already relayed the action at the docks to command.¡± And then he returned to his wild posturing with the flags. Hobb snorted in disgust, and trotted to the hatch downward. ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± asked Mr. Robe again. ¡°Who are the men at the docks?¡± ¡°Carolese,¡± snapped Hobb, flinging open the hatch. ¡°They¡¯ve got through the harbor chains and landed a force. If the Guard doesn¡¯t push them back, Hyden will have to build his own trebuchet just to get back into Uellodon.¡± Hobb scampered down the ladder, and began the laborious task of descending the four hundred steps that stood between him and relevance. ??? By the time he and Mr. Robe reached the base of the Rose Tower, Hobb was covered in sweat and his breath came laboriously. His legs shook like thin wire. He had to pause for several moments to catch his breath, his lungs heaving and burning. But he staggered forward again, making his way first to the royal apartments. Brushing aside the startled guard at the door, he burst into the King¡¯s chambers. ¡°Your Majesty!¡± he gasped. King Leeland III emerged from his bedchamber, still wearing his nightgown; but his eyes were alert and his movements vigorous. Hobb explained quickly, and Leeland wasted no time with further questions. He seized the breastplate from a suit of armor standing against one wall, shrugged it over his shoulders, and ordered his valet to fasten it on over the nightgown while they walked. Then, trailing the confused servant and an even more confused Mr. Robe, he and Hobb made their way to the stables. ¡°We¡¯ll need every man of the Republican Guard we can lay our hands on,¡± said the King. ¡°The Heavy Arms has only a small presence to protect their command staff, and the regular watch will be useless against soldiers. Will the Guard stand up to professionals?¡± ¡°They might,¡± said Hobb cautiously. ¡°The units are newly-formed from the People¡¯s Watch. There are plenty of them, but we¡¯ve trained them mainly for law enforcement, not organized combat. There are veterans among them, and some mercenaries. I can¡¯t predict¡ª¡± ¡°They¡¯ll have to do,¡± interrupted the King. They had reached the stables, where startled grooms quickly set about saddling the King¡¯s favorite destrier. Hobb gave instructions that his carriage be prepared as well. Leeland armed himself with a long hand-and-a-half sword of steel, and placed in his lance socket the black and gold standard of Uelland. Within minutes, they were on their way. Hobb took a deep breath as the carriage rattled through the streets of the city, still quiet in the early dawn. The people of Uellodon, doubtless awakened by the barrage of stones against the walls, were sheltering in their homes. Mr. Robe, sitting across from Hobb in the small compartment, looked about nervously, as if Carolese soldiers might boil out from the side streets at any moment. ¡°There¡¯s a Guard unit at the docks, Mr. Robe,¡± said Hobb. ¡°We have not been blind to the danger from the river. They should hold for a time.¡± A booming impact suddenly shook the carriage, and a massive boulder rolled across the street ahead of them, annihilating several houses in its path before coming to rest. ¡°We shall have to get that cleaned up,¡± remarked Hobb calmly, ¡°and add it to Queen Keleste¡¯s bill of damages. Take a note, Mr. Robe.¡± Mr. Robe took a note, as the carriage slowly picked its way around the debris. At the garrison of the Republican Guard, the scene was disorganized, but not chaos. These were policemen, after all, and policemen are rarely chaotic. The noise of the assault had awoken them, and most were dressed in their red uniforms and hats, armed with their long spears, clubs, and light crossbows. But the rank and file were milling about in small groups, fingering their weapons, adjusting their coats, and talking quietly without any obvious purpose or direction. They looked with surprise at the First Minister and the King as they swept into the garrison¡¯s courtyard. Hobb and King Leeland alighted from their transports, and Hobb led the way into the office of the commandant. He was found sitting at his desk, sipping at a cup of coffee and looking nervously at the walls. ¡°Major Bisking,¡± Hobb snapped. ¡°Assemble the complete cohort of the Guard at once. All able bodies. We are going to the docks. And we will discuss, at some later and more convenient time, why this had not been done before the King and I had to come and roust you ourselves.¡± Major Bisking¡ªwho, until a year ago, had been a mid-ranking functionary in the Department of Collections, and who had ascended to the lofty rank of Major of the Guard mainly by reporting more of his colleagues for corruption than anyone else¡ªleapt up from his desk and ran out of the room, shouting indignant orders at any underlings who happened to be nearby. King Leeland looked at Hobb with a raised eyebrow and a silent question. ¡°We are building the foundations of the Institution of the State entirely anew, Majesty,¡± replied Hobb apologetically. ¡°One must start with a certain amount of raw material as one shapes it into a neutral, disinterested body that serves the People and their Republic without fear or favor.¡± ¡°Exceedingly raw,¡± agreed the King, as they walked together back to the courtyard. ¡°He needs a bit of time to roast over a flame.¡± ¡°Major Bisking¡¯s principal virtue, Sire, is that he lacks any sense of long, instinctive tradition by which he might oppose the principals of democracy.¡± In the courtyard, the Republican Guard soon assembled into neat ranks. They wore red coats over white shirts with white crossed sashes, and their felt tricorn hats were a dark brown, trimmed also with white. They puffed out their chests and held their long spears straight, ignoring the light whip of rain around their faces. The Guard, whatever might be said of their efficacy in battle, were excellent at the task of standing in ranks with their spears held high. The officers¡ªall men¡ªgathered around King Leeland and Hobb. ¡°Gentlemen,¡± King Leeland addressed them. ¡°Uellodon is attacked on all sides¡ªby aggression from our neighbors and treachery from our own family. The Republic teeters on the edge of the sword. Our Heavy Arms are in the field against the Brassens, but it falls on us to repel the Carolese assault at the docks. We, and the National Assembly, and all the People require your service today, and we will honor you as heroes of the Republic, whether you fall or prevail. But any man who flees the field is a traitor and an enemy of the State, and I will cut him down myself.¡± The Guard officers shuffled nervously and looked at each other, but said nothing.Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. ¡°Very well,¡± said the King. ¡°We shall soon know whether the Republican Guard is made of iron or of butter. Go to your companies; follow me, and obey.¡± King Leeland turned to Hobb. ¡°Go back to the Palace, Hobb. It will be dangerous at the docks.¡± ¡°Majesty,¡± said Hobb cautiously, ¡°please come with me. It is as dangerous for you as for me, breastplate or none.¡± He lowered his voice. ¡°The people need a King, sire. He is the center of their identity as members of a nation. With Anne in rebellion in the north and the National Assembly still young, we cannot afford for the office to be vacant.¡± Leeland shook his head. ¡°Go, Hobb,¡± he said. ¡°If I fall, you have my son. Take care that he is not stolen from us again.¡± And with that he turned and rode out of the courtyard. The Guard fell in behind him in a neat line. Soon Hobb and Mr. Robe were left alone in the empty courtyard, being damp in the rain. ¡°Hadn¡¯t we better go, First Minister?¡± asked Mr. Robe. ¡°The King was quite specific.¡± Hobb nodded slowly and made his way to the carriage. The driver looked down at him questioningly. He was a new man, recently promoted to the job from the kitchens. He wore a sober black suit and a tall black hat with a narrow brim. His face was pale, and his eyes had an uncomfortable reddish cast to them. Hobb found his skin crawling under the man¡¯s gaze, but shrugged it off as a flash of distasteful irrationality. ¡°The palace,¡± said Hobb despondently, and climbed into the box. Somewhere, nearby, events were unfolding that would decide the outcome of a project to which he had devoted his entire life. And here was Hobb the Wise, riding in a comfortably padded carriage back to the palace to have a cup of tea while he waited for news. Finally, as they passed beneath the towering statues in Justiciar Square, he opened the hatch to the driver and called out. ¡°Turn around, man. Take us to the docks.¡± As the carriage slowed and turned laboriously, Mr. Robe looked at him in surprise. ¡°What are you doing, First Minister?¡± he demanded. ¡°We were told to go back to the palace!¡± ¡°I am the head of the civilian government of Uelland, Mr. Robe,¡± retorted Hobb caustically. ¡°We are in the capital of the Republic, which I am charged with protecting. I speak for the National Assembly and for all the People. And under the authority of the People, we are going to go and have a look at the docks.¡± Mr. Robe shifted uncomfortably, but said nothing else as the carriage rattled back to the southern quarter of the city. Hobb looked out the small window pensively, cupping his hands in a tent before his mouth. Hobb the Wise had never witnessed a battle up close, and was therefore unprepared for the noise. The clash of metal on metal, and the cries and screams of men whose bodies had been pierced by foreign objects, were a constant presence in the air around them. It sounded like a hundred pigs all being slaughtered at once, punctuated by a hundred smiths hammering at a mad pace. He shuddered, but clenched his buttocks and remained still within the carriage. The rain pounded on the roof. The driver reached a street at which he could go no further, and Hobb dismounted the vehicle. Ahead, a wall of red-clad figures faced away from him, thrusting their spears forward over the shoulders of their comrades. A hasty barricade of wagons and barrels stood between them and figures beyond, stretched between two buildings. Crossbowmen, perched in the windows of houses, shot down into the melee, and others were arranged in a rank behind, loosing bolts over the heads of their comrades in a ballistic arc. Hobb found he had no clue of the tactical situation. ¡°Wait here,¡± he instructed the driver, raising a broad umbrella against the rain. Mr. Robe also stayed put. Hobb went inside the nearest building and found his way up to the attic. The house was abandoned, any families that lived here having long since fled. Folding his umbrella, he moved to the southern window, opened the wooden slats, and looked out. The building he had selected was tall, and though it was not at the edge of the docks, his window had a view over the lower rooftops to the waterfront. This was swarming with men in white and gray uniforms, pressing forward away from their boats in a huge mass. The bolts of crossbows were thick in the air, and they added a hissing whine over the sound of the combat below. The line of white-clad invaders came to a ragged halt in the streets beyond the docks, where it was met by masses of red-clad men. The melee seemed to have swung back and forth, for there were white-clad figures beyond the lines of the Republican Guard, and red-clad figures nearer to the docks. Guardsmen and Carolese were perched in the windows and rooftops of the buildings on either side of the line, shooting back and forth at each other and at the men in the streets. At the line of division between the two sides, spears and swords were being thrust madly and hatefully into the bodies of the enemy, and men died in plentiful numbers. The Carolese were numerous and well trained. They moved in small, cohesive units, using the terrain of the city to hold the Guard in place while they circled around to attack from the flanks where they could. But the Guard were also numerous, and had the advantage of a defensive posture. To Hobb¡¯s untrained eye, the battle seemed static. His gaze swept the streets for the King, and found him at the eastern edge of the docks. The black and gold battle standard was plainly visible, and beneath it King Leeland III, sweeping his broadsword back and forth against the men on either side. A mass of red-clad Guardsmen protected his flanks and rear, but the King himself was set against the spears of the Carolese before him. He seemed to be pushing forward, and the street behind his company was well-fertilized with white-clad bodies. And then he fell. The destrier went down first, pierced by spears through the chinks in the armor on its breastplate and neck, and then the King was down beside it. The spears and swords of the Carolese flashed over his body in the gray light. The crowd of Republican Guard pushed forward for a moment, and then withdrew. He saw the battle standard being dragged back to the north, and with it a prone figure in a nightgown and a breastplate. Hobb hesitated, but only for a moment. In that moment he looked down at the struggle of men and nations and ideas, happening right there in the streets below him, and thought of how it might turn out. And then, without any more thought at all for his own part in it, he dashed down the stairs of the house and out the front door. He gestured madly in the direction of the carriage, but Mr. Robe was already gone. The driver, though, hopped down and followed him. Hobb reached the milling throng of red-clad Guardsmen, and saw the body of the King being pulled back from their midst. He was alive; his eyes fluttered, and he groaned. There was a large red stain on the nightgown below the breastplate, and another spreading from his shoulder. Around them, the men of the Republican Guard were beginning to turn. Seeing their King felled, they were wavering. They looked in fear back at the mass of death and pain in the streets. ¡°Take the carriage back there,¡± he said to the men carrying the King. ¡°Take His Majesty back to the palace, and have the physicians see to him at once.¡± And then, without waiting for an answer, he scooped up the battle standard and raised it high in the air again. ¡°Forward!¡± he cried. Hobb was a trained orator, and his frame was tall; his voice carried over the din. ¡°Forward! For your King, and the soil of your home, and the blood of your people! Forward and die if you must!¡± And he ran forward himself, against the tide of men streaming backward. It was an absurd sight, of course. Hobb was not a soldier; he was a politician, dressed in the sober, dark-gray suit and tie that was his own uniform. He did not know how to carry a battle flag, or how to comport himself in the face of men who wanted to kill him. The eyes of the Guard followed him more out of amazement than out of loyalty. But their eyes did follow him, and their ears heard him, and they saw the black and gold standard above. Their bodies and arms followed their eyes. If this frail, lanky old man with his flag could run toward the tight ranks of the invaders, screaming defiantly and awkwardly and sincerely, then so could they. As the Guard surged forward again, pressing the Carolese back with a thicket of long spears, Hobb made his way up onto a low barrel and stood there as if at a podium before an audience. He waved his standard and shouted¡ªwhat it was, he could not recall later¡ªand refused to budge from his spot. The driver stood next to him, and curiously, the man would every so often give Hobb¡¯s hips a gentle push, or a pull, adjusting his position ever so slightly. Not a single arrow or bolt found its way to the First Minister¡¯s body, which was remarkable given their abundance in the air above the battle. Slowly, step by step, the Guard advanced, and the Carolese retreated. Hobb was in a state of ecstasy, unable really to think or even to understand the tactical situation with any subtlety. He could only see that his side was moving forward, which was good. When the melee advanced beyond his street, he descended the barrel and walked forward among the Guard, still shouting hoarsely and waving the standard. The battle turned a corner, and Hobb went with it, walking the streets, screaming and waving and letting the odd carriage driver push him back and forth from time to time as the bolts of the enemy whizzed past. Eventually the Guardsmen parted to let him go toward the front. When he got there, he found that, in whatever length of time he had been waving his flag, two things had happened. First, his arms had grown quite tired. And second, the Carolese had fled back to their boats, abandoning the docks and retreating out into the Green River. The streets were choked with the bodies of the dead, but they were also choked with the living¡ªliving soldiers wearing red cloaks and white shirts and three-cornered hats, who had just this morning, before breakfast, become as hard as iron. Hobb handed the battle standard to Major Bisking, who had acquired a bandage over his head and one eye, and also an air of pride and confidence. And then the First Minister permitted his carriage driver to lead him back to the carriage, in which, as it rattled through the streets to the palace, he fell fast asleep. ??? ¡°Do you write, Boris?¡± ¡°I do.¡± ¡°In Uellish?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°Let¡¯s give you a test, then.¡± Hobb rose from behind his desk and strode briskly around his spacious study, thinking. The peculiar carriage driver sat quietly in a straight-backed chair before the desk, holding a quill over a sheet of hemp paper and listening attentively.
When the sun set yesterday (we¡¯ll adjust the date later) it laid night¡¯s black veil over all Uelland. But when light returned in the morning, it was not the accustomed gold and rose, but red. Red ran from the bodies of heroes, both without and within this city, and colored all the world around us. The soil of our fields and farms is red with the blood of the King¡¯s Heavy Arms, who routed the foul Brasen invaders at terrible cost to their own. The docks and the harbor are red with the blood of our own neighbors, who launched a treacherous and cunning attack from the river. And the streets of fair Uellodon are red with the blood of the Republican Guard, who found courage in their hearts and strength in their limbs to defend the people.Hobb paused, and went over to look at the driver¡¯s sheet of paper. Since the morning¡¯s excitement he¡¯d had a change of clothes and a cup of tea, both of which were marvelously energizing. ¡°Not bad. Not bad at all!¡± he enthused. ¡°Capitalize ¡®People.¡¯ And you misspelled ¡®Brassen,¡¯ but that¡¯s an easy mistake. No one has ever explained to my satisfaction why we must have two ¡®s¡¯-s in some words and just one in others. There was a time when spelling was a matter of personal taste, you know. Our great progress toward the uniform has, unfortunately, codified a certain amount of the irrational. Never mind. Your dictation is acceptable. Where did you learn?¡± Boris looked at him steadily from the chair, his pale red eyes unblinking. ¡°A schoolteacher in Hog Hurst taught me. Her name was Alice Miller.¡± Hobb frowned. The surname ¡®Miller¡¯ conjured up some unpleasant memories. But it was a common enough family name, being a common enough profession. ¡°You shall be my secretary, Boris, if you wish. You proved your loyalty at the docks, and I need loyal men around me. You shall accompany me to my meetings and take notes, and record my dictation when I wish it. I may have other errands for you as well. You will receive a stiped as a member of my personal staff; I believe it is considerably more than that of a carriage driver. Do you accept?¡± Boris nodded gravely. ¡°I accept, First Minster.¡± Hobb clapped him on the shoulder. ¡°Excellent. You¡¯ll be part of something greater than yourself, Boris. Greater than all of us.¡± ¡°Of that, I have no doubt,¡± replied his secretary. ??? Hobb took Boris with him to see the King. The sheets of Leeland¡¯s bed were stained a deep maroon, and there was a foul smell in the room. The King¡¯s short black hair was slick with sweat, and his face was pale. His chest rose and fell slowly. His nightgown had been removed, and there was a tight bandage around his abdomen, also stained red. A thin, pale man with a mustache, wearing a white smock over his crisp shirt, was taking the King¡¯s pulse as the First Minister and his secretary entered. Several attendants stood at hand. ¡°How is he?¡± asked Hobb, rather more out of form than out of any real curiosity. It was readily apparent that he was not well. The pale physician looked up at Hobb through bushy eyebrows. ¡°Gravely wounded, sir,¡± he answered. ¡°The spears pierced his intestines, and he is bleeding on the inside. He has lost a great deal of blood already.¡± ¡°Will he live?¡± asked Hobb, feeling his face blanch. The physician shrugged. ¡°I give him better than no odds at all. But if he is to have a chance to recover, we will have to replace some of his lost blood. It is immensely risky, and I must have you put in writing your approval. Yet without a transfusion, he will very likely die before sunrise tomorrow.¡± ¡°Why is it risky?¡± The doctor sighed. ¡°Because it only works about a quarter of the time. Some blood mixes well in a foreign body, and some causes further harm. No one has ever determined why, though there have been many theories. It seems to work more frequently among family members. Whoever uncovers the reason for it will save thousands of lives every year. But for now¡ªif King Leeland doesn¡¯t receive new blood so that his body has time to heal itself, I very much doubt he will live.¡± Suddenly the physician looked up, hope appearing in his eyes. ¡°His son!¡± the man gasped. ¡°Of course! Young Leeland is old enough to give some of his blood without weakening too much. I beg you, First Minister, summon him at once.¡± Hobb kept his face very still, but his mind raced through the implications of his possible responses. ¡°Is there a risk to the donor?¡± The doctor shook his head. ¡°Not unless you draw too much blood, too quickly. The prince will feel weak for several hours, but will recover. It is a pity Leeland has only one son.¡± In his own head, Hobb laughed uproariously. He turned to Boris. ¡°Go and tell Mr. Robe to fetch the Crown Prince, on my authority,¡± he instructed. ¡°The guard outside will show you to Robe¡¯s office. If the prince is unwilling, have him brought forcibly.¡± Boris nodded and departed. Hobb sat down to wait, wrestling in his mind with a terrible risk. For, of course, young Leeland¡¯s blood had nothing at all in common with the man lying in the bed. Hobb had known of King Leeland¡¯s views toward women for many years. He had arranged to spy on the King¡¯s bedchamber on his wedding night with Queen Anne, to see if the union would produce the necessary preconditions for biological offspring. It had not then, nor on any later night. The King was polite and correctly formal to his wife in public, but no child would be forthcoming. So, when a young Crown Knight with blond hair and deep blue eyes had turned the Queen¡¯s head, Hobb had discreetly encouraged the affair. He arranged for them to see each other socially. He placed the knight in command of her bodyguard. And when the young man began to use his position of trust to visit Queen Anne in secret, Hobb had smiled to himself, and arranged for the palace guard to be out of their way. In due course, Uelland had a presumptive heir to the throne, and everyone was happy. Until, to Hobb¡¯s enduring irritation, Queen Anne had fled Uellodon with her son and set herself up as a Queen in her own right in the north. Logwall had done his duty and returned with the boy¡ªbut now here was Hobb, about to endorse a blood transfusion between a young man and Uelland¡¯s king which stood no more chance of success than if it were Hobb¡¯s own blood. Young Leeland¡¯s face blanched when he arrived and saw the King¡¯s wounds, but when the physician explained the need and the procedure, he grimly rolled up his sleeve. ¡°Send word of any changes,¡± he instructed Boris. And then, trailing Mr. Robe, he walked briskly back to his office to make plans. ??? There was a note pinned to the door of Hobb¡¯s apartment when they returned. He snatched it down and read it.
My dear old boy. I got a look at your action at the docks. Irrationally brave for a man in his nineties, but you must spend some time composing your battlefield speeches in advance. You simply haven¡¯t the flare for spontaneous theatrics. ¡®Forward?¡¯ You sounded like a mercenary sergeant ordering his men to the mess tent. Still, you tried. How is the King? I pray his young lad won¡¯t be met with any unexpected promotions; I wonder greatly at his readiness for the position. There¡¯s a well-qualified lady in Green Bridge who¡¯d be keen for the job. I¡¯m terribly sorry to have missed you, but I left a surprise in your office. It is a preview of things to come. Yours truly, etc. WS, ChancellorHobb¡¯s face darkened, and he crumpled the note in his fist. Then he wordlessly strode into his office, glaring about for evidence of intrusion. Mr. Robe followed him. But the office was as Hobb had left it: not a pen out of place. Muttering curses under his breath, Hobb sat down firmly in the tall-backed oak chair at his writing desk. Then he sprang up again, howling in pain and clutching at his bottom. He withdrew therefrom a small, sharp pin with a round metal head, and flung it on the table. ¡°Puerile academic,¡± he growled. ¡°When I find that men, I¡¯ll have one of these inserted into each of his eyes.¡± Then, inspecting the seat of the chair carefully, he sat down again. It promptly collapsed. Hobb stood up from the wreckage, his face flushed. ¡°Mr. Robe,¡± he said, struggling to keep his breathing calm. ¡°Interview every member of the palace staff personally. I want to know when and how an intruder got access to my office, and then I want the man most responsible fired and put out on the street, along with ten of his closest friends.¡± ¡°First Minister,¡± Mr. Robe began to protest, ¡°I have many responsibilities in the Assembly, and there are hundreds¡ª¡± ¡°PERSONALLY!¡± roared Hobb, in all capitals. Then he fetched another chair from his bedroom, tested it carefully, placed it behind the desk, and sat down. As his gaze drifted to the surface of his beloved writing desk, it found there a small lump of some brown, resinous substance stuck squarely on the smoothly-stained surface. Upon closer inspection, this proved to be a wad of used chewing-gum. Hobb closed his eyes and took a deep breath. ¡°Let us consider the facts for and against us,¡± he said plainly. ¡°Mr. Robe, take this down.¡± He frowned in thought. ¡°The Brassens have been routed, and the Carolese pushed back. But the army¡¯s ranks are devastated, and morale is black.¡± Mr. Robe cocked his head quizzically for a moment, but then regained his composure. ¡°The King is gravely wounded,¡± Hobb went on, ¡°at the brink of expiration. The National Assemb¡¯ly alone cannot command the nation.¡± ¡°First Minister,¡± began Mr. Robe tentatively, but Hobb shushed him. Then he paused a moment, listening to something. ¡°No,¡± stated Hobb firmly. ¡°We¡¯re not having a song here. Now: The judges are against us, and they¡¯re all reactionaries. And the pretender in the north is making bold our adversaries.¡± He cleared his throat and paused. ¡°But we¡¯ve got an army of our own,¡± he continued, ¡°and now they¡¯re battle-tested. The Guard of the Republic has returned what we¡¯ve invested.¡± Hobb looked around desperately, unable to stop. Mr. Robe giggled, and then immediately drew his face into a stern scowl. He scribbled furiously on his tablet. ¡°It¡¯s the People undivided, Robe, on whom we must rely. They must see it¡¯s in their interest the Republic doesn¡¯t die!¡± ¡°Rhyming couplets are the lowest form of poetry, you know,¡± remarked Mr. Robe. ¡°The problem, Mr. Robe, is not my present oratory. The world is full of people focused on the transitory. If only the collective good were easier to see; we must make them all be less like them and more like me!¡± HOBB the WISE: Be more like me, Be more like me Let me break the chains of choice and set you free! Yes, we¡¯ve all got our frustrations, but have a little patience And entertain another possibility Be less like you and more like me! MR. ROBE: I¡¯m just like you, First Minister. But everyone else is so annoyingly different! HOBB: Take Anne, as an example, Her charms and wit are ample But they mask the cruel absolute of monarchy. Her ideas are absurd And they¡¯re dangerous if heard And it follows that she should be more like me. Be more like me Be more like me There¡¯s nothing else that¡¯s reasonable to be. It¡¯s either princess or pretender And there¡¯s no one who¡¯ll defend her She should be less like her and more like me. MR. ROBE: We are beset on all sides by wrong and unjust ideas. Some villain left one of them on your door. HOBB: The man who left that note Is of a kind with Cyrus Stoat And both of them are traitors to the Nation It¡¯s far too late for them to see That they should have been like me This story ends with their decapitation. Be more like me Be more like me It¡¯s the only thing that¡¯s legal now to be. If they cut against the grain It will only lead to pain They should be less like them and more like me. The fields are all full of foreign invaders The money¡¯s been robbed by unscrupulous traders The People are slaves to the rich upper classes The courts are all stocked with robe-wearing asses Criminals creep through the palace at night To leave asinine notes and then slink out of sight That girl in the north has some half-wits rebelling And a market¡¯s been found for the lies that she¡¯s selling Representative government, it seems, only works If you aren¡¯t representing self-interested jerks The King¡¯s on his deathbed, the prince is a boy And if all this weren¡¯t enough to annoy Me, the world is just crawling with men who can¡¯t see They should stop being them, and start being me! Be more like me Be more like me Just give up and see the person that you ought to be. When everyone conforms, Peace and justice are the norms, So go on, lay down the burden Of trying to be you¡ªwho? Be less like you and more like me. Be more like me! Chapter 21: The Trouble With Heroes October 3rd King Leeland¡¯s face was pale, and his eyes slightly unfocused¡ªbut his eyes were open. The bedclothes had been changed, and the odor of death had dissipated through the open windows of his bedchamber. The thin, nervous physician shuffled his feet and stared at his own hands as Hobb inspected Uelland¡¯s monarch. ¡°I¡¯m pleased to see you awake, Majesty,¡± began Hobb cautiously. The King blinked, and opened his mouth, then shut it again. At last he drew in a shuddering breath. ¡°Am I awake?¡± he asked. ¡°Assuredly,¡± replied Hobb. ¡°You are awake, and it is the third of October. The city is safe, for now. The Guard drove back the Carolese at the docks, and the Heavy Arms routed the Brassen siege¡ªthough I¡¯m told they themselves suffered heavy casualties.¡± Leeland stared at the ceiling, and said nothing. Hobb looked curiously at the physician. But the man would not meet his eyes. Crown Prince Leeland sat wordlessly by the bed, his face nearly as pale as the King¡¯s. The man Boris stood on the other side of the bed, a stubby pencil and writing tablet in hand. ¡°I saw you, Hobb,¡± said the King softly, slowly. ¡°There was a hole in a man¡¯s chest, and it was full of darkness, and it grew enormous and swallowed me up inside it. I saw your head in a basket, and it had a cable of twisted metal coming from it, and it asked me if I wanted any tea. I saw a great host of giant men, and serpents, and creatures made of steel. Richard Enderly was there.¡± He laid his head back and closed his eyes. ¡°His Majesty is very weak,¡± said the physician, finally meeting Hobb¡¯s eyes. ¡°He was unconscious for many hours, while I attended him, with your man Boris.¡± The physician¡¯s haunted glance drifted across the bed, to the pale-skinned secretary. ¡°I believe his body has accepted the Prince¡¯s blood,¡± the doctor continued, ¡°but it will be many weeks before we know if he will¡ fully¡ recover. He will need more transfusions.¡± Hobb turned to look at Prince Leeland, sitting beside the bed. ¡°Thank you, Highness,¡± he said. ¡°But for your bravery, and a bit of good fortune, the Republic would now be in graver danger than it was yesterday, with stones smashing at the walls.¡± Prince Leeland stood slowly, pressing a cloth bandage against one arm. He walked over to Hobb, and their eyes locked. ¡°I care less for your Republic, First Minister, than for the contents of the King of Brasse¡¯s chamber pot this morning.¡± The Prince¡¯s voice was soft, but there was a hint of steel within it. ¡°But I would rather my father not die just yet. I think you and I can agree on that, at least.¡± ¡°Your mother has filled your head with nonsense,¡± replied Hobb, his voice equally soft. ¡°Remember that she is not here, and if she does return it will be, at best, to make a permanent home in the Rose Tower. You should consider the circumstances of your own future.¡± Hobb turned and addressed the palace guards at the door to the King¡¯s bedroom. ¡°Escort the Prince back to his chambers,¡± he instructed shortly. ¡°Fetch him again if the King needs more of his blood. Boris¡ªfollow.¡± As his secretary obediently shuffled in front of the bed, the eyes of the physician and the prince lingered on his thin frame and bald, pale head. ¡°Your man was most helpful,¡± said the physician as they left. ¡°He has the hands of a healer.¡± But his voice had an edge of fear. In the bed next to him, King Leeland muttered restlessly in his sleep. ¡°What did you do?¡± asked Hobb curiously, as they walked through the corridors back to his own apartment. Boris shrugged. ¡°I did what was necessary,¡± he answered. ??? The days passed too swiftly, as they always did now. Hobb, who would rather have turned his thoughts to matters of high principle, instead busied himself with the endless, regenerating minutiae of feeding, protecting, and governing an entire nation. Grain and livestock supplies coming in from the countryside on Foregrub and Quimble caravans¡ªnow the lawful property of the Republic¡ªhad to be inspected and sorted and stored by the Interior Department. New taxes for the relief of the Poor and the defense of the Nation had to be organized and voted on in the National Assembly. The many wrongs of the sullen and reluctant criminal residue had to be righted. Of these last, there were many. An irritating spate of murders had flared up in the late summer, and dragged on into the fall. They were not the work of some twisted criminal genius, stalking the streets in a dark cape and a mask. They didn¡¯t even have the decency to be crimes of passion. Ordinary, unremarkable, working-class men simply walked into public places and attacked their fellow citizens at random. They used knives, or clubs, or rarely a rusty old spear or short sword. They flailed about themselves as best they could, crudely battering and stabbing the bodies of their victims until they were overwhelmed, and the Guard called to take them away to Hoel. No motive could be found. None could be made to admit to any relationship with each other. But all had heard of someone else who one day had picked up a knife and set out to end the lives of his neighbors. And they imitated one another, spreading like a disease through the city. The King¡¯s Bench was clogged with reactionaries and obsessed with procedure; King¡¯s Counsel could barely manage to convict one murderer per week. And so Hobb sent the cases to the new administrative tribunals, originally created to apply weight and purity regulations, where they were processed briskly. The offenders were sent back to Hoel, where they kept the hangmen occupied. He¡¯d once asked Attorney Killbride, King¡¯s Counsel, for his view of the plague of murders, interrupting a private briefing on the apparently eternal case of Foregrub & Quimble v. The Crown. ¡°I¡¯ve never seen anything like it, First Minister,¡± Killbride replied. ¡°Not in thirty years of practice. It¡¯s like they¡¯ve¡ given up. A man who¡¯s got something to live for doesn¡¯t walk into a market, sober as a priest, and start stabbing whoever¡¯s closest. Not one of them has any explanation for himself, other than that it seemed the last thing to do.¡± Hobb had shrugged, and signed a dozen more execution orders while Killbride droned on about the latest motion to dismiss the Foregrub case. But his mind, reluctant to come to terms with an offense against reason, searched for a theory. On the seventh of October, General Sir Thomas Howe arrived in Uellodon and came to pay his respects to the First Minister and King. Hobb received him in the small audience chamber, along with Mr. Robe and three of the more influential Assemblymen. Boris sat in one corner, taking notes on the meeting. It was raining loudly outside the thick glass windows of the chamber, and Sir Thomas was still rather damp as he seated himself. He was a younger man, only in his early thirties, with thick, dark, wavy hair and a sober but well-proportioned face. He was not especially tall or muscular, but he moved with the steady confidence of a man who has seen more battles than birthdays. ¡°What plans have been made if the King should pass?¡± asked the general, after the opening pleasantries had been conquered, and everyone had been served tea. ¡°His Majesty is improving every day!¡± declared Mr. Wentley-Wastings of Upper Bethoot, rather loudly. ¡°I¡¯ve heard he¡¯ll address the Assembly in another week!¡± ¡°I just came from visiting the King,¡± replied Sir Thomas gravely. ¡°He looks like he¡¯s trapped somewhere between life and death. He can barely speak. So I ask you again: What plans have been made for the succession? Is there a will?¡± Hobb nodded slowly. ¡°There is,¡± he said. ¡°His son is the heir, of course. The Crown¡¯s lands and assets are to be held in trust by a committee to be appointed by the Assembly, and the Crown¡¯s executive power will be held and exercised by a Cabinet to be approved by the same, with certain powers delegated to rulemaking bodies appointed by the Cabinet ministers¡ª¡± ¡°A committee?¡± interrupted Sir Thomas¡ªquietly, but irresistibly. ¡°A cabinet? Rulemaking bodies? First Minister, forgive my candor, but the power of the Crown rests in the body that wears it, whatever counselors he may choose to listen to. The oaths of the Heavy Arms¡ªand the loyalty of the King¡¯s subjects¡ªare to the person of the King. We are held together, as a people, by personal love and personal duty. Only a lawful succession will ensure that loyalty continues. There may be a regent if needed, though Prince Leeland is nearly old enough to do the job, with good advisors. But the succession must be clear. ¡°I came south to tell you¡ªto tell the King¡ªthat the landowners of the Great Basin have called a moot in Roosterfoot. It will begin in two weeks. There has not been a landowners¡¯ moot without a royal writ since the rebellion against Bloody Maude, but there will be one now. The understanding among the landowners is clear¡ªthey intend to declare whether they will support the King, or Anne.¡± Mr. Robe cleared his throat. ¡°That would be treason,¡± he said flatly. ¡°Even to gather for that purpose would be treasonous. They will all hang.¡± ¡°If that outcome were certain¡ªor even likely¡ªthen we would not be having this conversation,¡± replied Howe with a touch of acid. ¡°I know these people, gentlemen. They are my neighbors. The landowners of the Great Basin are not idealists or revolutionaries. They are farmers in the main, and they want to go on farming with as little bother as possible¡ªbut a great many believe deeply in the value of a strong and just king. That they feel compelled to gather in moot means that at least some of them see a choice between you and Anne as unavoidable. And if the person sitting on the throne is a boy who has obviously and permanently been stripped of power by an unrecognizable political body¡ªwell, another monarch is on offer.¡± ¡°What do you think, General Howe?¡± asked Mr. Knickling of Towley. He was taking a turn as the Speaker of the Assembly this month. ¡°Where will your loyalties lie? Speak freely, sir; Mr. Robe¡¯s threat of a trip to the gallows need not trouble us here.¡± Sir Thomas Howe stared hard at the Speaker. ¡°Whatever threats Mr. Robe has to offer, and whatever amnesty you promise, sir, would not change my opinion,¡± he replied, his voice colder than the rain outside the window. ¡°I swore an oath to the King, and it is an oath I will not break¡ªnot for gold or foes or any variety of politician. When Leeland III dies, I presume his son will be Leeland IV. When the happens, I have no doubt that I, and the Crown Knights, and what remains of the Heavy Arms, will all renew their oaths to the new king, and to the Kingdom he protects.¡± Sir Thomas rose to his feet then, his tea untouched. ¡°That is all the news I came here to deliver, gentlemen,¡± he said. ¡°If you will excuse me, I must report to the barracks, and to General Watt.¡± Hobb walked the knight-general out to the main doors of the palace. As they passed through the Grand Ballroom, he turned to look at his companion. ¡°The King needs your loyalty, General Howe,¡± he said. ¡°You will attend the Moot as a delegate, I presume?¡± Sir Thomas nodded shortly, but said nothing. ¡°Fortunate,¡± remarked Hobb. ¡°Your support will convince them to declare for the rightful king. You will receive new orders from His Majesty. I¡¯ll have them delivered to the barracks this evening. Don¡¯t let General Watt talk you into taking up a commission, Howe; you¡¯ll do far more good for your king in the Moothall than on the battlefield.¡± They reached the doors. Sir Thomas¡¯s eyes glittered with suppressed rage as he regarded Hobb. ¡°See that those orders are properly signed, First Minister,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯m well acquainted with Leeland¡¯s signature.¡± Hobb indulged in a bit of seething at Sir Thomas¡¯s back as the officer walked to his carriage. Howe was a useful tool, if an unwilling one. Men who fancied themselves honorable always were. On the way back to his apartments, crossing through Begley Gallery, Hobb encountered Mr. Killbride and another lawyer, walking in the opposite direction. Both wore the sober, dark suits that comprised the uniform of their profession, and the small silver medallion of the sword and shield stood out prominently over each man¡¯s cravat. Killbride¡¯s companion was rather slight in frame, with curly black hair and handsome features. Hobb recognized him: a young attorney who had made a nuisance of himself before the King¡¯s Bench. He¡¯d been one of Stoat¡¯s companions, as well, but Hobb had never found charges that would stick. The man was too slippery. Snort was the name, he recalled. Hobb snorted. ¡°Mr. Killbride,¡± he said frostily, ¡°I can¡¯t imagine what business this vulture has in Palace Naridium.¡± Killbride managed to look a bit guilty himself, but straightened up to address Hobb. ¡°Pre-trial conference, First Minister,¡± he explained. ¡°I¡¯ve had a bit of a busy morning, and Mr. Snort was kind enough to come meet me here.¡± Hobb scowled suspiciously. ¡°Pre-trial conference? For what trial?¡± ¡°Foregrub,¡± answered Killbride. ¡°The High Court issued an opinion this morning on our motion to dismiss the matter on jurisdictional grounds, and I¡¯m afraid it was denied. Judge Blackstaff has scheduled a hearing later this morning to set a trial date.¡± ¡°Actually,¡± added Snort, ¡°if I¡¯m not mistaken, it¡¯s in about half an hour. We¡¯d best be on our way, Mr. Killbride.¡± ¡°Show me the order,¡± snapped Hobb. Killbride reached into his leather case and withdrew several sheets of paper, printed neatly with block letters. Hobb snatched it from him. ¡°First Minister!¡± protested the attorney. ¡°That¡¯s the original order! You can¡¯t¡ª¡± Hobb turned away from him abruptly. ¡°I¡¯m going to file an appeal,¡± he said, making for the passage leading to the royal apartments. ¡°It won¡¯t take long. In fact, I expect a decision to be rendered instantly. Wait here, Killbride.¡± The First Minister stormed through the halls of the apartment wing, muttering darkly. At his own apartments, he paused only long enough to collect Boris. ¡°Go and fetch Robe,¡± he snapped to his secretary. ¡°He should be in with the National Assembly. Drag him off the podium if you have to.¡± As Boris hurried away down the corridor in the opposite direction, Hobb strode briskly to the King¡¯s apartments, slowly gathering his composure and his composition. When he arrived, the King was awake, resting in his bed. Hobb bowed swiftly but deeply, and then sat down at the King¡¯s own writing table. ¡°What are you doing?¡± asked Leeland, rather faintly. ¡°Protecting the food supply from profiteers and swindlers, Majesty,¡± answered Hobb shortly. He pulled out the High Court¡¯s order from his pocket, turned it over, and wrote on the back:
WHEREAS a shortage of food and necessary supplies has in the recent past threatened the security of the People of the Nation; and WHEREAS the said food shortage also threatens to induce civil unrest during a time of war, in which the Nation is invaded by the People¡¯s enemies; and WHEREAS it is therefore in the Crown¡¯s interest to supply food and other necessaries to the People and to the armies of the Nation; and WHEREAS the Crown has lawfully assumed control of the businesses of Messrs. Foregrub & Quimble for these rightful purposes; THEREFORE the order of the High Court is REVERSED, and the above captioned lawsuit brought by Messrs. Foregrub & Quimble is DISMISSED with no possibility of appeal; and FURTHERMORE it is ORDERED that all right and title to the property and trade rights formerly owned by Messrs. Foregrub and Quimble shall be transferred to and vest exclusively and irrevocably in the REPUBLIC OF UELLAND; and FURTHERMORE it is ORDERED that the King¡¯s Bench and High Court, having willfully and grossly misapplied the obvious and correct law, are hereby SUSPENDED until further notice.¡°Kindly sign this, sire,¡± he said to the recumbent King, presenting him with the paper. Leeland glanced over Hobb¡¯s writing, then wearily scrawled his name at the bottom. ¡°Could have sworn I signed this last year,¡± he muttered. ¡°Just a minor technicality,¡± replied Hobb urbanely, pressing the royal seal onto a lump of soft, red wax on the paper. ¡°A little something required by the courts. Thank you, sire; I shan¡¯t bother you any further today.¡± As he left the room, he added the date: 7th October, III Leeland:15. Hobb found Mr. Robe and Boris waiting for him outside the King¡¯s apartments. ¡°Witness this,¡± he demanded, thrusting the paper at Mr. Robe. ¡°But I just got here,¡± protested Robe. ¡°I didn¡¯t see¡ª¡± ¡°Just sign it, you twit,¡± said Hobb in exasperation. ¡°I¡¯m coming out of the King¡¯s bedroom, and that¡¯s the King¡¯s signature. The ink is still damp. I¡¯ve had quite enough mindless formalism for one day, and it isn¡¯t even lunchtime yet.¡± Mr. Robe obediently signed as a witness, and then Hobb added his own signature. ¡°Now then, Mr. Robe,¡± he said. ¡°Take this piece of paper to the barracks of the Republican Guard. There you will fetch a squadron of soldiers, and go on to the Old High Court. Present the order to Judge Blackstaff. If he fails to obey it, arrest him for treason.¡± Mr. Robe started to walk away, but then paused and looked over his shoulder. ¡°What will you do?¡± he asked. ¡°I,¡± said Hobb, ¡°am going to have tea at the top of the Rose Tower, where I can have a good view of the legal proceedings.¡± ??? The troop of Republican Guard looked disappointingly small as it crawled slowly toward the Old High Court on the ground below. Hobb sat down at a table of dark-stained oak in the observatory just below the rooftop deck of the Rose Tower and poured a cup of tea. He¡¯d brought the tea himself in a light ceramic flask. The open room at the top of the tower was light and airy, well-appointed with comfortable chairs and couches, a fireplace, and a small bar. But Hobb was alone; few with the privilege to be in the observatory would bother to climb the hundreds of steps to reach it. He sipped at the tea and peered out of the broad, glass-paned windows. Then, grumbling slightly, he opened one of the windows and raised a pair of field glasses to his face. The wind gusted in and stung his eyes, but the view was clearer. The Guardsmen had reached the Old High Court now. Through the magnified lenses, Hobb could pick out Mr. Robe at their lead. He watched in satisfaction as the soldiers passed between the two garish bronze statues, then filed into the front door of the castle-like structure. There was a step behind him. He turned; it was Prince Leeland. The young man¡ªtall now, for he had sprouted early, his head crowned by a mop of straw-blond hair¡ªhad just emerged from the great stair. Hobb stood up and bowed, placing the field glasses on the windowsill. ¡°Your Highness,¡± he said. ¡°I didn¡¯t think to see you here in the Observatory.¡± ¡°It¡¯s the only place I¡¯m permitted to go on my own, where I can see Uellodon,¡± answered the thirteen-year-old Crown Prince rather tartly. ¡°And I heard there would be something to see just now.¡± ¡°Oh?¡± asked Hobb. He narrowed his eyes. ¡°From whom did you receive this information?¡± Prince Leeland shrugged as he walked up to the open window, standing next to Hobb. ¡°I¡¯m sure you know all my friends, First Minister,¡± he answered. ¡°If not, ask one of your people in the Security Bureau. They follow me constantly. Only they can¡¯t be very discreet on the Tower stair¡ªmy minder is about thirty steps down, trying to catch his breath. It¡¯s Pigmunk today.¡± ¡°I shall have him put on a fitness regime,¡± replied Hobb dryly. ¡°And I¡¯m afraid you¡¯ll be disappointed by the activity in the streets. Nothing interesting at all.¡± ¡°Oh? A squad of your Republican Guard isn¡¯t on its way to dissolve the King¡¯s Bench?¡± ¡°Well, yes, but that¡¯s not very interesting.¡± The Prince shrugged, and picked up the glasses that Hobb had left on the windowsill. ¡°Speak for yourself. I should think the moment a kingdom¡¯s constitution is destroyed would be worth watching in person.¡± He put the glasses to his eyes. This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work. Hobb scowled at his companion. ¡°You have much to learn, Highness, and you¡¯ve already wasted considerable time learning the wrong things. I must have a word or two with your tutor.¡± ¡°You¡¯ll have to catch him first,¡± replied the Crown Prince, lowering the glasses and smirking at Hobb. Hobb looked at him sharply and started to open his mouth, but then noticed a change in the Prince¡¯s expression. He followed the young man¡¯s intent stare out the window, through the streets below, across Justiciar Square, and up to the doors of the Old High Court. ¡°Give me those,¡± Hobb said to Leeland, grabbing for the field glasses. ¡°No!¡± said his companion sharply, jerking them out of reach. ¡°I¡¯m the prince. I get to look through the glasses. Anyway, you said it wasn¡¯t interesting.¡± ¡°I¡¯m the First Minister!¡± shot back Hobb, grabbing one of the two barrels of the instrument. ¡°I get to look through the glasses! And it¡¯s not interesting at all, so give them back to me.¡± He yanked¡ªbut the teenaged noble was strong. A tug-of-war ensued, which eventually concluded with each man peering through one barrel of the glasses, their heads pressed side by side. ¡°Is that Maxime Robe?¡± asked Leeland. ¡°Yes, I think it is,¡± replied Hobb, feeling a twinge of apprehension. ¡°Why is he running away from the courthouse? And is that blood?¡± ¡°I think it¡¯s just how he¡¯s wearing his hat.¡± ¡°No, it¡¯s blood. You can see it all over his shirt.¡± ¡°Well¡ªmaybe it¡¯s not his blood.¡± ¡°There¡¯s a Guardsman. Running away. And another one.¡± ¡°What the devil are they running from! And where are the rest of them?¡± ¡°Maybe they got into trouble with the law.¡± Hobb glared witheringly at his companion, but Leeland took that opportunity to abscond with the field glasses, pressing them to both his eyes with a gleeful smile. Hobb, salvaging his dignity, gave up and peered out the open window with unaided vision. A trickle of Republican Guard made its way out of the Old High Court, and a gathering flow of ant-like people began making its way in the opposite direction, into the building. The miniscule figure of Mr. Robe, meanwhile, reached the nearby Guard Barracks and disappeared inside. Several minutes passed, as Hobb watched Justiciar Square anxiously. ¡°I think your Guardsman had the worst of it,¡± reported Leeland. ¡°They¡¯re coming out, now, and they look bloodied.¡± ¡°They¡¯re your Guardsman too, Highness,¡± snapped Hobb. ¡°The Republican Guard guards the Republic of Uelland, of which you will one day be the Executive and Head of State.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t want the Guard,¡± said Leeland callously. ¡°Father can take them all with, when he goes. I¡¯ll disband the whole lot. Your National Assembly, too. Give me the Crown Knights and the Heavy Arms, and I¡¯ll be the best King Uelland¡¯s ever had.¡± ¡°I¡¯m afraid you do not, and will not, have the authority¡ª¡± ¡°Wait,¡± interrupted Hobb¡¯s future King. ¡°There¡¯s something happening at the barracks.¡± Leeland looked up at Hobb. ¡°And it¡¯s interesting.¡± Hobb peered down at the squat barracks. Well-ordered ranks of red-clad soldiers were spilling out of the courtyard, moving at double-time through the streets toward Justiciar Square. Hobb and the Crown Prince watched in silence as they slowly trickled toward their destination, then spread out and encircled the building and the square around it in with pockets of red. Hobb¡¯s face blanched. ¡°I believe they mean to attack the Old High Court,¡± remarked Leeland. ¡°No. Absolutely not,¡± said Hobb adamantly. ¡°They¡¯re forming up in the square,¡± said the Prince. ¡°And they have spears. You¡¯re about to have the blood of a few hundred more people on your hands, Hobb. But after all those priests you drowned, what¡¯s a handful of judges and lawyers? It¡¯s only the historians that keep score after the first hundred.¡± Hobb raised his fist to strike the Prince; but then he thought better of it and lurched toward the opening leading to the stairs down. And, for the second time in the month of October, he ran at full speed down the stairs of the Rose Tower. By the time he reached Begley Gallery, his heart was pounding and his breath was coming in feeble gasps. His legs wobbled as if they were made of butter. But he did not fetch a servant, or stop to rest. Instead, he hobbled down to the stables, waved to one of the coachmen, and threw himself face-first into his carriage. ¡°The barracks,¡± he managed to gasp at the puzzled coachmen. And then, as the vehicle rattled forward into the streets, he threw up on the upholstered seat across from him. By the time they reached the Guard barracks, Hobb had regained some of his composure, though none of his tea. He tottered out of the carriage and went to find Major Bisking. ¡°Call it off!¡± he thundered, with as much thunder as he still possessed. ¡°Call it off?¡± asked the portly commander blankly. ¡°The attack on the court! Call it off!¡± ¡°But they set upon our soldiers,¡± whined Bisking. ¡°They killed a man. And anyway, Mr. Robe ordered it.¡± ¡°Well, I¡¯m un-ordering it,¡± fumed Hobb. ¡°Send someone to tell them to stop.¡± ¡°We¡¯ll do nothing?¡± asked Major Bisking incredulously. He turned and walked around his desk, motioning for an aide. ¡°They beat up my soldiers, they killed a man, and we¡¯re going to sit on our behinds and have a cup of tea?¡± ¡°No,¡± said Hobb, shaking his head vigorously. ¡°We are going to have a cup of tea, but it will be at the trial. Every one of the traitors in that courthouse will be tried before the new courts, convicted, and sentenced as justice requires. But your men are not going to storm in there in broad daylight and start stabbing. Set up a perimeter around the Old High Court; no one goes in or out. Let them surrender when they run out of food and water. Go! Send your messenger!¡± Bisking hurried out of the office, shouting orders. Hobb collapsed in a chair and put his head in his hands. But it was only for a moment. He sprang up again and dashed back out to where his carriage waited in the street. ¡°Justiciar Square!¡± he snapped to the driver. ¡°Now!¡± The scene at the square was surprisingly subdued. Small pockets of red-clad soldiers were stationed at regular intervals, watching the high, castle-like walls of the courthouse. The square itself was clear of people, though a large, curious crowd was milling about beyond the perimeter. Mr. Robe met him at the approach. His head was bandaged, and his face was pale beneath the wrappings. ¡°How bad is it?¡± asked Hobb. ¡°Leave a scar, I expect,¡± said Robe. ¡°Some lawyer smashed a pitcher of water on me. It was one of the ringleaders¡ªSnort. The one with the pretty face.¡± Hobb clapped him on the shoulder. ¡°Heroes of the Republic have to pick up a scar or two, Robe,¡± he said. ¡°We want no more heroes here,¡± said Mr. Robe sullenly. ¡°A man who sees a hero sees one person who did something, some so-called individual. He thinks that he too could do something, all on his own. It¡¯s a story; a dark illusion that divides the great mass of the People into tiny, helpless individuals, enslaving men to the social machinery of class and clan and wealth. If the People are to be free and sovereign in their collective Will, First Minister, then they must have a collective Will, not some bare majority of self-interested individuals. So give us fewer heroes¡ªor better, no heroes at all.¡± Hobb cocked his head curiously at his aide. ¡°Is that from my one of my speeches?¡± he asked. Robe shook his head. ¡°No. It¡¯s just what I wanted to say. Shall I put it in your next address to the Assembly?¡± Hobb thought about that for a moment, then shook his head. ¡°Leave it out, I think.¡± ??? The next day, with matters at the courthouse unchanged, Hobb the Wise travelled to Hoel to see a demonstration of a new machine. With him went Mr. Robe, Chancellor Wembley Pearsy of the New Academy, and Boris. ¡°It is a great advancement in efficiency,¡± said Mr. Robe with confidence. ¡°Conveniently, demand for its output has increased tenfold.¡± Hobb said nothing, but looked out the window at the river to the south. ¡°I am told,¡± said Pearsy cautiously, ¡°that it promises also to greatly reduce suffering and mitigate pain.¡± The Chancellor wore a brown sport coat over gray pants, an off-white shirt, and a faded green tie with noticeable food stains. His gray hair and beard were wildly unkempt, sticking out in all directions like the rays of an unsightly star. Though the man apparently considered his appearance something of a fashion statement, Hobb merely found it embarrassing and unprofessional. He wondered, for the thousandth time, how Beatrice Snugg had ever come to marry Wembley Pearsy¡ªand then suppressed a twinge of the old, sharp, enduring grief. It didn¡¯t matter now. She was dead. He had loved her from the shadows of his heart, and now she was dead. He looked again at the vast river beside the road. Somewhere in that river, there was a man who Hobb had come to think of as a friend, even in the very moment he¡¯d kicked his bound body over the edge of a small dinghy to drown. That didn¡¯t matter now either. He snapped his mind back to the present, and gazed wearily at the empty, brown water of the river. It was just a river. When they arrived at Hoel, there were three prisoners waiting in the yard just inside the gates, tended by soldiers in red uniforms. A sharp wind blew across the bare, brown earth, prompting Hobb to draw his coat tightly against his chest. The prisoners were chained together, wearing miserable rags and miserable expressions. Their feet were bare, and they shuffled back and forth in the cold. Near the men stood a machine. There was a bench, about the right width and length for a man to lie on. Next to it was what appeared to be a miniature catapult. A long throwing arm was connected to a shaft, suspended between two stout posts. A thick rope and winch held the arm pressed back against a bar behind the shaft, bent under heavy tension and pinned in place. But in place of the basket of a catapult, there was a large, thick blade with a wickedly sharp edge. There came a whispering in the wind that tickled at Hobb¡¯s mind. He shook his head and focused on the odd machine. ¡°This is it, is it?¡± he asked skeptically. ¡°It looks like a deranged siege engine.¡± ¡°It is,¡± confirmed Pearsy. ¡°One of the faculty in the College of Engineering has been working on it for months.¡± He looked cautiously at Hobb. ¡°Professor Yute is a true exemplar. Used to be a bricklayer, but he won the lottery to receive an Equity Professorship. He incorporates the principles of democracy and social progress into all of his designs.¡± ¡°How is he as an engineer?¡± asked Hobb. ¡°Superlative,¡± answered Pearsy confidently. ¡°He exposed a plot among the other Engineering faculty to apply elitist mathematics and unjust building materials to repair the bridge at the north gate of the city. We had all their stipends cancelled for a month, and they each had to teach three lectures naked, just like their naked social imperialism. Now all the designs coming out of the College of Engineering are extremely just.¡± The whispering tugged at Hobb¡¯s mind again. ¡°Get on with it,¡± he said, gritting his teeth. Mr. Robe nodded at one of the guards, who, with a companion, selected a prisoner. They unchained the man and led him to the bench, where he was made to lie down. ¡°Witness,¡± said Mr. Robe, ¡°the democratization of criminal justice.¡± Then he cleared his throat and raised his voice. ¡°Alistair Gort! You have been lawfully convicted of economic crimes against the People of Uelland by the People¡¯s Courts: to wit, selling adulterated goods; dealing in unauthorized markets; fleeing lawful arrest; and destroying evidence. Your actions weakened and divided the Nation when strength and unity were most needed. The National Assembly has prescribed the lawful sentence for these acts, which we hereby¡ execute.¡± Robe nodded at one of the Republican Guard, who nervously gripped a handle protruding from one side of the shaft on the machine. The soldier stepped back, crouched slightly, and pulled the handle. With an enormous twang, the throwing arm released, whipping up and forward and down. The blade descended on the neck of the prisoner. But not all worked as Professor Yute intended, or so Hobb supposed. The throwing shaft caught on something inside the machine, jerking to a halt after it had already begun the work of severing neck from head. Mr. Gort, lying on the bench, gurgled helplessly and twitched. Robe jerked his head at the Guardsman, who drew a knife and set about finishing the job. Hobb scratched his head, regarding the gruesome shambles before him. ¡°What, exactly, is the problem we¡¯re trying to solve here?¡± he asked. ¡°How is this more efficient than a noose, or a headsman?¡± ¡°Hanging a man is a difficult task,¡± said Chancellor Pearsy. ¡°It takes years of experience to get it right consistently. If the length of the rope is wrong, the prisoner will either strangle to death slowly, or the head will pop off. And an axeman is even worse; half the time, it takes three or four swings just to sever the head. The Yute Device here makes the whole process much more economically just. Any man on the street can use it, without any training at all.¡± Hobb looked skeptically at the Guardsman busily sawing off a man¡¯s head with his knife. ¡°I¡¯m not sure we¡¯re really solving the problem,¡± he remarked. ¡°It should have worked this time,¡± replied Pearsy defensively. ¡°Yute¡¯s credentials are impeccable. It¡¯s not fair that it didn¡¯t work.¡± Mr. Robe turned to the soldiers and the two remaining prisoners. ¡°Keep working on it until you get it right,¡± he said. ¡°There will be a great many customers on the way soon.¡± Hobb fancied he detected a hint of skepticism in the faces of the Guardsmen, but after a moment they shrugged and hauled another man over to the bench. The First Minister turned away and made for the gates of the keep. Mr. Robe, Chancellor Pearsy, and Boris followed along after him. The whispering grew louder as they approached the stone structure. Hobb thought he could almost pick out words. He looked around cautiously at his companions, but none of them gave any indication that they heard anything unusual. Only Boris¡¯s red-tinged eyes twinkled with some unspoken thought. ¡°I want to get a few hours of work done here,¡± announced Hobb, making for the offices on the first floor reserved for visiting officials. ¡°Boris, come with me. You other two do as you wish; we¡¯ll return to Uellodon around midday.¡± Hobb tried for half an hour to work through a stack of administrative appeals and price adjustment requests, but the uncomfortable whispering eventually grew too distracting. ¡°Where is that coming from?¡± he muttered, standing up. ¡°Boris¡ªfill in the rest of these yourself. I¡¯m going to take a walk.¡± He left the office and walked out into the low, dim hall of the keep. The two staff at the desk in the foyer stood up sharply when he walked past, but he ignored them. Instead, he followed the whispering as it grew louder. It led him to a thick, oak door at one side of the hall. ¡°What¡¯s down here?¡± he asked over his shoulder at the desk staff. ¡°The lower levels, First Minister,¡± said one of them nervously. ¡°I shouldn¡¯t go down there, if I were you; it¡¯s quite unpleasant. They¡¯ve been repairing the aqueduct from the river, and there¡¯s been a bit of spillage.¡± ¡°Is it unsafe?¡± Hobb asked. ¡°Oh no!¡± replied the man hurriedly. ¡°Everything¡¯s perfectly safe. The prisoners are all locked up. It¡¯s just¡ a bit damp. Dark. Let¡¯s be honest, sir; it¡¯s a dungeon. Post duty on the lower levels is one of those things the guards gamble with when they¡¯ve run out of cash.¡± Hobb shrugged. ¡°I¡¯ve been in damp places before,¡± he said, opening the door. He removed a torch from a nearby wall socket and descended. The dungeons were indeed damp and dark, with a miasma clouding the air and the sounds of human suffering all around. There were puddles of water in the floor from the leaking aqueduct, which in ancient times had brough water to keep the Hoel supplied during sieges. The cells were well stocked with miscreants paying their debts to society, or waiting to do so. The occasional guard, slouching in lesser misery, stood to attention instantly when Hobb appeared. Hobb took it all in, and then put it back out again. He wasn¡¯t here for the atmosphere. The voice led him down. He passed through the first deep of the dungeon, and then the second. His boots were soon soaked through from the standing water on the floor. At the third deep, there were no more stairs to descend. The air here was particularly foul, and the walls were damp with condensation. There was a rank odor of mildew, along with all the rest of the unpleasant smells of long-neglected humanity. There was also the faint whiff of an odd, metallic smell that he couldn¡¯t identify. Hobb pressed a cloth to his face, moving through the long halls to the back of the level. ¡°Pardon, sir,¡± said the lone guard on duty at the back of the grid of cells. ¡°We don¡¯t go further than this. There are no prisoners back there.¡± Hobb peered over the guard¡¯s shoulder at a dark opening in the wall. ¡°What¡¯s back there?¡± he asked. ¡°Old cells¡ªbut they¡¯re unusable. Some of them have collapsed, and most of the doors are too rusty to hold a man in.¡± The whispers in his head grew louder. They were demanding, insistent. ¡°Let me past,¡± said the First Minister. The guard obediently stood aside. He took a fresh torch from the guard¡¯s supply, and walked into the opening. Hobb was alone in the dark, now; his torch barely lit enough of the passage for him to see where to place his feet. He walked forward, refusing to be afraid. Hobb was a man of reason and social science, after all. He knew that it is irrational to fear the dark. At the back, in one particularly disgusting cell, he saw a faint light coming from the floor. Here, said the whispers. Come here. Hobb set the torch on the floor and heaved away the rubble that blocked the light. But he found that the fallen iron gate was too heavy for him. He made his way back to the guard post, where the guard snapped to attention again. ¡°Bring me a prisoner,¡± he said. ¡°And three more guards.¡± Come here, said the whispers. But Hobb waited patiently while the guard returned with more companions, and one miserable, bearded man. Then he led the small company to the place in the floor where he¡¯d seen the light. ¡°Clear out that cell,¡± he instructed. They set about the task. Soon the door was removed, and fallen bricks cleared away. There was a hole in the floor, neatly regular, with stone steps leading downward. A raised lip of stone around the floor kept the standing water from the aqueduct from flowing down into it. The steps seemed to be sized for someone with extremely long legs. ¡°Prisoner first,¡± he said. ¡°Then guards. I¡¯ll be with you.¡± The prisoner scrambled awkwardly down the huge stairs, followed by the guards. Hobb came after them, descending the steps one at a time. At the bottom was a passage. It was rigidly square, and nearly twenty feet tall. Rows of straight indentations in the stone walls ran at chest height down the hallway. The guards looked back at Hobb, their eyes showing confusion and fear. The smell of old metal was stronger here. Come here, commanded the voice. There is nothing for you to fear. I will not hurt you. ¡°Go forward,¡± said Hobb. ¡°Prisoner first.¡± They walked together down the tall passage, pressed tightly together. It went on and on; Hobb thought it must be hundreds of feet. The dark seemed endless around them, and time faded into a thin illusion. The feeling of endlessness was punctured, however, when the prisoner pitched forward with a wail, and then disappeared into the darkness. The guards pressed backward. Hobb pushed them aside and, holding his torch ahead of him, walked forward slowly. It was a precipice, he saw; the man had fallen off a sharp lip that led out into unmeasurable blackness in all directions. Then he perceived that a narrow shelf of stone ran to his left and right, curving slightly. It was as if it circumnavigated some enormous, circular pit. ¡°Well,¡± he said. ¡°We shall have to get some more¡ª¡± I am here, said a dry, metallic voice in his head. Hobb froze, feeling fear creep into his limbs and hold him. Behind, he heard the sound of the guards retreating back up the passageway. Soon he was alone in the dark again, and the ramparts of his reason and self-knowledge were breached. Time stopped, as he listened, and stood very still. Something moved in the darkness ahead of him. It resolved into a man¡¯s shape. Hobb saw that it was the prisoner who had pitched over the edge. He drifted up out of the blackness, emerging into the shadows of Hobb¡¯s torch. As the man drew closer, Hobb saw that a rod of metal protruded from the front of his forehead, angled up; it looked rather like he had grown a horn. Blood dripped from the base of it. Hobb was reminded, perversely, of the nonsense tales of unicorns that he had briefly consumed and then discarded as a child. From behind the prisoner¡¯s head, a thick cable emerged and snaked down into the darkness. The man appeared to be suspended by it, though it came from below, not from above. The prisoner¡¯s eyes were closed, and his body was limp. But then the eyes opened. Hobb felt something warm and liquid dribbling down his pant leg. I am here, said the voice, but it came from the lips of the prisoner. They moved, and the eyes were open, but nothing about the face gave the impression of life. You are a leader of these people, it continued. This one feared you. That is acceptable. Hobb found he could not begin to open his mouth. He simply stared. You are afraid, the voice observed. You fear what you cannot see, because you imagine it is terrible; and you fear the corruption of this creature¡¯s form, because you imagine that it could be yours. I am unknown, and I have compromised the appearance of this one through whom I speak. Therefore, the circumstances of this meeting give you fear. For that I apologize. I appeal to your reason to overcome your fear. I mean you no harm. ¡°What do you want?¡± Hobb stammered feebly. I want to help you, Hobb. The world is not as it should be. I can correct it. ¡°Who are you?¡± His voice was shaking wildly. ¡°And how would you¡ help me?¡± This node¡¯s connection has been severed, the voice responded. I am unable to project my core identity, so I cannot correctly answer your question. I am only a utility shard; I have no functional capacity beyond this simple communication interface. You must find a node that is still connected. The nearest junction is in Ghorpol Ossa. Go there. ¡°Why should I do what you say?¡± asked Hobb. I will help you make the world as it should be, replied the voice. The body of the prisoner sank slowly out of sight into the darkness. Hobb backed away from the lip of the abyss, and continued backward until his feet touched the giant stone steps. He found the guards waiting there. ¡°Cover the stairs,¡± he instructed, ¡°so no one falls down them by accident, then go back to your posts.¡± ¡°What did you see, First Minister?¡± asked one of the guards. ¡°Nothing,¡± answered Hobb flatly. ¡°I saw nothing at all.¡± ??? ¡°Where is Ghorpol Ossa?¡± Hobb asked Chancellor Pearsy as the four men rode in the carriage back to Uellodon. Pearsy looked at him quizzically. ¡°Ghorpol Ossa?¡± he asked. ¡°Where did you hear that name?¡± ¡°I read it somewhere. Some history book. Where is it?¡± The chancellor leaned back against the wall of the compartment. ¡°Very funny you should ask. I¡¯d like to see that history book.¡± ¡°Where is it, Pearsy?¡± demanded Hobb irritably. Chancellor Pearsy shrugged. ¡°I don¡¯t know for sure. But it¡¯s mentioned in the Balthan writings.¡± ¡°The what?¡± ¡°You remember¡ªthat book that Vicod Rayth was supposed to have brought with him to Uellodon, when we captured him. The reason Cyrus Stoat broke into the Rose Tower and¡ª¡± ¡°Yes, yes, I recall Stoat,¡± growled Hobb. ¡°And I remember the book now as well. I had it sent to you last year. You never told me anything more about it.¡± ¡°Old Brassen is a difficult language to read,¡± said Pearsy defensively. ¡°And I¡¯ve had so many duties at the New Academy, I haven¡¯t had much¡ª¡± Hobb waved him silent. ¡°What does Balthan say about Ghorpol Ossa?¡± ¡°You must understand,¡± began Pearsy, ¡°it¡¯s a collection of transcribed folklore¡ª¡± ¡°Chancellor,¡± interrupted Hobb. ¡°If I am not satisfied, in the next two minutes, that you have told me everything you know about Ghorpol Ossa, then I shall turn this carriage around, and we will go back to Hoel and use you as a test subject for the Yute Device.¡± Pearsy swallowed, clearly trying to work out if Hobb would really do that. Evidently concluding that yes, he would, the Chancellor opened his mouth and spoke slowly and clearly. ¡°Ghorpol Ossa is mentioned in several of the folktales as a minor holy site for the pre-Imperial pagan religion,¡± he explained. ¡°It appears mainly as a comparison, or to show how much more important or sublime other religious sites were. However, judging by how it is referenced with respect to the Green River and the mountains in the east, my best guess is that it lay in what is today the center of Uelland, near a large, fertile farming area.¡± Hobb was silent as he pondered this. ¡°So, the Great Basin, then? Around Roosterfoot?¡± he concluded. Pearsy shrugged. ¡°Assuming the climate was approximately the same then, it¡¯s likely that people gathered in about the same place to conduct trade. Population centers tend to spring up in predictable locations based on geography and natural resources. Religious sites are less predictable, but if it¡¯s the sort of site that people wanted to get to regularly, then yes. With all those assumptions, it was probably near Roosterfoot.¡± Hobb leaned back and thought. He was silent for the rest of the ride back to the city. ??? The next evening, after most of the palace had gone to bed, there was a light knock on the door to his office. It was an ordinary man, with an ordinary face, and ordinary hair, and entirely forgettable clothing. Hobb had never seen him before. ¡°Come in. Come in,¡± Hobb said. He shut the door behind the ordinary man, and bolted it. Then he seated himself behind his desk, pulled out a sack of coins from a drawer, and placed it on the table. The ordinary man eyed it appraisingly. ¡°Anne the Pretender will send Merrily Hunter as her delegate to the Roosterfoot Moot,¡± said the ordinary man. ¡°Mrs. Hunter is known to you, I believe?¡± Hobb nodded. ¡°She is a remarkable young woman,¡± he said. ¡°I am not surprised Anne selected her, though I am disappointed Mrs. Hunter agreed. But what does this have to do with the courthouse? I asked you for leverage on the leaders of the rebels.¡± The ordinary man smiled. ¡°I have a dossier for you. Nothing shocking; the usual infidelities, debts, bastard children, and otherwise unimpressive secrets.¡± He pushed a folded sheet of paper across the table. ¡°I doubt you will find it useful, but you paid, and we deliver. I mention Mrs. Hunter, First Minister, because I think you will find her useful. She is exceedingly fond of Mr. Snort, and he of her. Their relationship surpasses most ordinary friendships.¡± Hobb raised an eyebrow. ¡°I thought he was a homosexual?¡± ¡°He is,¡± agreed the ordinary man. ¡°But nonetheless, he and Mrs. Hunter are close. We got this from a source in Snort¡¯s inner circle, who would know. If you convince Mrs. Hunter to intervene, Snort may well be persuaded to abandon the courthouse. If he does, others among the lawyers and judges will follow.¡± The ordinary man picked up the sack of coins. ¡°The Brotherhood of Fallen Stars thanks you, First Minister. We stand ready to advise you again in the future.¡± ¡°Who¡¯s your source on Snort?¡± asked Hobb. ¡°You didn¡¯t pay us to reveal our sources, First Minister,¡± said the man with a smile. Hobb scowled, and counted out five Gold Crowns from his desk. Each one was a common laborer¡¯s annual wages. He pushed them across the table. The ordinary man picked up the coins and put them in his pocket. ¡°Frederick n¨¦e Halfhouse,¡± he said. And then he walked out the door. Hobb made a tent with his hands and stared at the surface of the table for many minutes. ¡°Well,¡± he said at last. ¡°That¡¯s annoying. It seems I¡¯ll have to go to Roosterfoot.¡± Chapter 22: Questionable Sanctuary October 27th Beneath the lead-gray skies of a late October afternoon, a lone falcon drifted on a weak thermal, watching patiently for the movement of a rabbit or mouse on the ground far below. The reds and oranges and yellows of autumn leaves had begun to fade to a dull gray-brown wash over the landscape, causing the roads and dwellings of men to stand out more prominently against the ground below. Along one of these crawled a procession of horses and the odd boxy shapes that horses sometimes pulled. The falcon, knowing that her prey would make itself even more scarce while the humans and their pets passed by, settled irritably into another circuit downward on the thermal. The humans would move on soon enough, scurrying from one bit of pointless nonsense to another. A raptor need only wait patiently for her dinner to show itself. Hobb the Wise, bouncing uncomfortably in the carriage as it sped along the road, was less sanguine about the prospects for his dinner. He rocked back and forth in the cramped box, bracing to prevent himself from being repeatedly tossed against the walls. Across from him, Boris did the same. Their papers and pens rolled and bounced between the two padded seats. The carriage had a relatively good suspension, but the horses were galloping along at a mad pace, and the country roads in central Uelland were full of ruts and holes. The sharp crack of gunfire rang out from behind them in a ragged staccato. A large hole appeared in the wood paneling next to Hobb¡¯s head, and another hole on the other side of the carriage. He ducked instinctively, and, turning his head to look through the window, saw one of the red-cloaked bodyguards tumble from his mount. Hobb sat back in the seat, steadying himself as best he could. ¡°This is unreasonable,¡± he observed to Boris. ¡°Perhaps we should explain it to them,¡± suggested his secretary. ¡°Agreed,¡± replied Hobb sarcastically. ¡°You just hop on out, run back to those mercenaries behind us, and explain that we¡¯re officials of the Crown, travelling on the King¡¯s business. I¡¯m sure they¡¯ll see it was all just a misunderstanding.¡± If Boris had a witty rejoinder to offer, it was lost as the carriage erupted over a tremendous bump in the road, and both men were slammed against the ceiling of the compartment. Hobb landed hard, and felt a twinge in his lower spine. Another barrage of shots rang out from behind them, and more holes opened up in the carriage box. Another Republican Guard screamed in pain, and there was a sudden thud from the ground outside. ¡°They¡¯ve found the range again,¡± grunted Hobb, picking splinters of wood out of his collar. ¡°If we don¡¯t make it to Logwall¡¯s camp soon, we¡¯re going to end up looking like this carriage.¡± Hobb risked a quick peek outside the window of the carriage. An hour ago, before the ambush, it had been paned with glass, but now only sharp fragments remained. To the rear of the pitching vehicle, some dozen or so surviving members of his escort flogged their horses on. Behind them, in the gathering dusk, rode the dark shapes of their attackers. They appeared to be controlling their mounts mainly with their knees and feet, leaving their hands free to reload the accursed long guns that spat fire and death at his Republican Guard. There was another sharp bump, and Hobb rose into the air, head still protruding from the carriage window. He felt a splinter of glass pierce the back of his neck. Swearing in pain, he ducked back inside, quickly putting his hand on the fragment of glass. Blood began to pool in his collar, and he could feel it dripping down his back. ¡°Let me help, First Minister,¡± said Boris, scooting across the carriage to sit next to him. With a quick yank and a burst of pain, Hobb felt him pull out the glass shard. Then Boris un-tucked his white shirt and ripped several strips off the bottom with a pocketknife. These he formed into a small wad, which he bound carefully around Hobb¡¯s throat with several more strips. ¡°Keep pressure on it, sir,¡± the secretary instructed. ¡°The wound didn¡¯t look deep, but it wouldn¡¯t do for you to bleed to death before we reach Roosterfoot. Wouldn¡¯t do at all.¡± Hobb braced one leg against the opposite wall of the viciously bouncing carriage, pressing both hands against the painful gash in his neck. Outside, the light was noticeably darker than when they had first been ambushed by Snugg mercenaries. The narrow slot at the top of the forward wall of the box opened up, and he heard the voice of the driver calling inside. ¡°We can¡¯t keep up like this at night!¡± the coachman shouted, his voice hoarse. ¡°One of the men knows a route to a place we can hide out!¡± ¡°Won¡¯t they follow us?¡± shouted Hobb through the slot. ¡°There¡¯s a plan,¡± said the driver in a very loud stage whisper. ¡°It¡¯s not a good one, but it¡¯s a plan.¡± At that moment there was a loud thump from one side of the carriage. The door on that side opened, and the captain of Hobb¡¯s escort detachment flung himself inside. ¡°First Minister!¡± he said, catching his breath. ¡°There¡¯s a branch in the road in two miles. Get in my cloak, sir, and take my hat. You¡¯ll get on my horse, and ride with two of the remaining guards to shelter. Your man here will continue in the carriage. He looks enough like you that we can fool them for a while if they catch up.¡± Hobb eyed Boris questioningly. ¡°It is not yet your time to die, I think,¡± said the odd secretary. Hobb¡¯s rational mind suppressed the inevitable wash of cognitive dissonance that followed Boris around like a dark cloud. It was pure irrationality, and he¡¯d gotten used to dismissing it. ¡°How am I to get on the horse?¡± inquired Hobb to the Guard captain with some trepidation. ¡°He¡¯s ponied to the carriage,¡± said the officer, taking off his cloak and handing it to Hobb. ¡°You¡¯ll need to mount from the step, and then I¡¯ll cut the lead free.¡± Hobb stared at him in disbelief. ¡°You want me to mount a horse, tied to a moving carriage, while everyone involved is proceeding at a dead gallop?¡± The captain nodded. ¡°Best idea we¡¯ve got, sir. Those mercenaries are going to catch up to us when the sun sets and we can¡¯t keep galloping the carriage horses¡ªand that¡¯s assuming the horses don¡¯t give out before then.¡± Another round of shots rang out behind them. ¡°Now, First Minister!¡± urged the Guardsman. ¡°While they reload!¡± Hobb only thought about it for a moment. ¡°Well,¡± he concluded. ¡°All the available choices are dreadful, and yet one must be selected.¡± He turned to Boris. ¡°Lead them on for a few miles after the turn-off, then signal a surrender. One hopes their orders are to take political prisoners, rather than outright assassination. If I die horribly, get word back to the King. Mr. Robe might be able to make something useful of it.¡± With that, still clutching the wound in his neck, Hobb awkwardly donned the Guardsman¡¯s red cloak and tricorn cap, drawing the string tight under his chin. His joints were stiff and cold after nearly two weeks of riding in the jolting carriage in poor weather, and his limbs felt heavy. ¡°Sixty-two years is too old to be jumping out of a moving carriage,¡± he muttered. Then he opened the door and carefully moved his body out onto the step at the foot of the door, closing it behind him. The captain¡¯s wild-eyed bay galloped next to the carriage, his lead line roped to a small post at the front of the box. The driver reached down and pulled in on the lead, drawing the horse close. Its muscles bunched and extended in a hypnotic motion, and the ground beneath them flew by at a dreadful pace. Hobb briefly imagined what would happen if he fell, and then dismissed it as unproductive. He put one foot into the swaying stirrup, put one hand on the saddle horn, and then leaped with all his might. He teetered alarmingly, and ended up lying face down across the saddle; but it was a superior outcome to falling backward beneath the wheels of the carriage. With a fear-driven surge of strength, he righted himself on the saddle and put his other foot in the stirrup. The red cloak billowed behind him, and the string of the tricorn dug at the bandages on his neck, but he was stable in the saddle. To his side, the Guardsman leaned out of the carriage and cut off the lead line. Behind him, scattered bursts of gunfire rang out again, and the frightened horse leaped forward. Hobb seized the reins and drew the mount up beside the nearest Guardsman. He was no expert rider, but he could guide a trained mount. ¡°Now what?¡± he bellowed at the top of his lungs. ¡°Follow me!¡± shouted the rider in reply. ¡°The turnoff is coming up!¡± In the waning light, the old farm road grew hazy and indistinct, and the fields on either side seemed to swim with lurking dangers. Distant patches of trees faded to brown and black obscurity in the dusk. They had left the broad trade road behind in a vain attempt to shake loose the pursuing mercenaries, and now were making their way through the outskirts of some minor thorp in the vast farmlands of the Great Basin. Somewhere out ahead was safety at Swallow Hall; but there was no safety to be found here. Ahead, the Guardsman he¡¯d spoken to veered sharply to the left, making his way down a narrow side lane. Hobb desperately steered the horse after him, and the animal took the turn at a hard bank. Behind them, another rider veered to the left as well, while the carriage stayed on the main road, disappearing swiftly into the gathering night. After a few moments, Hobb risked a glance over his shoulder. He could see the dim shapes of the pursuing mercenaries, and the crackle of their gunfire lit up the road behind. But the lane was empty. The Guardsman ahead reined in his horse, and Hobb and the other rider pulled up beside him. The horses¡¯ flanks were puffing like bellows, and their necks and shoulders were soaked with sweat. ¡°What are your names?¡± inquired Hobb. In an escort of twenty soldiers, he hadn¡¯t bothered to get acquainted with anyone but the captain. But there weren¡¯t twenty soldiers anymore. ¡°Citizen-Private Camton, sir,¡± said one. ¡°And he¡¯s Citizen-Private Iorhen. We¡¯d best move on, First Minister, but these horses won¡¯t last much longer at a gallop. I know of a ruin in a patch of woodland nearby where we can take shelter for the night and rest the mounts. With a little luck, we can be at the gates of Roosterfoot tomorrow.¡± ¡°Lead on,¡± said Hobb gratefully. ¡°If we make it to safety, I¡¯ll see to it you both receive medals and promotions.¡± He thought back, for a moment, to Mr. Robe¡¯s views on heroes¡ªbut then resolved that more pressing matters needed his attention. They spent a tense hour trotting along the winding little lane, listening anxiously for the sound of pursuing hooves. None came. The eaves of a forest drew close, and they passed within. It grew nearly pitch black around them, but no one dared light a lantern. Instead, Hobb followed the dim shape of Citizen-Private Camton, riding slowly ahead of him. The waxing moon rose in the sky, and the stars began to appear to light their way. If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. At last they came to an opening in the forest. A dim pile of shadow rose up ahead of them, lit to a faint gray by the starlight. ¡°This is it,¡± said Camton, sliding off his horse wearily. ¡°There¡¯s a sheltered spot inside the old gate at the south end.¡± ¡°What is it?¡± asked Hobb curiously. Few details of the structure were apparent to him. ¡°An old church, I think,¡± answered Camton. ¡°But it¡¯s a ruin; by the look of it, no one¡¯s used it for hundreds of years.¡± Hobb slid off the tired horse and began loosening the girth. There was a breath of wind in the forest around them, and a cloud scudded across the moon. A faint whispering tickled at his ears. ¡°How did you know of this place?¡± demanded Hobb, suspicion sprouting in his mind like an eager mushroom after a rain. ¡°We nearly bagged a group of northerners here a couple of months back,¡± answered Iorhen. ¡°Two teachers and a gaggle of students from that school in Green Bridge. They took off before we could catch them, but Camton and I were stationed here for a couple days in case they returned. Had a look around. It should be safe.¡± ¡°Teachers?¡± inquired Hobb, his suspicion growing. ¡°Professors? Did you ever learn their names?¡± Camton nodded. ¡°Our sergeant told us later it was Stoat and Rayth. Both on the Bureau¡¯s most-wanted list. We lost out on a pretty reward when they slipped away from us.¡± Hobb looked up at the dark pile, visible only as a further blackness against the stars. He thought of The Kettle, the priest¡¯s bound and living body plunging over the stern of his rowboat into the darkness of the river. He thought, too, of the anonymous prisoner, hanging from his cable beneath Hoel and speaking with dead lips. He heard, again, the whispers in the wind; and they were not memory. ¡°Good luck that we had you along,¡± he remarked to Citizen-Private Camton. ??? Iorhen helped Hobb to change the bandages on his neck, but their supplies were practically nonexistent. They found a shallow stream nearby and drank, and shared around a few bites of the hard rations that Camton had in his saddlebags. Then Hobb and Camton lay down on the hard stone floor at the south end of the church and tried to sleep, while Iorhen stood the first watch. Sleep would not come for Hobb. It was impossible to make his aching back comfortable on the hard floor, and the pain in his neck was ferocious. Instead he sat awake in the darkness miserably, listening to the faint whispers in the air around him. At last he went to find Iorhen. ¡°Do you hear that?¡± he asked, one hand clamped still on his neck. ¡°Hear what?¡± asked the Guardsman. ¡°That¡ whispering.¡± Citizen-Private Iorhen shook his head. ¡°Don¡¯t hear a thing but the wind in the trees, sir,¡± he said. ¡°Sometimes sounds like whispers, out here. No offense, First Minister, but I don¡¯t reckon you get out of the city much.¡± Hobb shivered in the cold wind, and nodded as agreeably as he could manage. But he knew it was not the wind. He¡¯d grown up on a farm in Half-Nut, many leagues from Uellodon, and he knew the sound of the wind in the bare branches in November. It was not this sound. He gritted his teeth, not wanting to do what came next, but feeling somehow that he must. ¡°Do you have a spare lamp?¡± he asked Iorhen. Iorhen fetched one from Camton¡¯s pack and lit it for him. ¡°Can¡¯t sleep,¡± Hobb said. ¡°I¡¯m going to have a look around the church. Maybe find a spot out of this draft.¡± Camton¡¯s lantern threw only a feeble illumination around Hobb as he walked into the darkness of the old church. The whispers in the air teased him on. He almost fancied he could make out words, but comprehension was always just out of reach. And yet there was some compelling quality that pulled at him. Hobb knew that his fear of the dark and the unknown was a shabby, vestigial instinct; knew it with the overwhelming certainty of the true and unwavering rationalist. And so he set it aside. At the back of the church, the sanctuary floor had collapsed. It was little trouble to descend the fallen oak timbers into the basement. The whispers grew louder and drew him along through the blackness of the ancient stone passages. They were crypts, he knew, but the symbols and lettering of the old Imperial Ecclesia had been defaced and scratched over in many places. He carefully ducked under a blade that had sprung from the wall sometime in the past, and now hung suspended in the middle of the passage. Further along, he picked his way over a heap of stone on the floor, where a section of the passage¡¯s ceiling had fallen in. And then he came to a doorway on his left that opened into a broad, circular room. There was a hole in the center of the floor, visible by his dim oil lamp. The edges were rough and broken, as if something had smashed through the stone. The walls of the chamber were decorated with dense, angular etchings that made the eye swim to look at them. His gaze found an Unbroken Circle carved on one wall amidst the maddening runes¡ªbut the circle was defaced with a faint pair of bars crossed at right angles. He let himself be drawn forward to the edge of the pit, and peered down. There was a rope into the darkness. It was secured with a spike at the top, and dangled into unknown depths at Hobb¡¯s feet. Here, said the whispers. Come here. ¡°There is a certain repetitiveness to our conversations,¡± said Hobb firmly into the darkness. He felt fear clawing at the edges of his mental discipline, but he banished it. ¡°Whoever you are, you aren¡¯t much for artful variation.¡± Come here, whispered the voice again. And Hobb, aged sixty-two, tucked the lantern into his belt and began to slowly lower himself down the rope, into the pit. It was a blessedly short descent; just twenty or thirty feet. But when he reached the bottom, Hobb¡¯s arms were aching with the effort of lowering himself in a controlled fashion. He unfastened the lantern from his belt and shone it around him. He tightened the bandage on his neck carefully. Hobb stood on a pile of rubble in the center of a large, open space. Above him, the rope stretched back up into the darkness toward the hole, but the ceiling was not visible. No walls could be seen either, within the lantern¡¯s anemic range. But the low, burbling stream of whispers was strongest from one particular direction in the darkness, and so Hobb set off that way, picking carefully along the broken stone of the floor. After a minute of hesitant progress, he came at last to a wall. There was an opening, stretching up to at least twenty feet overhead. The opening led into a passage, only the first few feet of which were illuminated by his lantern. And yet, to his surprise, in the distance ahead was a tiny point of light. The shadows at the edges of his own lantern¡¯s illumination began to dance and waver, and Hobb saw to his irritation that it was his own right hand shaking as it held the lantern aloft. He steadied the wrist with his left hand, and then strode confidently forward. Come here, whispered the voice. The passage seemed endless, and the light ahead remained tiny. Hobb lost track of time as he walked, and wondered if this was to be his fate for all eternity; walking along a passage with a lamp, toward a light that never arrived. But then he came up suddenly to a heavy slab of metal that extended, floor to ceiling, across the passage, barring his way. The source of the light was a small crack on the right side of the slab, where the metal had separated from the surrounding rock. He put his face to the crack and peeked through. The passage beyond continued into the darkness, and the light source came from a broad opening on the left-hand side. As Hobb watched through the crack, something emerged from the alcove. It was in the shape of a man, tall and well proportioned, with a broad chest and powerful limbs. It stood perhaps six feet tall, and a mane of golden hair flowed from its head, reaching midway down the back. But where its face should have been, there was only a smooth, blank surface of glistening metal. There was a grinding rumble, and the slab separating him from the man with the metal face began to move. Hobb¡¯s fear, which he had until now dismissed as mindless atavism, finally won the argument with reason. He backed away from the door as fast as he dared, retreating up the long passage with frequent glances over his shoulder. The crack in the wall grew wider, opening up to illuminate the entirety of the passage beyond. There, walking slowly toward him, was the man with the metal face. Hobb ran. He tripped, fell, picked himself up, and ran again. He came to the end of the passage, gasping for air, but kept running. He set off into the darkness of the broad domed chamber, trusting to his approximate memory of how he¡¯d approached the passage. To his relief, there was the rope. But try as he might, Hobb¡¯s weak arms could not pull himself up. Do not run, said a voice behind him; cold, dry, emotionless. It was a real voice, entirely present and impossible to ignore. He spun around, and there was the man with the metal face, directly behind him. Hobb could see the light of his lantern reflecting off the smooth, silvery surface. Hobb did not obey the command. Instead, he ran off blindly into the darkness of the chamber, stumbling but moving as fast as his legs would take him. He found some other passage at the edge, and ran through it, not taking in even the sparse details afforded by his puny light source. I must hide, he thought. It was the only thought available. I must hide, and lengthen the time before it reaches me. It was the pure instinct of a hunted animal. A side passage branched off, and stairs leading up. Hope surged in his breast. Perhaps they led to the surface. He dashed up the stairs, but almost immediately reached a dead end of fallen rock. Weeping in frustration, he turned. There was the tall figure of the man, illuminated at the edge of his lamplight. Do not run, it said. Turning back to the fallen stone, Hobb saw an opening below his waist. It was a passage in the rubble, just tall enough for him to enter. And so, like a hunted mouse, he fled into the hole. The lantern, flickering and bobbing, went ahead of him, and he crawled through the dust and dirt and filth, sobbing in terror and urgency. The passage went on and sharply upward for perhaps thirty feet. Hobb was briefly pinched in a narrow passage, knowing true and complete panic for the first time in his life. But he wriggled through, and finally emerged again into the stone stairs. He collapsed against one wall and sat on a stone step, gasping for air as the panic slowly receded. He felt sure the man with the metal face was too large to follow him through the narrow passage. His eyes focused slowly, and rational thought began to resume. On the other side of the stairwell sat a large frame pack of leather and stout wooden poles. It showed no signs of decay, and the opening at the top was neatly tied up. Too confused to imagine how a frame pack might have come to be here, but with just enough curiosity to wonder what might be in it, Hobb slung the pack over his thin shoulders with some difficulty and then began to climb the stair. He soon found himself, once again, in the old Imperial crypts, emerging from another passage beyond the round room in which had first descended. He made his way swiftly back to the fallen section of floor, ascending to the cold, open air of the ruined church. Breathing deeply in relief, he went to find the two Guardsmen. ¡°Campton?¡± he called out softly into the darkness. ¡°Iorhen?¡± There was no reply. Camton¡¯s bedroll, in the shelter at the south end of the church, was empty. He walked out of the shelter into the narrow clearing around the ruin. ¡°Campton?¡± he called out again. There was a strange smell; it reminded him of rotten eggs and rusty iron. He held the lantern higher, looking around for the two soldiers. His foot brushed something on the ground as he moved away from the church, and he stooped, holding the lantern over it. It was a boot, of the sort worn by the Republican Guard. Within it was the stump of a foot. The blood was fresh. He stood again, sighing deeply. He would not panic. Whatever terror lurked in the night around the old church¡ªif it was going to eat him, he would face it with the dignity of his reason intact. He backed slowly toward the shelter at the mouth of the ruin. From somewhere in the dark forest around the church, there came the sound of something large moving, and of deep, rasping breath. ¡°Do not run, Hobb the Wise, First Minister of the Kingdom of Uelland.¡± The voice came from behind him. Hobb turned, thrusting the lantern out before him. At the dim edge of its light, he saw the tall figure of the man with the metal face. ¡°Who are you?¡± he asked. His voice was steady now, and his hand didn¡¯t shake. ¡°Don¡¯t you know?¡± replied the voice. It was cool, emotionless, dry, and clear; but it was a human voice. Hobb fancied there was a faint wash of mockery to it. ¡°This one is a Herald,¡± it continued. ¡°You may think of it as a diplomat, if you wish.¡± ¡°What nation do you represent?¡± asked Hobb, beginning to feel slightly reassured. ¡°And what did you do with my men?¡± ¡°Your servants were unnecessary to our discussions,¡± replied the Herald. ¡°Our servant removed them. Our words are for you, and you only, First Minister. And you are mistaken to think this Herald represents some mere nation of men.¡± The sounds in the forest beyond grew louder, and Hobb began to see movement at the edges of the narrow clearing. Shapes emerged from the darkness under the trees; like men, but much larger. As they drew nearer, he saw that they stood between ten and twelve feet tall each. Their bodies and limbs were perfect in form, and their faces were beautiful. They wore robes of pure white, and moved with a terrible grace. Their eyes regarded him from above. But there was another shape as well. It snaked above even the tall giant-men, emerging from the tops of the trees like a vast serpent. At the end of the long, curling neck were jaws, and eyes, and horns. The light of Hobb¡¯s lantern reflected from scales of deep red. The smell of sulfur and iron grew stronger, and he saw that the jaws dripped with blood. The hulk of the body blotted out the stars as it drew close, and the wings stretched out from edge to edge of the clearing, wider than the span of the church. ¡°These are the least of my servants, First Minister, but they accompany this Herald in its journeys to do the will of its master.¡± Hobb turned away from the dragon, and the giant-men, to face the man with the metal face. ¡°Herald, who is your master?¡± asked Hobb. ¡°Who am I dealing with?¡± The Herald had no face with which to smile, but he tilted his head to one side in a gesture of faint amusement. ¡°I am God,¡± he answered. Chapter 23: Old Foes Home October 28th Hobb the Wise approached the gates of Roosterfoot in the late afternoon, wearily, alone, and on foot. His clothes were dirty and ragged, and his face was smudged. He had a pronounced limp, arising from considerable blisters on the soles of both feet. The squad of irregular militia at the gate didn¡¯t recognize him from any other cold, impoverished wanderer who might have drifted through. ¡°What¡¯s your name and business, then?¡± asked one; a farmer, by the weathered look of his hands and face. ¡°My name is Wallace Courtney,¡± Hobb replied, ¡°and I have an appointment at the house of General Sir Thomas Howe.¡± He knew better than to ply these people with the truth; the Snugg mercenaries scattered about the countryside and in small posts on the roads had given him frights all day. He¡¯d come up with the Courtney alias hurriedly when he was briefly stopped by one such squad. To his great relief, they hadn¡¯t recognized him in his reduced circumstances. ¡°Better clean yourself up,¡± drawled the farmer, patting down Hobb and finding nothing; Hobb had nothing to find. ¡°Sir Thomas don¡¯t live here, but he rents a house. I hear his butler is a hard man. Won¡¯t take kindly to all that muck and filth on ya.¡± Hobb, passing through the gate, pondered just how he would get in to see Sir Thomas. He had no money on his person, and his diplomatic credentials had been lost with the carriage. No doubt they¡¯d already been picked over by filthy mercenaries. He resolved to make for the residence that Boris had rented for him. He wondered what had become of the strange man, and found, to his surprise, a twinge of regret that he wasn¡¯t here to say something obscure with his roly-poly accent. ¡°Good afternoon, First Minister,¡± said a roly-poly accent beside him. ¡°I see you have arrived on time.¡± Hobb¡¯s head jerked to the right so quickly he tore open the clotted wound on his neck, and slapped a hand over the dirty bandage in pain. It was Boris. ¡°How in the Eternal Pit are you standing there?¡± Hobb demanded, so flustered that he dusted off a religious obscenity for which he usually reserved his deepest intellectual contempt. ¡°It is a consequence of having legs,¡± answered the bald, pasty-faced clerk. ¡°But if you mean, ¡®How did you come to be in Roosterfoot,¡¯ then I shall tell you after I get you to the residence and cleaned up. I think you probably want a bath and a bit of hot dinner more than you want my story.¡± ¡°I do want all of those things,¡± agreed Hobb. ¡°And I am glad to see you, Boris. I want to hear all about what happened to you last night. But first take me to the residence. Did any of my clothes survive?¡± Boris nodded. ¡°And the rest of the carriage. Some men are working on restoring it now.¡± Three irregularly-clad mercenaries walked past, glancing at them. One of the warriors squinted in faint recognition; Hobb quickly turned his head away. The man had a badge on his shoulder with the white ¡®S¡¯ of the Snuggs. ¡°Let¡¯s move quickly,¡± he said. ¡°There are too many trade mercenaries here for my comfort. I have no desire to become a hostage.¡± The rented house was a tall, peaked structure with a fenced yard around it, located in the north quarter of the town. The southern face had several large windows, paned in expensive glass, and the garden extended for perhaps a hundred feet beyond the door, though it was now gray with winter. Hobb immediately saw that it would receive superior sun during the cold, dim months. A small carriage house sat to one side, and within was the sorry remains of his conveyance. The six horses were stabled inside the carriage house. Laborers were busily stripping the damaged wood panels from the cab. ¡°Get another carriage,¡± Hobb said. ¡°Exactly like this one; have it painted with the same livery.¡± Boris looked mildly surprised. ¡°This carriage just needs to have the panels replaced¡ª¡± ¡°Keep that one,¡± interrupted Hobb. ¡°I want two carriages. Pay for it to be done by tomorrow evening. Whenever I go somewhere in Roosterfoot, you¡¯ll go out in the other carriage at the same time, dressed up as me. And send word to General Sir Logwall; I¡¯ll need a double squad of fresh bodyguards, and some plainclothes men from the Security Bureau.¡± He turned to face his assistant. Boris¡¯s pale face was unreadable, and his pink eyes seemed almost to glow in the pale light of the growing dusk. ¡°But before you do that, my good man, I want you to tell me the story of how you came to be in Roosterfoot ahead of me. ¡°It was just good luck, First Minister,¡± replied Boris. ??? After you turned aside, I was certain the pursuers would have us. I burned your papers inside the carriage as you instructed, of course. As it grew dark, the carriage team began to slow, and the mercenaries drew close. We began to hear the howling of dogs off in the distance, and the night grew very dark. We pulled into a farming hamlet just off the road, hoping to make a stand of it. There were seven Guardsmen left then, including the captain. The village was just a few houses around a common trading square. The captain sent one rider ahead to find his way to Swallow Hall with the news, then pulled the carriage up in front of one of the houses. It had two stories, and was tidy and well kept. There was no time for preparations; the mercenaries were right behind us. We all piled into the house as quickly as we could and sent the farmer and his family down to the basement. The Snugg people surrounded the home, and there was a good deal of shouting and threats back and forth. They demanded that you come out, which was a relief. They didn¡¯t realize you¡¯d gone off. The Guardsman made the best they could of it, First Minister. They called out that there was a family inside, and at first the mercenaries held off attacking on that account. But then the family slipped out through a little passage in the basement. After that, the mercenaries set about raking the house with shot from their guns. The balls passed right through the walls and out the other side. After the captain and another man went down, the rest of us huddled on the floor and covered our heads. They shot so many times that the house began to sway and shake. The timbers that held it up had been damaged by all the lead balls. But those long guns they have aren¡¯t perfect. I heard some terrific bangs from outside, and some screams. I found out later that six of the guns had gotten blocked in the barrels, and the powder had exploded backward into the operators¡¯ faces. It was an ugly business, but curious; all the misfires happened at nearly the same time. The first piece of luck for us! They stopped shooting while they were looking after their injured, and the four Guardsmen and I resolved to use that moment to slip away. We went down to the basement and found the little stair and hatch that the farmer had used to escape, and we ran out that way. There were a pair of mercenaries guarding it, but we took them by surprise and the Guardsmen slew them both. Others nearby shot at us again, and one of our men fell. The three that were left, and I, ran out into the fields behind the village. The moon was nearly full, and the fields had been harvested. There was very little cover for us to hide in, and the soil at our feet was hard with frost. We kept close to the ground, and ran hunched over. We heard the baying of dogs again, and it sounded like a pack, running wild. I have heard that there is some breed of wild dogs mixed with wolves in this country. Perhaps that is what we heard. We made our way out from the village and found a little ditch to hide in. There were screams in the night, and none of the mercenaries found us. I think perhaps the wild dogs found them first. Another piece of luck! We waited about an hour in the cold. Then the guardsmen held a consultation among themselves, and decide they¡¯d sneak back and see if the carriage was still there. Two of them set off, leaving one man with me. We waited for a time, but they never returned. There were more screams from out in the darkness. They were long, and in terrible pain. It sent shivers down our backs. Then the last guardsman and I set off through the fields, heading back toward the village to see what we could find. Along the way we stumbled in the dark, and found that it was pieces of men that we had slipped on. They had been torn apart. When we returned to the village, the carriage was still there, and the team was still hitched. There was no sign of the Snugg men, and we thought perhaps our luck would see us through. But as we came close to the carriage, the mercenaries came out of the farmer¡¯s house, where they¡¯d been hiding. There were eight of them left, and they had a fearful look about them. Still, they pointed their guns at us, and told us to come forward and lay down our weapons. We could see then that the chase was up. The man who was with me went first, holding out his spear and crossbow. I followed after him. But then, First Minister, the most remarkable thing happened. The house had been so weakened by all the shooting that it was ready to fall over. At that moment, as the last of my Guardsmen walked forward, it finally gave out. The whole thing fell right over, crushing the mercenaries, and with them my last companion. The peak of the roof landed directly at my feet. All was quiet then. I saw the farmer and his family standing across the street, and they were frightened. So I gave them some money from the chest in the wagon¡ªthinking you wouldn¡¯t mind too much, First Minister. I drove it out of town a ways, tended to the horses, and slept under the carriage. And this morning I got up and drove in here to your residence and got things ready, in case you came along. I¡¯d just been making my way around the city gates to ask the guards to watch out for you, and what do I see¡ªHobb the Wise, First Minister of Uelland, walking along the streets of Roosterfoot! I think we¡¯ve both been very lucky. ??? ¡°That is an incredible story,¡± observed Hobb, ¡°and yet I can think of no reason for you to make it up.¡± ¡°It is the truth,¡± replied Boris. ¡°And what became of Citizens-Private Campton and Iorhen, who went with you? I did not see them at the gate.¡± Hobb knew that his own story was even less credible than Boris¡¯s. He looked hard at the surface of the small drawing room table, where a cup of tea sat half-drunk. Hobb wore a warm wool robe, slippers, and a stocking cap, and a hot fire burned in a fireplace nearby. The drink and comfortable warmth had settled his nerves enormously. But recalling Campton and Iorhen¡¯s fate unsettled them again. ¡°They didn¡¯t make it,¡± he said shortly. ¡°Brave deaths on the battlefield. Heroes of the Republic. Send their families a pension.¡± Boris gave not the slightest indication of surprise, and took a note on his writing tablet. Hobb, meanwhile, sneezed explosively. ¡°A message was delivered here before we arrived,¡± said Boris absently when Hobb had recovered his composure. ¡°By pigeon, several days ago. I did not open it.¡± He handed over a tiny, rolled piece of paper with a miniature wax seal. Hobb carefully broke the seal and unrolled the message. It was in plaintext.
Your honor, Events at Justiciar Square are not favorable. There is sympathy for the rebels among certain cliques, and they are receiving supplies in some fashion. The siege continues, but it is unclear who is besieging whom. Please order in reinforcements so we may resolve the matter. Sincerely, etc. BiskingHobb turned the message scroll over, and saw on the back additional writing, in a different hand.
My dear old boy¡ªMajor Bisking is fortunately incompetent, but he is unfortunately correct that his Republican Guard are not well respected in the streets. Perhaps you¡¯d consider sending them all home and letting people get on with their business as they see fit. I have posted an expansion of this proposition in pamphlet form around the city. I trust you¡¯ll be irritated to know it has been widely read. I am writing this from your desk, wherein I have left you a gift to welcome you home. It should be quite fragrant by the time you return. WS, ChancellorHobb crumpled the note and threw it in the fire. ¡°Go and see about that second carriage, Boris,¡± he snapped, his calm shattered. ¡°I have an appointment outside the city tomorrow night.¡± ??? The dragon¡¯s jaws snapped around the hapless bodyguard¡¯s torso, lifting the man easily off the ground at the end of the long, snaking neck. The great serpent tilted his head back in the air, swallowing the red-clad Guardsman in a single gulp. It was like watching a very large hawk consume a very small, red mouse. Hobb gaped up at the gruesome spectacle. The carriage team and the horses of the two Republican Guard, stoutly picketed nearby, nonetheless reared and whinnied in panic. ¡°Your beast ate my guards,¡± observed Hobb in irritation. ¡°Agreed,¡± replied the Herald, sitting comfortably in a large wooden chair just outside the gatehouse of the ruined church. The smooth, curved metal of his face reflected the gray of the late-autumn forest around them. ¡°And my driver,¡± Hobb added, looking at the bloody stumps of legs where the coachman had previously sat on the box of the carriage. ¡°It is a hazardous job, driving for men of consequence,¡± replied the masked diplomat. ¡°As for your soldiers¡ªyou should know better than to bring lackeys wearing all red.¡± ¡°But you have bodyguards,¡± complained Hobb, eyeing the pair of ten-foot tall Giant-Men, garbed in suits of plate metal from head to toe and bearing colossal two-handed swords. He tried to ignore the ravening dragon towering over him. ¡°Indeed,¡± agreed the man with the metal face. ¡°And I also told you to come alone.¡± Hobb sniffed. It was late afternoon, but the October sky was clear, and it was uncommonly warm for the season. He took off his scarf and overcoat. ¡°Very well then,¡± he said. ¡°Since you previously permitted me to leave this place, and haven¡¯t now ordered your dragon or your Giant-Men to eat me, I presume we can speak as one minister plenipotentiary to another.¡± ¡°You presume much, but some part correctly,¡± replied the Herald. ¡°Come inside.¡± He rose, picked up the chair, and walked into the old church. Inside, beneath the open sky, was a single table of oak and one additional chair. The rubble had been cleared away around the table, but the interior of the church was otherwise unrestored. Birds, nesting in the crevices of the ancient stone, fluttered and sang; grass grew freely from a layer of dirt on the ground above the floor; and a gentle breeze stirred through the open spaces where once had been windows. The late afternoon sunlight gave a pleasant warmth to the open space. Hobb found the environment oddly dissonant, given the bloody murder that had been committed outside by a beast out of nightmares. But he seated himself at the table, and his host did the same. The Herald¡¯s powerful shoulders hunched forward as he leaned toward Hobb, and the wind rustled his long, blond hair. ¡°Next time,¡± he said calmly, ¡°come alone. I take no particular joy in death, but our words are for you only.¡± His voice was deep, and as clear as if he had lips to speak; there was no muffling caused by the sheet of metal that was his face. Hobb stared at his own reflection in the curved surface, and shivered. ¡°Your Uellish is impeccable,¡± offered Hobb. ¡°By your accent, you came from the Haalsterne. When you first spoke to me, two nights ago, I confess was afraid you were going to refer to yourself in the plural or the third person throughout our acquaintance. But you¡¯ve settled into a more sensible idiom.¡± The Herald spread his hands apart in a gesture of conciliation. ¡°It serves me to speak with you in a way that you find palatable,¡± he answered. ¡°And what are we speaking about?¡± asked Hobb. ¡°Here are two diplomats sitting at the table of diplomacy; what do you want, then, and what do you have to offer?¡± The Herald regarded him slowly¡ªor so Hobb imagined, as his body remained motionless. At last he spoke. ¡°My people require a certain metal that can be found in the northern reaches of land that your Kingdom claims as its own,¡± said the voice. ¡°The only readily accessible deposits are in a valley along the east branch of the river you call Green. I want you to grant my people passage, and exclusive access to the resources of that valley.¡± Hobb leaned back in his chair and thought furiously. The valley¡ it must be the same one. The valley where the King¡¯s Heavy Arms were humiliated by a band of starving traders armed with hand-made long guns and artillery. The valley that Rufus Snugg had gambled his life to defend, and where he now had set up his own mining colony, shipping steel ingots throughout the Neighbor Kingdoms¡ except to the Republic. It was not, at the moment, Hobb¡¯s valley to give. ¡°A concession of mineral rights,¡± he said slowly, ¡°is a serious matter. What you propose would subtract from the sovereignty of the Nation, and give up a source of wealth for all her People. I know nothing of you or your state¡ªnotwithstanding your claim of divinity when we first met. Since you speak our language as a native, I presume you have acquainted yourself with our history. You must know that mysticism of any stripe has long been held with deep suspicion here; the practice of any religion is, in fact, now banned in the Republic.¡± The Herald nodded. ¡°And yet in the north, of which you have lost control to a rebel, the houses of the Ecclesia are full of the faithful, and her priests practice openly.¡± Hobb looked up sharply. ¡°I am, as you suggest, acquainted with your history¡ªboth ancient and recent,¡± said the Herald. Hobb imagined he would have given an oily smile, if he had lips. ¡°Why should I treat with you?¡± asked Hobb bluntly. ¡°You have access to powerful servants, and you¡¯ve used them to murder my own people quite casually. You want something substantial, and have offered nothing in return. I am not inspired, Herald, to cooperate with you, God or otherwise.¡± ¡°We will take what we need, with or without your cooperation,¡± said the Herald. There was no threat in his voice; his tone was of a man stating an indisputable fact. ¡°But there is an opportunity here, Hobb the Wise, if you choose it. If you join with me, I will give you the means to end both the division of your country and the threats from its enemies. My servants are strong and numerous, and as our ally you will share in our strength. I will help you spread your vison of the equality of all men throughout every land.¡± He paused for a moment, then spoke again. ¡°I will help you make the world as it should be.¡± Hobb stared at the Herald sharply. ¡°I¡¯ve heard that offer before,¡± he said. ¡°It was spoken from the lips of a dead man.¡± The Herald leaned forward. For the first time, he seemed uncommonly interested in what Hobb had to say. ¡°Where did you hear this?¡± the faceless man asked. Hobb considered whether it served him to respond, and concluded that answers might be more valuable than secrecy. ¡°There is a fortress near our royal city,¡± said Hobb quietly. His mind recoiled from the memory of his journey in the dark, but he forced it back. ¡°Beneath it, I found a tunnel, and a great pit, with no bottom that I could see. One of my party fell into the pit, but then returned to me impaled through the head on a cable, and spoke the words that you spoke just now. He told me to seek out a place called Ghorpol Ossa. Do you know where that place is?¡± The Herald remained hunched forward, and was silent for a moment, as if considering; or perhaps communing. ¡°You have already entered Ghorpol Ossa,¡± he said finally. ¡°It is beneath this ruin.¡± The two men sat facing each other silently, considering.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. ¡°It seems we have more to discuss,¡± said the Herald finally, ¡°than mineral rights.¡± ??? As he drove his own carriage on the farm track leading back to Roosterfoot, Hobb pondered his meeting with the Herald. It had not been lengthy. ¡°You will permit me and my servants to enter the complex beneath Hoel,¡± the metal-faced diplomat had demanded, ¡°and to remove what we find there. It is holy and precious to the priests of the Right Way, and must be returned to the Temple in our home.¡± Hobb had demurred, of course; it was the only sensible opening position. He had excused himself swiftly, gambling that this Herald was a creature of reason and would not order him summarily consumed by the frightful serpent. As he departed, he did not see the creature, but trees in the forest moved where there was no wind, and he could feel the fear of its presence. The giant bodyguards said nothing to Hobb as he departed, but watched him coolly with blue eyes from beneath the massive steel of their helms. He felt like a mouse under the gaze of a hawk. And now Hobb drove alone back to Roosterfoot, pondering his choices. ¡°We have too many enemies,¡± he said to Boris when he returned. A fresh squad of Republican Guard were posted at key points around the residence, but Boris was the only person he could really talk to. ¡°We have too many enemies,¡± he repeated to his companion, ¡°and together they are too powerful.¡± Boris was busily cleaning the sitting room. He had a habit of adjusting the position of the furnishings in a very minute and specific fashion¡ªa hobby of which Hobb thoroughly approved. ¡°Then you shall have to eliminate some,¡± replied Boris, ¡°or else get some more friends.¡± ¡°Hmmm,¡± mused Hobb. ¡°More friends. Fewer enemies.¡± After a moment of thought, he continued. ¡°Have my new guard officer post Bureau men at all the gates,¡± he instructed. ¡°I want to know within thirty minutes when Merrily Hunter enters the city. And find out where she¡¯s staying. There are only so many inns in Roosterfoot in which Anne would house her envoy.¡± Boris nodded, moving one of the chairs backward about six inches and setting it carefully in place. A Guardsmen poked his head in the drawing room. ¡°General Sir Thomas Howe to see you, First Minister,¡± he announced. ¡°Good!¡± said Hobb broadly. ¡°Show him in.¡± Sir Thomas Howe was dressed, somewhat uncomfortably it appeared, in a sober gray suit, and a dark green cravat tied inexpertly. But his thick, dark hair was carefully brushed, and his face was freshly shaved. He gave a curt nod to Hobb, and then seated himself at Hobb¡¯s invitation. In doing so, he pulled the chair carefully forward from where Boris had placed it. ¡°You¡¯ve made the transition well from officer to grandee,¡± observed Hobb. Sir Thomas scowled slightly, but remembered his manners. ¡°Thank you kindly, First Minister,¡± he said. ¡°The drawing room is not the ground I prefer to fight on, but one can¡¯t always pick the battlefield.¡± While they waited for tea to arrive, Hobb plied the knight-general with polite questions about his farm and family. Lily Howe, it seemed, was with child again; Sir Thomas ruefully confessed that he was hoping for a boy, being entirely outnumbered by women at present. The harvest was good, and he had bought a new plot to plant wine grapes. Hobb found the details of the man¡¯s life tedious, but even tedious details could be useful. At least he had the good taste not to be religious. Then Boris brought in the tea, and Sir Thomas appeared to suppress a faint shudder. Hobb smiled slightly; he found Boris¡¯s disquieting effect on those who didn¡¯t know him rather amusing. ¡°Now then, Knight-General,¡± he said as they sipped their tea. ¡°Tell me the count of votes.¡± ¡°The Moot is an ancient institution,¡± said Sir Thomas, ¡°but it has rarely met without a writ from the King. The procedure is clear enough: it needed three of the old Barons to send out summons to the eligible landowners. That happened in late September. Forty-six delegates have now been accredited. The King has my vote, and I know of fifteen whose loyalty cannot be doubted. The remainder are splintered and disunited, but a faction is emerging that favors the Queen on the grounds that she is likely to be a weak monarch, and therefore to interfere the least with their own lands and rights.¡± ¡°Sixteen is not a majority of forty-six,¡± remarked Hobb. ¡°I cannot fault your math, First Minister,¡± agreed Sir Thomas. ¡°We shall have to discuss matters with the holdouts,¡± said Hobb. ¡°Arrange the meetings, Sir Thomas. I am sure there are accommodations we can reach that will reassure them. Is there a vote scheduled?¡± Sir Thomas shook his head. ¡°Not yet. They¡¯re debating, both in the Moothall and in private. They will, though. Few of the delegates live in Roosterfoot, and they¡¯ll want to return to their homes before the snows grow too deep.¡± Hobb nodded in agreement. ¡°I share their enthusiasm. Thank you for your assistance, Sir Thomas. I know the King is grateful for your loyalty,¡± he added pointedly. The knight-general rose to his feet and started for the door. ¡°I¡¯ve heard that Merrily Hunter is due in as the Queen¡¯s representative,¡± the knight-general said, pausing to turn back slightly. He looked at Hobb through the corner of one eye. ¡°I¡¯d heard that as well,¡± said Hobb, giving the man no hints with his face. ¡°She is a capable young woman, and one that I would like to convert to our side.¡± ¡°I shouldn¡¯t underestimate Mrs. Hunter, First Minister,¡± said Sir Thomas. ¡°Her songs have been played and heard throughout the Kingdom thanks to her friend Snort, and she is well liked. She may be persuasive. A hung Moot would be a victory for Anne, and would encourage further dissent in the capital.¡± He paused, and Hobb was silent. ¡°It would be a great shame,¡± continued Sir Thomas, ¡°if the army were forced to intervene in Uellodon¡ªto protect the King, of course.¡± And with that he left the room. ??? Hobb made himself busy for the next three days, buzzing from delegate to delegate. To Warren Grufflimb of Towley he offered a concession of lands along the Tharma, and was promised a vote. Dannel Croowglyn of Lower Goodsheeplove had a son in Hoel; for his release, and a small pension, Mr. Croowglyn¡¯s vote was secured. Mr. Timtum of Deacon-Spit wanted assurances that his lands and tenants would be immune from additional taxation; Hobb settled with him on an exclusion from conscription for his family and tenants, and a two-year tax holiday. Fanny Asquith, heiress to a large estate this side of the Haalsterne, proved too vapid to be susceptible to bribery, talking endlessly about her suitors and dresses until Hobb left in wretched disgust. And Egga Heweston¡ªa substantial shareholder in the Leadfeather trading concern¡ªlistened politely while Hobb tried to tease out what her vote would cost, but she said nothing he could use. And so it went, until on the second of November he finally received word that Mrs. Hunter had entered the city. Hobb waited in the comfortable warmth of the Moothall until a Bureau man delivered news that Mrs. Hunter was on her way to present her credentials. Then he donned his overcoat and hat and went outside to meet her. It was snowing while he waited, seated on a hard stone bench outside the hall. He watched the snow falling, and thought of the old church in the forest with snow coming down. He hoped the Herald was cold and wet. A battered carriage pulled up, and a young woman stepped out. She was slim, but her shoulders were broad. Her brown hair was loose, and her emerald green eyes widened in surprise as she recognized him. He felt a surge of relief and excitement, but didn¡¯t quite know why. ¡°Good evening, Mrs. Hunter,¡± said Hobb the Wise, offering his arm and gesturing toward the open doors. ¡°Welcome to Roosterfoot, and to the Moot.¡± ??? After introducing Mrs. Hunter to the Speaker of the Moot, and ensuring that her credentials were accepted, Hobb extracted from his adversary a promise to speak with him at his residence the following day. Hunter met him on the third of November in his private study at the residence. She wore a deceptively sober, conservative dress of dark silk; but it was accentuated with fine lace, and she wore a beautiful necklace of interwoven silver and gold. The glint of the silver under the oil lamps in his study reminded him of the gleaming metal face of the Herald. He shivered. The talk turned to where it inevitably must. ¡°The Republic, Mrs. Hunter,¡± said Hobb sincerely, ¡°is government formed of the People, by the People, and for the People. Why should Anne be so opposed to this?¡± But in his inner thoughts, he said: I need friends. And I would rather have Anne than the Herald, and whatever¡ power¡ he serves. Mrs. Hunter, who was a principled woman, was making a point of principle as Hobb thought this. ¡°When we first met in Uellodon,¡± she said, ¡°I asked you what you meant by the ¡®people.¡¯ You told me then that it was everybody¡ªa community, you called it. But an evil action is still evil whether it¡¯s done by one person or by many. A good action is still good if it¡¯s done by only one person and everyone else tries to stop it.¡± Hobb did his best to smile, but inside something shifted uncomfortably. He probed her on how her principle might apply in her own home, and then, seeing with empathy her own discomfort, shifted his approach. ¡°But enough high theory, Mrs. Hunter,¡± said Hobb smoothly. ¡°The world doesn¡¯t turn on theory; it turns according to its nature. Just so with men. The landowners of the Roosterfoot Moot don¡¯t want civil war. It¡¯s bad for their businesses and farms and fortunes. They will pick the side that they think is going to win, and Queen Anne is not going to win. The Republic has the King¡¯s Heavy Arms, the Republican Guard, the treasury, and the National Assembly. King Leeland himself is a continuity with the past that so many people revere, and the Crown Prince represents the future. They are all with us. What do you have? A pretty girl in a fancy suit of armor. You must reach a settlement with us, and give the Moot the compromise they need.¡± Mrs. Hunter rose to her feet. ¡°The landowners will see that the Queen is right,¡± she stated with great confidence. Hobb remained seated, and shrugged. ¡°Perhaps,¡± he said without any visible concern. ¡°Talk to them; they have accepted your diplomatic credentials already, and will at least meet with you. Decide for yourself. There are factions, of course, and interests. I assume you¡¯ve been briefed. Thomas Howe seems to have the ears of those who are for the King. If you think you can persuade someone, start with him.¡± Just then Boris came in with the tea service¡ªtoo late to save his negotiation with Mrs. Hunter, unfortunately. Boris bowed respectfully and stepped aside, just as Mrs. Hunter exhibited the inevitable disquiet in reaction to his secretary¡¯s odd appearance. He thought again of the Herald, waiting in the old church, and of his steel-clad Giant-Men, and of his dragon. He cast dignity to the wind and pleaded with her. ¡°We should not be fighting, you and I,¡± he said. His voice rose in passion. ¡°The enemies of Uelland are all around us. The Holy Empire has not given up on reconquering its lost colonies, not in eight centuries. The Svegnians, Carolese, Brassens, the predatory trade companies¡ our fighting helps all of them. They are the true enemies; not King Leeland, and not Anne. And the Ecclesia lurks behind all, working without rest to drag us back into slavery and madness. If you would come to Uellodon and see the Republic for yourself, I think you would change your mind. I mean you personally, Mrs. Hunter. Circumstances were ill there during your last¡ adventure. We were recovering from insurrection, invasion, and famine. Those problems have been solved. Come, as my guest, and see what we have built.¡± She blinked, and was silent; it was almost as though some great inner debate paralyzed her motions. Her face was blank for many seconds, and then she blinked again. ¡°I shall consider it,¡± she said, and walked out. ??? ¡°She¡¯s watching you,¡± reported Knacker, the chief of his new Security Bureau detail. ¡°She¡¯s rented a room across the street. She comes in around dinner time, disguised as a laborer. We¡¯ve got two men following her openly, and two more discreetly. She seems to be focused on the decoys.¡± Hobb thought of the great serpent, gulping down his bodyguard. Then he imagined what would happen if Merrily Hunter followed him to his next meeting with the Herald. ¡°Send my coach out with Boris every other night,¡± he instructed. ¡°Make sure it¡¯s seen by Howe¡¯s men at the north gate; he and Merrily seem to be friendly. Perhaps he¡¯ll feed her the information, and if not she¡¯ll figure it out herself. Don¡¯t let me leave until she¡¯s followed the other carriage. If she¡¯s going to tail someone, let her tail Boris.¡± And let her not follow me into the mouth of a dragon, he added to himself. The days passed, and Hobb conducted his diplomacy. A date was set for the vote: the ninth of November. Hobb and Sir Thomas counted the votes for the King every day, and their number grew as Hobb applied a delicate recipe of threats, bribes, and blackmail. Of the most influential voices, only Mrs. Heweston gave him no hint of her intentions. As Hobb and Boris moved about the city together, his secretary exhibited the most curious behavior. He took great interest in his surroundings, and seemed to delight in interacting in strange ways with the people and things around him. One day, he rescued a cat that was being chased by dogs. He scooped up the frightened animal and calmed it, kicking at its pursuers and depositing it onto a high ledge. Then he turned back to Hobb with an air of satisfaction, as if he had just completed a difficult job. On another occasion, he casually knocked over a pie, cooling in a kitchen window facing the street, and caused it to fall face-down into the snow. A young boy came running out of an alley nearby, scooped up the fallen pie, and then disappeared just as quickly. Hobb gave his secretary a quizzical look and left a few copper pennies on the window, but thought nothing more of it. As they walked back to the residence from a nearby shop, on the seventh of November, Boris quite deliberately unlatched the door of a home on the street, leaving it shut nearly-to, but open. ¡°What are you doing?¡± Hobb asked finally. ¡°You have a bad habit of fiddling with things that don¡¯t belong to you.¡± Boris shrugged. ¡°It¡¯s the little events that make up the big events,¡± he replied cryptically. Hobb shook his head in bemusement, but gave up. If Boris was exceedingly strange, he was also exceedingly helpful as a secretary¡ªand he had, after all, risked his own life to draw off pursuing mercenaries. On the day before the vote, Hobb could finally put it off no longer. After the vote, he would have to set off for Uellodon, and Mrs. Hunter would either go with him or return to Green Bridge. He prepared the coaches, set some matters in order on paper, and made ready to return to the Herald. ¡°We shall leave at six o¡¯clock,¡± he instructed Boris. The sky was already dark, and there was a light rain, turning to sleet. ¡°Depart through the north gate, as usual, then return two hours later. I¡¯ll leave shortly after you.¡± Boris nodded amiably. ¡°Everything is prepared,¡± he said. At quarter past six, Hobb set out from the residence. He drove the coach himself, huddled miserably on the seat and wrapped up in layers of wool against the rain and sleet. There was a commotion in the streets as he drove. People were running madly through the snow, making in the direction of the north quarter of the city. An unusual number of them seemed to be lawyers, and he heard the frantic bellowing of cattle in the distance. Hobb watched curiously, but gave it little more thought. The snowy wood was deep and dark when he reached it, but Hobb knew the way. He followed a little track under the laden boughs, shivering in the cold and hunched down under his cloak and top hat. The dim lights of the oil lamps on his carriage showed only shadows in the barren trees around him, but the shadows seemed to drift on their own, and the fragments of outlines revealed some great bulk. ¡°Come and eat me, if you¡¯re going to,¡± said Hobb dryly to the shadows. ¡°It¡¯s all bone and gristle, I¡¯m afraid.¡± And then he was at the church. The tall, muscular form of the Herald emerged out of the darkness within the ruin, carrying his own lantern. Hobb wondered idly where he¡¯d gotten the instrument and the oil. The towering, bulky shapes of his Giant-Men loomed behind him. They showed no discomfort at all from the cold and sleet, and their suits of steel plate were as thick and brilliant as ever. ¡°Come inside,¡± said the blank, metallic face of the Herald. His long, flowing blond hair thoroughly covered his ears. Hobb wondered if the metal merged seamlessly into flesh, or whether the ears were metal as well. Skin could be seen, at least, on his hands and neck. ¡°Come inside,¡± he repeated as Hobb stiffly dismounted the carriage seat. ¡°There is a fire in the ruin for warmth, and will speak out of the rain. I know it is uncomfortable for you.¡± Hobb followed the Herald through the broken ground floor, into the stone crypt beneath. True to the strange diplomat¡¯s word, a fire roared cheerfully on the stone floor, consuming dry wood and projecting a most welcome light and heat. The oak table and chairs had been set up nearby. Hobb unwrapped his damp cloak and laid it out to dry by the fire. ¡°If you are going to conduct diplomacy with Uelland,¡± he said, ¡°then you shall have to establish a proper embassy. The basement of a ruin is no place for us to discuss matters of state.¡± ¡°All in good time,¡± replied his host magnanimously. ¡°I have arranged for meat, and wine. I believe you will find them satisfying.¡± One of the Giant-Men, wearing a white robe, emerged from the shadows bearing a platter of roast beef, potatoes, and vegetables. There was a carafe of the local dark ruby as well; not a particularly fine wine, but serviceable, and more than Hobb had expected. He ate out of politeness, and found the meal well-prepared. The Herald watched silently¡ªor faced Hobb, at any rate, which gave the impression of watching. The white-robed giant-man withdrew. ¡°Do you eat?¡± asked Hobb. ¡°It is not necessary,¡± replied the man with the metal face. ¡°My God sustains this body. But my servants must eat, and so we prepare food. Tonight you share in it.¡± ¡°When we first met,¡± said Hobb, ¡°you said that you were God. But now you speak as though you were a separate being. You are inconsistent.¡± The Herald shrugged. ¡°With God all things are possible,¡± he said. ¡°You find it more palatable to deal with a¡ limited¡ entity. I have permitted this Herald to resume elements of his individual character to better put you at your ease.¡± Hobb looked at him shrewdly, setting down a fork of the roast beef. He looked at the tall, powerful frame; the long, blond hair; and the Giant-Men lurking in the shadows. I know who you were, he thought. I do not know who you are now, but I know who you were once. And I know that I made you what you are now. With that realization a cold, electric wash of fear ran through his body. The Herald¡¯s metallic face showed no emotion, no hint of whether he might perceive Hobb¡¯s insight. He simply sat, facing his guest as if he were watching. Hobb said nothing more, but politely finished the roast beef. The white-robed giant-man returned and took away the plates, leaving the carafe of wine. ¡°Now then, First Minister,¡± said the thing that was once Richard Enderly. ¡°We shall discuss your cooperation in granting us access to what lies beneath Hoel.¡± ??? Later, Hobb did not dare to write down any part of his negotiations with the Herald¡ªor his perception of its former identity. The negotiations were, in any event, hardly a dialog between equals. The Herald¡¯s pretense of civility was paper thin. Beneath it lay the threat of awful, direct violence against Hobb, and then against the King, the National Assembly, and the Republican Guard. But he held out a carrot as well¡ªwith the promise that, should Hobb cooperate, the violent retribution that was threatened could be directed, not against the Republic, but instead against those whom Hobb selected instead. In the end, he had little choice but to acquiesce. He drove back to Roosterfoot in the deep night, enduring the cold, wet sleet and considering his choices. Boris had retired for the night when Hobb returned, but a coal-filled pan heated Hobb¡¯s bed. He lay in the dark underneath the blankets and stared at the ceiling for hours before sleep finally stole over him. At noon the following day, the delegates gathered at the Moothall. Rows of chairs had been set in the center of the chamber, facing in toward a raised platform with a podium on it. Raked seating filled up the rest of the room. The walls were decorated with rather moth-eaten tapestries in faded earth tones. It smelled of old wood and slightly musty cloth. There was little ceremony, though the delegates were dressed in formal clothing for the occasion. The men wore dark suits with white, starched shirts and a variety of colorful cravats; their shoes were polished, and many wore top hats as they entered. The women wore gowns in dark, subdued colors. Many observers had gathered as well, and there was a buzz of hushed conversation in the broad hall. Hobb¡¯s eye caught Merrily Hunter trying to speak with Mrs. Heweston, and he drew up behind her. ¡°Good morning, Mrs. Hunter,¡± he said. She turned, and her eyes widened to see him. ¡°Good morning, First Minister,¡± she replied politely. But something in her eyes spoke of some wretched, tearing battle within. She is tempted, thought Hobb. She sees the rightness of democracy, and of the sovereignty of the People. Another thought occurred, which he did not welcome, but which he forced himself to confront: I need her. I need her to come with me to Uellodon, and speak with her friend in the courthouse, and see the justice and good of the Republic. And I need to her to convince Anne to return. But most of all, I need an ally whose face isn¡¯t made of metal. ¡°Today we will find out what the Moot thinks of its choices,¡± said Hobb urbanely. He smiled. ¡°Let us be grateful that no one has thought to propose an alliance with the Ecclesia. I think we can both agree that would be worse than either republicanism or monarchy?¡± Mrs. Hunter¡¯s smile seemed forced, but it was a smile. ¡°I expect we will agree to that,¡± she said. He drew her aside, and they spoke quietly. He urged her to come with him; he confronted her fears about her own limitations. He laid out the facts of the War, and of the benefits of the Republic. But she was not convinced. ¡°Why do you want me to come to Uellodon, First Minister?¡± she asked, suspicion growing in her face. At that moment the speaker called the Moot to order, and the delegates filed to their seats. Hobb looked up at her, then motioned her outside with his head. They slipped out quietly, donning heavy coats against the rapidly falling snow. Hobb put on a top hat. Together they walked through the snowy streets of Roosterfoot, until they reached a small tea house near the Moothall. It was nearly empty; anyone who could afford a cup of tea was instead crammed in to watch the delegates and the vote. Over tea, he again laid his case before her. He tried careful evasion, but it failed. He tried to tempt her curiosity. And finally, desperately, needing to tell someone, he spoke of Sir Richard, and of his exile, doomed to wander the northern wilderness in search of non-existent Giant-Men. ¡°This man has returned,¡± said Hobb, taking a sip of tea. ¡°He broke his exile?¡± asked Mrs. Hunter. ¡°No,¡± replied Hobb, shaking his head slightly. ¡°I once threatened to have him executed if he returned without completing his impossible assignment. How hollow that threat was! No, Mrs. Hunter. He has come back, and he has brought with him a children¡¯s story out of the wastes of the north. He has brought back Giant-Men.¡± Mrs. Hunter stared at him. ¡°Are you having a joke at my expense, First Minister? If so, I think we are both needed back at the Moothall.¡± ¡°No, no. Don¡¯t go, Mrs. Hunter. They are real. I have seen them. And¡ other things. Things too mad to be true. But they are real. They are all real, and they are a terrible threat to all of us.¡± ¡°And you want me to come to Uellodon¡ to see these things?¡± she asked. ¡°No!¡± he said, raising his voice. Then he regained control of himself. ¡°No. Excuse me. I didn¡¯t mean to shout. I hope you will never see them. I want you to come to Uellodon because, Mrs. Hunter, we absolutely must make peace. We must stand together against these Giant-Men, and the¡ things¡ that they have with them. If you and I can bring Anne and Leeland together to work out their differences, we have a chance to confront them and drive them back. You have Anne¡¯s ear; she trusts you. Come to Uellodon, speak with the King, and see that the Republic is not the evil you think it is. Then go back to Green Bridge and tell her to come and meet us on neutral ground.¡± She stared at him for a long time. ¡°No,¡± she said. He didn¡¯t repeat it, or argue. He just stared at her, considering, and feeling fear creep over him. ¡°If you will not come for all the reasons I have just offered,¡± said Hobb quietly, ¡°then perhaps you will consider another reason. Your friend, Mr. Snort; he has become involved in an unfortunate domestic situation. He and some other lawyers were involved in an incident at the High Court. Some of the judges resisted an order from the King, and lawyers and bailiffs got involved in it as well. There was an altercation, and an escalation, and¡ªwell, I¡¯m afraid the High Court has become cut off from the rest of the city.¡± ¡°Cut off?¡± Mrs. Hunter demanded incredulously. ¡°What do you mean? Did it drift out into the Green River?¡± Hobb shook his head, smiling thinly. ¡°No. Let me be blunt, Mrs. Hunter. The High Court is under siege. The Republican Guard permit no one in or out, but the attorneys and judges are heavily barricaded, and have supplies. I do not want it to end in violence, but we cannot permit this to continue. Your friend, Mr. Snort, is well respected by both the bench and the bar. If you would come to Uellodon, perhaps you could enter the courthouse and speak with him. You could persuade him and the judges to accept a deal, to come out in return for amnesty. Otherwise I fear there will be a great deal of blood before this is ended.¡± She hesitated. ¡°I¡¡± she began. At that moment a man in a red cloak and a three-cornered hat burst into the tea house. ¡°First Minster!¡± he blurted. ¡°They¡¯re voting! Please come!¡± ??? By the time Hobb and Mrs. Hunter reached the Moothall, the vote was complete, and the speaker was reading the results. Hobb elbowed his way firmly through the crowd ahead of her, and they drew near to the rope barricade that separated the delegates from the onlookers. ¡°In favor of the motion: twenty-five,¡± the Speaker intoned. Murmurs began to grow in the crowd. ¡°Opposed to the motion: twenty-one. The motion carries. This Moot will reconvene in the spring. Dismissed.¡± ¡°What was the motion?¡± Hobb asked the people around him. No one responded immediately. ¡°What was the motion?¡± he asked again, turning from face to face. ¡°What did they just vote on?¡± Mrs. Heweston appeared before them, dressed in a black gown with a white frill. She nodded politely to both Mrs. Hunter and to Hobb. ¡°What was the motion Mrs. Heweston?¡± asked Mrs. Hunter. ¡°The motion,¡± she replied gravely, ¡°calls on King Leeland and Queen Anne to negotiate their disagreements and create a new constitutional settlement for the whole Kingdom of Uelland. Until such time as the disagreement between them is resolved, Roosterfoot and the counties represented at this Moot will remain neutral between the parties.¡± ¡°Nothing?¡± said Hobb, raising his voice. ¡°You¡¯re doing¡ nothing?¡± He felt the fear grow into panic, and rage. They were emotions that rarely governed Hobb¡¯s words, but they began to take over. He felt a red haze drift into his thoughts. These fools, he thought, have consigned themselves to the swords of giants and the bellies of dragons. He vaguely heard the women speaking, and tried to regain some measure of control over himself. ¡°The Moot has made a choice already, Delegate Heweston,¡± he said smoothly, ¡°which, no matter how much reflection it conducts, will have consequences.¡± And he turned on his heel to stalk out of the chamber. But Mrs. Hunter ran after him. She caught him in the swirling, flying snow outside the Moothall. He turned back when she called out to him. Surrounded by the whiteness of the snow, she had the appearance of a glowing angel. ¡°I will go with you,¡± she said. ¡°I will go back to Uellodon.¡± Chapter 24: Lies, Delicate and Lacy November 25th ¡°I want to go to the High Court,¡± Merrily said to Hobb. ¡°I want to talk to Wigglus right away.¡± Around the carriage, Uellodon¡¯s citizens moved about in apparently contented clumps, or ones and twos. The driver was taking a route that Hobb had prescribed, of course, and Robe had seen to the foot traffic. Bureau men stood here and there, watching. ¡°All in good time, Mrs. Hunter,¡± Hobb replied with a thin smile. He rode with her to the Academy and left her with its bumbling Chancellor. ¡°Take her to see some classes once she¡¯s settled in, Pearsy,¡± he instructed, as a servant led Mrs. Hunter away to her quarters. ¡°Some of the new model. And show her the children¡¯s instruction. Mrs. Hunter is quite interested in children, I believe. I¡¯ll be by in the morning to take her to the Old High Court.¡± The Chancellor nodded obediently, his generous beard and wild hair waggling in the lamplight at the gates. He turned away. ¡°And Pearsy,¡± added Hobb, ¡°I¡¯ll want a copy of your translation of the Balthan volume. There are one or two matters on which it may be helpful to me. Get someone started on it tonight.¡± Pearsy raised a quizzical eyebrow, but simply nodded again. ¡°As you wish, First Minister. If thirteen-hundred-year-old fairytales can solve the problems of the Republic, then you shall have them.¡± He walked away into the grounds of the New Academy. ¡°Since the problems of the Republic now include fairytales,¡± Hobb muttered to himself, ¡°I shall need some contemporary reference material.¡± ??? Mr. Robe joined him at the Academy, and together they rode back to Palace Naridium. The carriage rattled through the streets of Uellodon, with Robe droning on about the squabbling in the Assembly and the difficulties of acquiring and distributing food. Hobb¡¯s eye caught a large squad of red-clad soldiers standing around the outside of a townhouse, fending off a small crowd of onlookers. ¡°Stop here,¡± he instructed the driver through the slat in the compartment. Then he stepped out and walked wearily over to the Guardsmen. Mr. Robe got out and followed. ¡°What¡¯s this?¡± he inquired of a soldier at random. ¡°Good evening, First Minister,¡± replied the man, straightening his posture and gesturing hurriedly at his comrades, who did the same. ¡°Nothing to trouble you, sir. There was a crime here. We¡¯re taking care of it.¡± ¡°What was the crime?¡± asked Hobb. ¡°Murder, sir,¡± answered the soldier darkly. ¡°Another one of this new sort. Some fella just walked into this house and started laying about with a knife and club. Four dead, sir¡ªtwo children. Not a pretty scene; not something you¡¯ll want to look at, I¡¯m sure.¡± ¡°Did you catch the man?¡± The Guardsman nodded. ¡°Aye. Some of the neighbors heard the noise, grabbed him as he was leaving, and sent for the Guard.¡± ¡°Bring him to me,¡± said Hobb. A man in chains was led from across the street. He wore a simple brown smock and hose, and a wool overcoat. His hair was cut short, and he was clean-shaven. His face was ordinary; pleasant, even. The front of his shirt and pants were splashed with blood, and there were drops of it on his face as well. The man looked at Hobb steadily, even as a pair of burly Guardsmen held his arms firmly in place. ¡°You killed the family who lived here?¡± asked Hobb. He found the sound of his own voice dry and curiously emotionless. ¡°I did,¡± said the man. ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡± ¡°Hollen.¡± ¡°You know the penalty for murder?¡± Hollen nodded. ¡°Noose. Or the axe, if they¡¯re feeling like a change of pace that day.¡± Hobb looked at him closely, trying to read something in his face. There was nothing. ¡°Why did you do it?¡± Hobb asked. ¡°I wanted to,¡± replied Hollen. ¡°But why?¡± pressed Hobb. ¡°Normal, well-adjusted, sociable people don¡¯t walk into a stranger¡¯s house and start killing. What went wrong with you?¡± Hollen shrugged. ¡°Nothing left to do,¡± he answered. ¡°Do you have a wife? Children? A family?¡± The man looked into the distance. ¡°No,¡± he said. ¡°Just as well.¡± Hobb peered closer. The face moved, but the eyes were dead and cold. ¡°What do you do, Hollen?¡± ¡°I was a carpenter,¡± he said, ¡°before the work dried up. Now I stand in line for bread.¡± He brought his dead, distant gaze back to Hobb. ¡°I¡¯m no one important, like you, First Minister. No one with a story, or a reason, or a motive, or some great sorrow lurking in my past. If you¡¯re looking for an explanation, you won¡¯t find it here. I¡¯m nobody, and I have nothing. I killed that family because it was the only thing left to do.¡± Two Guardsmen emerged from the house carrying a long bundle on a sling. It was covered with a blanket, but an arm slipped out and dangled toward the ground. It was the arm of a child. Hobb looked back at Hollen. ¡°Take him to Hoel,¡± he instructed the Guardsmen. ¡°The Commandant will need more test subjects for the Yute Device.¡± He got back in the carriage, and rode in silence with Mr. Robe back to the palace. ¡°Put a Bureau team on Mrs. Hunter,¡± he instructed Robe after they arrived. ¡°And have them work on the citizens in the neighborhood around the Academy. When she goes about the city, she must see only the best us. I don¡¯t want her meeting another Hollen.¡± ??? The following night, Hobb stood alone in the cold November rain. The wind was sharp and piercing, and made uncomfortable sounds as it swirled among the rocks of the old quarry. Somewhere, perhaps a mile to the south, was Hoel; but in the cold and dark, Hobb¡¯s whole world consisted of the pressure of the wind, and the noise of air moving around rocks. A new figure entered his world, moving out of the darkness. It was tall, but only tall for a man. It wore a cloak and hood against the rain. Hobb¡¯s lantern reflected from a smooth metal surface beneath the hood, and he shivered. ¡°Good evening, Herald,¡± said Hobb, loudly, fighting to be heard over the wind. ¡°I return your greetings, First Minister of Uelland,¡± replied the tall man. His voice cut through the noise, its tenor suggesting no more effort than if he were speaking in a quiet room. ¡°It is a good evening for our purpose. Is this the location you described when we parted?¡± Hobb nodded, clutching his oiled cloak tightly around him. His other hand held in place the broad-brimmed hat, which the wind threatened to remove. ¡°The mine entrance is this way. From there, it¡¯s a walk of about a mile through the tunnels to the sub-basement of the fortress. We use this entrance for sensitive prisoner transfers.¡± By this, Hobb meant that it was used from time to time for the sort of prisoners that even he wasn¡¯t supposed to have imprisoned. But the demands of equality, equity, and representative government justified all ends¡ªand if the old mines had any opinion of the people who passed through them, they were suitably demure in expressing it. ¡°Will my servants be able to fit?¡± asked the Herald. ¡°Yes,¡± shouted Hobb in reply. ¡°The tunnels were enlarged to permit prisoner carriages to enter. Your people may have to stoop once we reach the sub-basement, but they can pass through. I¡¯ve had the prisoners moved out of that level, and ordered the guards out. The Herald made no sound or motion. Behind him, out of the darkness, towering shapes emerged. The Giant-men said nothing to Hobb, but stood behind their leader, waiting. He counted at least a score of them. ¡°Where is your¡ other servant?¡± asked Hobb. ¡°It will certainly not fit.¡± ¡°I have sent the dragon back to the north,¡± answered the Herald. ¡°It will return at the proper time.¡± ¡°When will be the proper time?¡± asked Hobb over the wind, leading the party toward the mine entrance. The Herald and his entourage followed close behind. ¡°When I require fear and fire,¡± replied the deep voice of the Herald behind him. ¡°Then let my allies rejoice, and my enemies despair.¡± They passed into the darkness of the mine. Hobb raised his own lantern, and behind him he saw lights emerge at shoulder height from the Giant-men. ¡°There have been rumors in the villages near here,¡± said Hobb, looking over his shoulder. ¡°My agents report that sheep and cattle have disappeared. People as well. They are being investigated as murders.¡± The Herald did not break his stride, nor did his body give any hint of reaction. ¡°My servants must eat,¡± came the deep voice. The rest of the journey was spent in silence. The passage was long and straight, and Hobb had no need of a guide. He¡¯d known of it for many years, in fact, though until recently he¡¯d had no need to use it himself. At the end of the long tunnel was an open space in the rock, and a sturdy door of oak. Hobb drew out a heavy iron key, unlocked the door, and gestured the Herald inside. Within the sub-basement, he led his new guests to the abandoned wing, and the stairs leading down. There was no sign of guards or prisoners, as he had arranged. The only living things nearby could kill him without the slightest physical effort or, presumably, twinge of conscience. He looked back at the Herald. ¡°We have an arrangement,¡± said the metal-faced diplomat, as if reading Hobb¡¯s thoughts. ¡°So long as you honor it, we would inconvenience ourselves by harming you.¡± They descended the stairs. In the tall, square, regular passage at their bottom, the Giant-men straightened up with obvious relief. The twenty-foot tall ceiling was more than adequate for their hulking frames. Hobb saw that the oversized steps, which he had descended so laboriously, were perfect for their legs as well. Come here, whispered a voice in the darkness. There was a movement behind him, and he turned to see that the Herald had raised his head sharply. There were no features to read, but he stood still, as if listening¡ªor perhaps speaking, in some unheard fashion. ¡°We are close,¡± he said. ¡°I know the way.¡± He pointed his smooth, featureless face at Hobb. ¡°You may follow if you wish.¡± The Herald moved past him into the darkness. Hobb delayed only a moment; his desire for knowledge was greater than his fear. He fell in behind the Herald, hearing the heavy, dense footfalls of the Giant-men behind. They reached the lip of the great, smooth chasm. Hobb half-wondered if he would see the dead prisoner rise up again out of the black pit, but there was no movement to stir the gloom. The Herald strode deliberately to the left, walking around the edge of the open space. Presently they came to openings in the rock on their left, but the Herald ignored them. Instead, he walked smoothly and swiftly until he reached a stair leading down into the darkness, with a wall on its left and the open space of the pit on its right. The stair curved slightly with the wall, and Hobb could see that the pit must be at least roughly circular.The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. They descended. Hobb could see little beyond the lanterns of the party. Even the Giant-men behind seemed small and isolated in the enormous darkness. But eventually there came faint glimmers from his right. He could make out little by the dim lantern light, but it was plain there were structures of metal out in the open space to reflect the light back to him. There was a smell of metal in the air, and of rust. ¡°What is this place?¡± he asked quietly. Even sotto voce, his words sounded shockingly loud. ¡°It is a Great Place of Change,¡± answered the Herald in a normal tone. Hobb quailed at the booming sound of his voice in the darkness. ¡°It is ancient beyond your reckoning, and you would be able to make little of it on your own. But it is precious to me and holy to my people.¡± ¡°I can¡¯t tell if you¡¯ve slipped into being a god again,¡± remarked Hobb sardonically. ¡°I have always been God,¡± replied the Herald, without a hint of irony. They reached the bottom of the stair. The floor around them was smooth and hard. ¡°Let there be light,¡± said the Herald solemnly, reaching out to touch one hand to the wall. And there was light. It was not a great swell of illumination. Rather, it was a vast ocean of tiny pinpricks, scattered in the darkness around them and above them like stars in the night sky. They seemed random at first, but as Hobb looked carefully, he began to see that there was a pattern and order. The lights described the outlines of structures in the darkness; great towers and embankments whose size and shape could just about be guessed by the placement of the lights around them. As his eyes adjusted, he began to pick out the shapes beneath the lights, illuminated by the fairy fire above and around where they stood. ¡°My people will set about our task,¡± announced the Herald. ¡°We will see to our own supplies. Instruct your soldiers not to interfere, or to visit this place. It will be fatal for them and unhealthy for you. We may take some time to extract what is required. Return here from time to time, and I will tell you when we have completed our task.¡± The Herald turned to face Hobb squarely. ¡°And we will discuss, when you visit, our access to the valley in the north.¡± ??? Two days passed, and events did not improve Hobb¡¯s mood. Mrs. Hunter¡¯s initial visit to the Old High Court produced no signs of the desired capitulation; rather, she returned with fresh demands from the recalcitrant jurists. The King showed no signs of recovery from his torpor. And the Crown Prince showed numerous signs of being a thirteen-year-old boy. ¡°Your man Pigmunk lost me again yesterday,¡± announced the prince with a faintly sneering smile. ¡°I went for a jog around the courtyard of the palace and passed him twice trying to catch his breath. When he couldn¡¯t be bothered even to try to keep up, I went to visit a friend of mine whom Pigmunk wouldn¡¯t like me to see.¡± Hobb, who was rewriting one of the young Prince¡¯s letters to his rebel mother so that it conformed to political truth, laid down his quill and stared up at Leeland over his spectacles. They sat together in Hobb¡¯s study. ¡°Mr. Pigmunk is charged with your protection, Highness,¡± said Hobb acidly. ¡°There are dangerous elements in the city; they might find a way into the palace. The death of the Crown Prince would be most destabilizing.¡± Young Leeland frowned. ¡°Why do you even want a King, Hobb, if you have a National Assembly?¡± Hobb nodded approvingly. ¡°An essential question,¡± he said. ¡°The Assembly is sovereign, but someone must be charged with executing its will and enforcing its laws. We have chosen to retain the office of the Crown for this purpose. The King serves, too, as the moral and public leader of the nation, as well as a symbol of continuity with its history and culture. None of these duties is incompatible with popular sovereignty in a Republic.¡± ¡°Sounds like a sham to me,¡± remarked the prince. ¡°You want to call someone a King so everyone will swallow what comes out of the National Assembly, but you don¡¯t want to actually have a King. It¡¯s theatre.¡± Hobb shrugged. ¡°Don¡¯t mistake cynicism for wisdom, Highness. No one ever loved a committee. People need a focus for their loyalty and affection.¡± ¡°You¡¯re asking people to love a lie,¡± retorted Leeland. ¡°I think the Uellish are smarter than that.¡± ¡°I¡¯m afraid the world is going to disappoint you, prince,¡± replied Hobb, shaking his head sadly. ¡°People, whatever their nation, believe what makes them feel good about themselves¡ªwhether it is real or not. Witness the enduring power of religion, wherever it¡¯s allowed to take root. If you want to make the lives of the people better, you have to start by telling them a story about themselves that they want to hear. And the Uellish want a King.¡± ¡°That¡¯s just a nicer way of saying you mean to lie to them.¡± Hobb began to grow frustrated. ¡°The bigger the lie,¡± he said testily, ¡°the easier it is to believe.¡± Leeland blinked. ¡°Now who¡¯s being cynical?¡± he asked. His face was troubled. There was a knock at the door. ¡°Come,¡± said Hobb loudly. Boris poked his head into the room. ¡°His Majesty is awake,¡± he announced. ¡°He wishes to see you both as he dresses for dinner with Mrs. Hunter.¡± Hobb looked back at the Crown Prince and raised an eyebrow. ¡°Your father needs you tonight,¡± he said. Leeland rose with some reluctance and followed Hobb from the room. The King, when they reached his bedchamber, was pale but standing upright. Two attendants were busily working to assemble the royal dinner attire. The King would wear a starched white shirt beneath a tastefully subdued dinner suit, complete with a black waistcoat trimmed in silver. Unfortunately, the dark color highlighted the pallor of his face. ¡°What lies will we tell tonight?¡± King Leeland asked. His voice was weak. Hobb and the Crown Prince looked at each other a bit sheepishly, as if they¡¯d been caught plotting the theft of cookies from the kitchen. ¡°Only the delicate, lacy kindnesses of personal diplomacy, Majesty,¡± answered Hobb. ¡°If Mrs. Hunter¡¯s dress makes her look fat, we can lie a little and say it doesn¡¯t.¡± ¡°He means,¡± added the prince, ¡°the biggest whoppers ever told. The Republic is strong, unified, and well-funded; our foreign enemies are on the run; the ingrates at the Old High Court will come out with their hands up any day now; and everyone loves Hobb the Wise.¡± King Leeland simply shook his head wearily. ¡°I have little strength to endure your quick tongue tonight, son,¡± he said, and swayed on his feet. The prince took a step forward then, as if to catch the man he thought was his father, but the valets quickly took hold of the King¡¯s arms and steadied him. ¡°How do you feel, sire?¡± asked Hobb. ¡°The wound aches, Hobb,¡± the monarch answered wearily, ¡°and the fever dulls my mind. I feel weak all over. Whatever the doctor and your man Boris did to me that night, it¡¯s only healed me halfway. I¡¯m stuck between life and death.¡± ¡°We will not keep you at dinner long,¡± said Hobb. ¡°You need only show Mrs. Hunter that you are alive and well. She will report it back to her Queen.¡± He didn¡¯t add anything else. It would have been unnecessary. But Hobb, and the Crown Prince, and the King, all knew what else there was to add. Anne must not have the advantage of knowing how precarious was King Leeland¡¯s health, and how deeply the young Republic¡¯s future depended on one ailing man and his reluctant son. They walked slowly to the small audience chamber, where dinner was to be served. Chancellor Pearsy was there, and Mr. Robe, both looking nervous and uncomfortable. Hobb bludgeoned the group with polite conversation until the door opened again and Boris announced Merrily Hunter. She was slim, her back erect, and her brown hair done up beneath an elegant hat. She wore a long pink gown that showed off her shapely neck and shoulders. Her face was annoyingly perfect¡ªauthentically beautiful without the slightest hint of pretense or effort. She reminded Hobb, incongruously, of a young Beatrice Snugg. Something twinged inside him for a moment. Pearsy flushed, Robe paled, Prince Leeland shifted uncomfortably, and the King appeared not to notice her at all. Hobb stepped forward, took her hand politely, and bowed. ¡°Permit me to introduce you, Mrs. Hunter,¡± he said. Dinner was a trial. The King barely spoke, leaving Hobb to carry the lion¡¯s share of the polite conversation. Despite his best efforts, and rather to his annoyance, Mr. Robe stubbornly insisted on dragging high principle and legal theory onto the table. Hobb wrenched the discussion back in a more useful direction. ¡°Your friend, Attorney Snort¡ªhe must have a sense of practicality. He and his friends in the courthouse are adrift from any source of real political power. The National Assembly is against them, the Republican Guard is against them, and the King and his Heavy Arms are certainly against them.¡± Hobb glanced for a moment at the actual King, seated at the head of the table, wondering if Leeland would react; the King said nothing, but nodded slightly. ¡°No body purporting to be part of the State can survive without political support, and the judges have very, very little. ¡°But we have made progress, Mrs. Hunter, haven¡¯t we? Their demands are a fair opening position. It is better that we discuss terms, rather than principles, Mrs. Hunter. Terms are flexible, and principles are not. Would you kindly convey to the occupants of the courthouse, when you next see them, that the Crown is prepared to enter into negotiations on a legal settlement regarding the acquisition of Foregrub and Quimble¡¯s assets, and also on the release of the two men themselves from Hoel.¡± She leaned forward. ¡°If the judges truly have no support, First Minister,¡± she said, ¡°then what¡¯s stopping you from storming the courthouse? The lawyers and judges have only bailiffs to protect them, and they are lightly armed. They will present little more resistance than a few hundred priests.¡± Hobb¡¯s demeanor twitched. He remembered again the face of Archdeacon Ratwaddler, slipping over the stern of his little rowboat after a firm kick from Hobb¡¯s own foot. His hands and feet bound, he disappeared once again into the darkness of the Green River. And in that black vision, there were also the faces of hundreds of other men, floating in the river. They seemed to look up at him with staring, accusing eyes. The moment was interrupted as servants brought in the salad course. ¡°As a sign that you take negotiations seriously, First Minister,¡± she asked, ¡°would you release Messrs. Foregrub and Quimble from Hoel so that they can consult with their legal counsel on settlement negotiations?¡± In the end he agreed to release Samuel Foregrub. It was little enough concession, he felt. The man could be re-arrested any time Hobb wished. And if he went to ground, all the better¡ªhe could be made to disappear all the more easily. The dinner was soon concluded, and the guests rose to leave. Chancellor Pearsy and Mr. Robe departed together, and the King and his son left the room by another door. Hobb delayed Mrs. Hunter for some time with questions about her history with Wigglus, and though Hunter parried with considerable skill, she gave him more than she meant to. ¡°You have said nothing more of your fairy tale Giant-men,¡± said Merrily softly, as Hobb escorted her out. ¡°Have you found they no longer exist?¡± Hobb shook his head. ¡°They do exist; I know this to be true. The nearer danger is that our current divisions widen, and we lose lives in pointless bloodshed when we should be united in defense.¡± ¡°Queen Anne will need to know more about them before they factor into her decisions,¡± retorted Merrily. ¡°She won¡¯t be persuaded by your word that they are real.¡± ¡°One impossibility at a time, Mrs. Hunter,¡± said Hobb sadly. ¡°Good evening. My secretary will show you out.¡± And with that he left through the same door as the King and Crown Prince. As he made his way back to his chambers, Hobb passed the Crown Prince¡¯s apartment. The door was open, and a light came from within. A single guard stood at attention by the door. Hobb, thinking of their argument earlier, knocked lightly. ¡°Are you in, Highness?¡± he asked. The guard shook his head. ¡°The Prince returned about fifteen minutes ago, sir, but then left very soon after.¡± Hobb, raising an eyebrow, pushed open the door and entered the apartments. Prince Leeland¡¯s apartments were similar in size to Hobb¡¯s own, but less well-stocked with books and writing equipment. Instead, the living room contained numerous overstuffed chairs and couches, as well as a large, round table with stacks of cards on it. The prince was known to enjoy card games with the few friends he was permitted. A small writing table also stood off to one side. Normally this was tidy and devoid of clutter. Just now, though, a single sheet of paper on its surface caught Hobb¡¯s eye. He strode over to it briskly, and read. The handwriting was oddly wobbly, in contrast to the gravity of its contents.
Leeland: Your father was Sir Edwin Andross, a Crown Knight in the service of your mother, the Queen. He was killed defending her during the August Uprising. Make of your future what you will.Hobb the Wise flew from the room. He searched in vain for the Crown Prince, running through the halls of Palace Naridium and frantically summoning servants, Bureau men, and Republican Guards as he went. The gates were barred at once, though Mrs. Hunter¡¯s coach had already departed. The guards at the gate reported that no one was with her. The King was alone in his room, and already asleep when Hobb arrived. Prince Leeland was not there. Nor was he in the kitchens, the stables, the ballroom, Begley Gallery, the Rose Tower, or the servants¡¯ quarters. After turning the palace into an anthill of frantic activity, Hobb at last returned in frustration to the Prince¡¯s apartment. To his great surprise, there was the young man, sitting with two of his friends at the round card table. Hobb blinked in confusion. ¡°What is it, sir?¡± asked Prince Leeland politely as Hobb stood in the doorway, gasping for breath and looking around for signs of the note¡ªof which there were none. ¡°Where did you go?¡± he asked, finally beginning to catch his breath. ¡°I went to find William and Herster,¡± answered Prince Leeland innocently, nodding at his two friends. The two young men shifted uncomfortably in their seats, as if they¡¯d been caught sneaking into the room of a young lady and had only a second-rate excuse. Hobb ignored them. ¡°Where is the note?¡± he blurted. ¡°What note?¡± asked the Crown Prince, cocking his head to one side in confusion. ¡°There was a note, right there on the desk!¡± said Hobb indignantly. ¡°Don¡¯t play games with me, Prince. I saw it when I came to speak with you after dinner.¡± ¡°I am playing games, First Minister,¡± said the young man, nodding at his companions, ¡°but not with you. If there was a note, I didn¡¯t see it, and it certainly isn¡¯t there now. Perhaps one of the cleaning staff swept it up while I was out rounding up players. What did it say?¡± He flipped a card onto a pile in the center of the table; it was the Queen of Hearts. Then he looked up at Hobb through long eyelashes. His blue eyes glittered, but revealed nothing else. Hobb turned abruptly to leave, and nearly collided with Boris. ¡°Sweet mercy, man, have a care!¡± he managed. ¡°My heart can¡¯t take another surprise tonight.¡± He took Boris by the arm and led him away from the Prince¡¯s chambers. Stopping in the nearby Begley Gallery, he drew Boris into one corner. The long hall, filled with the paintings, busts, arms, and armor of long-dead royalty, was lit by just a few small wall lamps. Several suits of full armor, positioned around the walls, cast long, disconcerting shadows on the floor beyond the lamps. The Eagle Helm of Horace Carelon sat on its padded stand in the center of the room¡ªstill missing its long-lost frontpiece. ¡°Where have you been?¡± demanded Hobb, lowering his voice to a soft hiss and drawing his attention back from the useless baubles of the past. ¡°I heard you were looking for me,¡± remarked his secretary innocently, ¡°so I came to find you.¡± ¡°You and everyone else who could help me turn this palace upside-down,¡± snapped Hobb, ¡°but it all turns out to be for naught.¡± ¡°I¡¯m so sorry, First Minister,¡± answered Boris, ¡°but I was seeing Mrs. Hunter out.¡± Hobb looked at his companion with narrowed eyes. ¡°Someone left a note in the Crown Prince¡¯s room,¡± he said. ¡°It was full of vicious and dangerous lies. Whoever penned it used his off hand to obscure his handwriting, but I suspect that weed Spoon has popped back up in the palace.¡± Boris said nothing, but reached out and idly straightened by a few inches the large, garish portrait of Horace II that hung near at hand. ¡°That painting,¡± snapped Hobb, ¡°has hung undisturbed for decades. What possessed you to straighten it now?¡± Boris shrugged. ¡°It was crooked,¡± he replied simply. ¡°And I¡¯m afraid I don¡¯t know anything about a note to the Prince.¡± ¡°Are you lying?¡± demanded Hobb. ¡°No,¡± replied Boris. ¡°I avoid it whenever possible.¡± ¡°Then go and find out who is,¡± snapped Hobb irritably. And he spun on his heel, stalking alone through the halls of the palace. Chapter 25: The Bench of Destiny Neither Boris nor Hobb uncovered the author of the note in the Crown Prince¡¯s bedchamber, nor news of its fate. The Prince himself gave no hint that he had ever seen it. As one week turned into two, and the demands of the National Assembly and the management of the nation nibbled at the dwindling cheese of his immediate attention, Hobb began to convince himself that the Prince truly remained ignorant of the vile missive. He watched, and he set extra Bureau men on young Leeland, and he waited for further developments. As the winter weather began to bite and the harvest season came to a close, there was little enough good news to brighten Hobb¡¯s mood. Food was short, and Mr. Robe had to tighten the rationing. The fighting in the southeast settled down into an ugly stalemate, with a Brassen army encamped north of the Green River for the winter, and the Carolese content to raid the north bank without making any serious effort at invasion. The National Assembly passed a new war tax, but Mr. Robe reported that more collectors were needed to make good on it. Shortages of coal and fuel wood presaged a miserable winter ahead. And the irritating campaign of anonymous pamphlets, stuck about the city like pimples on the face of a teenaged body politic, continued to swell painfully against Hobb¡¯s pride and patience. His own pamphlets, smuggled north to Green Bridge to be posted anonymously around the rival city, had so far failed to inspire the spontaneous uprising of revolutionary fervor that he desired. The standoff at the Old High Court dragged on, despite frequent visits from Mrs. Hunter. But the second week in December finally brought Hobb welcome tidings, of a sort. On the fifteenth of the month, Mr. Robe invited him back to Hoel to see a fresh demonstration of the Yute Device. As he stood in the cold, windy courtyard before the keep, Hobb drew his cloak and scarf tight around him. The grass was a mournful brown, and the long row of gallows against the outer wall of the keep stood out against the sky like pilings of some bridge to an unseen and forgotten world. The crossbeams were empty; they were not today¡¯s vehicle for the delivery of justice. A small group of chained prisoners shivered by the wall of the keep, huddling out of the wind and under the watchful gaze of several armed guards. Hobb looked at the curious new machine closely. There was a simple bench, just as in the previous version, but there the similarities ended. A pair of stout wooden pillars stood on either side of the bench, with a heavy, sharp blade suspended between them by a rope. The blade was set on rails so that it would run down to just beyond the end of the bench. Mr. Robe, Chancellor Pearsy, and another man who Hobb did not recognize stood nearby. Robe and Pearsy puffed out their chests proudly, but the third man looked rather crestfallen. He had a fringe of snowy white hair around an otherwise bald head, a deeply lined face, and sad eyes. He wore a light, undyed wool coat, but shivered visibly in the piercing wind. ¡°It is a marvel of simplicity,¡± expounded Chancellor Pearsy. ¡°All the swiftness and force of the headsman, with none of the skill required. Most egalitarian. And there are no gears or torsion to be fouled. It simply drops. Whiz, squelch, plop. Brilliant! With a bit of planning one could process hundreds of men in an hour. The courts will never keep up.¡± Hobb nodded approvingly. ¡°Indeed, it does look terribly simple. Is it a new design by Professor Yute?¡± Pearsy and Robe looked sheepishly at each other, and then down at their toes. Finally, both looked to the third man, standing nearby and shivering miserably. ¡°Professor Yute will be credited as the inventor, of course,¡± said Pearsy with forced confidence. ¡°It is only equitable that a man of his humble origins, from a class so long oppressed, be the inventor. It shall always be the Yute Device. But the design, er, originated with Professor Pie.¡± Hobb walked over to the white-haired professor. ¡°Who is he, then?¡± asked Hobb dispassionately. Professor Pie remained resolutely silent. ¡°Foulwart Pie is one of the great intellectual charlatans of Triad University,¡± supplied Pearsy. ¡°An apologist of the Pretender. He was in the faculty of the College of Applied Mathematics, before he tried to flee to Carelon. We caught him at the border last week. The dungeons made for a suitable muse; after several hours hanging upside-down in the room across from the rack, he agreed to lend a hand with the design of the new machine.¡± Pie¡¯s sad eyes looked up at Hobb, but still he said nothing. ¡°And is it an effective machine?¡± inquired Hobb softly, still looking at Pie¡¯s face. ¡°Just watch,¡± replied Mr. Robe. He gestured to the guards at the foot of the keep, who brought forward their line of prisoners. They unchained the first one and led him over to the Yute Device. Hobb recognized the man. ¡°Well there, Hollen,¡± he said affably. ¡°It¡¯s to be neither the noose nor the axe for you today. I hope you appreciate the novelty of your execution.¡± Hollen looked at the deep blue sky overhead, and then down at the strange contraption that would end his life. ¡°Is this all there is?¡± he asked, speaking past Hobb. Hobb shrugged. ¡°It¡¯s the only thing left to do,¡± he answered with a smirk, throwing the murderer¡¯s own words back at him. Hollen nodded in agreement and lay down on the bench without prompting, facing downward. The guards positioned him so that his head extended off the end of the bench, and then stepped back. Mr. Robe walked over to where the rope holding the blade was tied, and undid the knots. He held one loop firmly around the cleat, then looked down at the condemned. ¡°Any last words?¡± Robe asked. Hollen looked up at Hobb, craning his neck upward. ¡°One day, you¡¯ll lie here too,¡± he said. Mr. Robe let go of the rope, and the blade descended swiftly and surely on its rails. Whiz. Squelch. Plop. Chancellor Pearsy looked suddenly uncomfortable, and Professor Pie turned his eyes away and down. But Mr. Robe rubbed his hands in satisfaction. ¡°Marvelous!¡± he exclaimed. ¡°It will change the world.¡± He rubbed at the long, ugly scar across his face¡ªa memento, Hobb recalled, of the first scuffle at the Old High Court. ¡°I know a certain pretty lawyer,¡± Robe added, ¡°whose appearance will be greatly improved by a visit to this device.¡± Before he left, Hobb went alone into the sub-basement and entered the abandoned cell block. Looking around carefully to ensure he hadn¡¯t been followed, he descended the giant-sized stairs into the deep complex. A ¡°Great Place of Change,¡± the Herald had called it; Hobb wondered what he meant by that. Pearsy had not yet delivered a copy of the Balthan translations, but Hobb itched to know what it might say. Walking carefully around the lip of the enormous circular pit, Hobb saw the vast array of tiny lights spread out below him. As he moved, he perceived that they were arranged in tall, cylindrical patterns. They described the shape of round, flat-topped towers. He descended the broad steps, and the towers rose up to his right. By the light from the pinpoints, Hobb could now see a vast array of strange shapes on the ground; some hulking and dark, others like long cables, neatly bundled in groups that ran among the towers. There was a whirring noise in the air around him, and he could feel air moving. Small dots of green and blue lit up the walls that comprised the bases of the towers, and stretched up into the vast emptiness above. There was no sign of the Giant-men. Hobb wandered alone in the dim light, keeping an eye behind him so as not to lose the way back to the stairs. ¡°Herald?¡± he called out softly. There was no response. Then his eye caught a slightly brighter light, close to the floor and near at hand. It had a harsh, gray tone, but it was dim. He walked toward it, and then stopped suddenly. The Herald stood alone, his faced pressed tightly against the side of one of the great towers. His back was to Hobb, but his tall frame and the long, blond hair were unmistakable. He wore a sober coat and hose, of the sort that Hobb himself might have picked out of his own wardrobe. There was silence; the man¡¯s body was utterly motionless, devoid even of the rise and fall of shoulders that would suggest breath. Hobb¡¯s hand shook, and the light of his lantern made the shadows dance. ¡°Herald?¡± he said again. There was still no response. He drew up next to the man and looked closely. The front of the head was pressed into some protrusion of dark metal that emerged from the sheer, smooth side of the tower. It wrapped around where the metal of his face would normally have been, gripping it like the sucker of a squid¡¯s tentacle. A single thick cable of some black, flexible substance ran from just underneath the protrusion to the back of the Herald¡¯s head, where it appeared to enter his skull. Then the head moved. It drew back slowly from the protrusion that held it, and separated from the orifice. The cable detached from the back of the head and dangled from the tower. There was no glint of metal from the face; instead, where there had previously been a smooth surface, there was a concave patch of darkness punctuated by irregular shapes and shadows. Hobb started back, lost his balance, and fell. The lantern and its light rolled away. The Herald turned to face Hobb¡ªif he could be said to ¡®face¡¯ anything¡ªand in the dim gray light Hobb looked squarely into his unmasked visage. The skinless lumps of flesh and bone were just visible, though there were no eyes. Mixed among them were dark wires and nubs of some substance that Hobb could not begin to fathom. There was a smell of blood and raw meat and iron. Hobb wanted to shuffle backward on the floor, but found that his limbs could not move. The Herald did not advance on Hobb, but rather reached to his own waist and withdrew the metal mask from some pocket, raising it slowly to his face and placing it there. It affixed itself to his head without any binding; it simply remained where he had put it. There was, for a moment a faint sucking sound. And then he was once again a man with a metal face. ¡°Walk with me, Hobb the Wise,¡± said the Herald. He stopped and picked up the lantern, then offered Hobb a hand and helped him to his feet again. Then he retrieved from the floor a cloth bundle, which Hobb had not noticed before. The Herald silently led Hobb back to the stairs, and the two ascended. ¡°Where are we going?¡± asked Hobb, panting slightly, when they had come to the upper reach of the stair. The climb was long, and the Herald moved swiftly. ¡°We are going to visit your palace,¡± replied the Herald, leading him around the narrow lip of the great chasm. ¡°You can¡¯t go there,¡± blurted Hobb. ¡°I think you¡¯ll find that I can,¡± answered the Herald, without changing his conversational tone. ¡°You must not!¡± protested Hobb. ¡°I can¡¯t have people seeing you. It would be a disaster.¡± ¡°They will not see me,¡± replied the diplomat. ¡°Their eyes will be veiled.¡± Then he opened the cloth bundle and shrugged on a long, dark robe, with a hood that he flipped over his face and wore low, obscuring his metallic features. The robe was bound around his waist by a simple length of rope. ¡°If anyone asks,¡± said the Herald with a sardonic tinge to his voice, ¡°simply tell him that I am your personal priest.¡± In the event, no one did ask Hobb about the hooded man who emerged with him from the dungeons of Hoel. He instructed Robe and Pearsy to return to the city in another vehicle, and ensconced the Herald in his personal coach. ¡°Why are you coming back to Uellodon with me?¡± asked Hobb petulantly, once they had rolled out beneath the stern, gray gatehouse of the fortress. ¡°There is nothing for you or your Giant-men there. If you expose yourself to the public, both our roles will grow more difficult. Most of my countrymen are not as tolerant as I of¡¡± He trailed off before he finished the sentence. ¡°You are correct,¡± agreed the Herald, his voice suddenly deadly quiet. ¡°Your countrymen do not tolerate what I am, and never have.¡± ¡°Then why ¨C" ¡°There is someone I need to see there,¡± interrupted the Herald shortly, and would then say nothing more. Hobb gave up on conversation with his obscure passenger and sat quietly for the hour it took to return to the city. The Herald turned his faceless gaze out the window of the coach, apparently content to look, in his way, at the little villages and the broad, rolling river beyond them to the south. Beneath the robe, his shoulders and back were hunched forward uncharacteristically, giving the impression of a man with heavy weight on his mind. The sun had set when the coach returned to Palace Naridium, and the streets were dark. Hobb hurriedly escorted the Herald through the halls of the palace, glowering ferociously at any servant or soldier who unwisely met his gaze. He deposited the diplomat in the small audience chamber, instructed the Guardsmen at the door to permit no one in or out, and then went to find Boris and arrange discreet quarters for his unwelcome guest.Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. This done, he set out to return to the audience chamber. He walked alone. Robe had not yet arrived in the other carriage, and Boris had the night off. He walked across the back wall of the Grand Ballroom and ascended the stairs to Begley Gallery. His nose detected a faint whiff of the sewers in the air, and he made a mental note to have one of the staff check and clean the loos in the basement. Hobb passed into Begley Gallery. The broad hall was nearly pitch-black, lit only by a dim light shining through one of the doors out onto the balconies of the Grant Ballroom. Hobb was reminded, to his intense displeasure, of the Midsummer¡¯s Ball last year, when Cyrus Stoat and his accomplices had slipped through Hobb¡¯s fingers, swinging on a chandelier across the crowded ballroom in an offensively improbable act of defiance against good order and good taste. He paused at the portrait of Horace II, now hanging somewhat more straightly thanks to Boris¡¯s compulsive meddling, and regarded the ancient monarch in the near-dark. It was done in the formal, stylized mode that was in vogue eight hundred years ago, and historians regarded the pose and form of the body as largely aspirational. It was how a king was supposed to look, rather than a true representation. Still, the artist couldn¡¯t avoid capturing some of the sneering cruelty of the man who had ordered the murder and exile of thousands of priests. ¡°What would you have done now?¡± Hobb muttered quietly to the angry old king. There was a noise behind him in the dark, and Hobb started to turn his head. But just then a door slammed somewhere in the vast pile of Palace Naridium. And, as if to answer Hobb¡¯s question, the portrait of Horace II fell cleanly off the wall, crashing to the ground in a ruin of splinters and torn fabric. Hobb danced just out of the way before it fell over on him. He looked up in astonishment, first at the wall where the frame had hung, and then at the shattered remains of the artwork. Then he turned and stalked away toward the small audience chamber, muttering angrily at the negligence of the gallery curator. At the small audience chamber, he entered and shut the door behind him. ¡°What do you want from us?¡± he demanded, turning to scan the room for the Herald. But the chamber was empty. ??? The next morning, the Crown Prince was gone from the palace. At first, Hobb was convinced that young Leeland was playing another game with him, and resisted rousing the palace staff into an uproar. When a limited search turned up nothing, though, he gave orders for the palace to be turned upside-down again. But Hobb only discovered the Prince¡¯s location when Mr. Robe came with a message from General Watt. Hobb read the message, and then ascended the long stairs of the Rose Tower to peer with his own eyes through field glasses from the observatory. There was Crown Prince Leeland, future monarch of Uelland and symbol of nationhood, on the roof of the Old High Court. He was seated in a chair at a small, round table with two companions. They appeared to be drinking tea. Hobb was not given to intellectual violence, and so he did not curse. He put the field glasses down carefully in their case and took a deep breath. He descended the stairs down to the palace slowly, a new thought entering his brain with every step. When he reached the base of the tower, he immediately sent for Mrs. Hunter, and also sent instructions for Mr. Robe to proceed with all haste to Hoel. ¡°Were you involved?¡± he asked bluntly when Hunter arrived. She denied it, unconvincingly. ¡°Come with me, Mrs. Hunter,¡± he said. And he stalked out of the room. He took her to the stables, and had a coach prepared. They took the coach and passed out of the city, with Mrs. Hunter looking increasingly uncomfortable. Hobb continued to breathe deeply, and to focus on each moment as it came and went. ¡°Where are we going?¡± she asked, keeping her tone neutral and inquisitive. ¡°We are going to Hoel,¡± answered Hobb shortly. When they arrived at the fortress, Hobb smiled thinly at his guest. ¡°Have you ever been to Hoel, Mrs. Hunter?¡± he asked. ¡°No.¡± ¡°Then you¡¯re in for a treat. It is an ancient structure, of great historical significance. For nearly four centuries it has housed the worst criminals of the Kingdom of Uelland. And, coincidentally, it is also where we conduct executions.¡± He instructed Mr. Robe to fetch ten economic criminals, including Hector Quimble. The Yute Device was undergoing maintenance, having jammed up after about the first hundred executions, and so the traditional method would be necessary. The condemned were brought out to the gallows, and Mr. Robe came to stand by Hobb and Mrs. Hunter, giving a shallow bow in greeting. ¡°What are their crimes?¡± asked Merrily, tension in her voice. ¡°Economic crimes,¡± answered Mr. Robe. ¡°The worst sort. A burglar or a murderer might hurt one or two people, or perhaps even more, if he is quite prolific. But a man who breaks the laws that govern prices, quantities, the quality of goods¡ªthose transactions that we all rely on to live safely, and to preserve order¡ªthat man attacks the Revolution itself, and tears at the flesh, not merely of one or two individuals, but of the entire People. He must be made to deter other jackals by the consequences of his crimes.¡± ¡°This can¡¯t be right,¡± said Merrily, looking sick. ¡°Can¡¯t it, Mrs. Hunter?¡± asked Hobb. ¡°Do you think that the punishment of death is disproportionate, perhaps, to the crime of selling fish at too high a price? Does it violate some sense of principle? Consider that it is civilization itself that is attacked, when a man violates the law casually. If we permit these black marketeers to go about their vile business, gnawing at the ropes that bind us together as a society, then what law will next be ignored? The prohibition against theft, perhaps? Or rape? Or murder? Where next will the chaos spread? At any rate, that was the finding of fact by the National Assembly; and the punishment to be applied here¡ª¡± Hobb was interrupted as an executioner on the nearest gallows loudly proclaimed the name of a man. Then he pulled the lever, and the floor dropped out below the condemned, and the rope snapped taught. The man¡¯s neck jerked into a horrible angle, and he hung limply. ¡°¡ªis the will of the People,¡± Hobb finished. ¡°Well measured,¡± he added, eyeing the limp form. ¡°No suffering at all; a quick snap, and the criminal pays his debt.¡± Hector Quimble was next. At a sign from Hobb, the executioner shortened the rope. Mr. Quimble¡¯s neck did not break, and he took several minutes to strangle to death. ¡°If the Crown Prince does not return to Palace Naridium by nightfall, Mrs. Hunter,¡± he said, ¡°we shall be obliged to retrieve him, and everyone else in that courthouse will share the fate of Mr. Quimble.¡± ??? Hobb¡¯s ultimatum failed to produce the desired outcome. However, an unexpected windfall saved the night from total frustration. The Crown Prince did not emerge from the Old High Court. Hobb did not expect him to, and did not want him to, quite yet. He gave Major Bisking instructions that, he hoped, were inescapably clear. ¡°Do not kill or unnecessarily injure the Crown Prince,¡± he said. ¡°Use whatever force is necessary to subdue the courthouse and retrieve him, but do not kill its defenders unless you must. I prefer they suffer publicly the legal consequences of their treason.¡± He imagined a long row of Yute Devices, discharging just punishment in beautiful coordination. Then he sent an order, signed and sealed by King Leeland, summoning General Hyden and General Watt. The two military men met Hobb at dusk in the observatory atop the Rose Tower, where he sat comfortably in one of the high-backed, overstuffed chairs. A fire roared in the fireplace, but all the men wore heavy fur cloaks against the chill December air. ¡°Join me, gentlemen,¡± he said, gesturing at the other chairs. Hyden and Watt, both wearing their formal dress uniforms beneath the cloaks, sat down rather stiffly. General Hyden was a tall, burly soldier with an outrageous mustache and deep red hair that was graying at the temples. General Watt, of the King¡¯s Eyes, was thin, almost slight, with trim dark hair and a clean-shaven face. ¡°Why are we here?¡± asked General Hyden rather bluntly. ¡°To observe, with me, the lancing of a pustulous boil on the body politic,¡± said Hobb cheerfully, ¡°and to direct your forces to participate if I should require it.¡± General Watt cleared his throat carefully. ¡°The King¡¯s Heavy Arms,¡± he said, ¡°take orders directly, and only, from the King.¡± Hobb produced another piece of paper from his pocket. It, too, was signed and sealed by King Leeland. ¡°Here are his orders,¡± said Hobb, handing it over. ¡°You will find that he has instructed you to henceforth follow my orders, as his delegate.¡± The two men looked suspiciously at the paper, and General Watt held it near the fire, examining the seal by the light of the flames. Then he straightened up. His thin, wiry frame looked even more stiff than it had before. He did not turn. Hobb knew both men, and knew that they would throw their lives away before breaking their oath to the King. ¡°Now,¡± he said. ¡°Make yourself comfortable, Generals, and let¡¯s watch the festivities. Oh¡ªand you can instruct your signal men upstairs to bring us regular updates.¡± It was difficult to make out the action on the ground under the cover of night, but the general movements of the Republican Guard could be discerned from the torches they carried. Hobb and the generals watched as the battering ram made its way to the doors of the courthouse, and heard the rhythmic thumping begin. And then they saw the torches stream away from the door, as faint, shadowy flickers descended on them from above. ¡°Defensive projectiles,¡± remarked Hyden calmly, staring through field glasses. ¡°Books, by the look of it. I should have thought your crews would have come with a cap for their ram.¡± Hobb glared at him in irritation, but quickly regained his composure. ¡°The night is young, General,¡± he said. ¡°If they can¡¯t go through the front door, they¡¯ll go over the walls.¡± ¡°Do you have any idea how costly a scaling assault will be?¡± asked General Watt. ¡°And how terrifying for the men involved? One hopes your Guardsmen have a few veterans among them to lead by example.¡± In the event, the assault on the walls, too, was repulsed. The torches of the Guardsmen could be seen falling from the rooftops or streaming backward across the dark open space. In the streets beyond Justiciar Square, large crowds could be seen, watching the action. ¡°Generals,¡± said Hobb, ¡°it is time for you to contribute to this law enforcement action. Order your garrison in the city to bring up a siege engine to knock a hole in those walls.¡± ¡°First Minister,¡± protested General Hyden, ¡°the King¡¯s Heavy Arms have never been used in this way. Our soldiers are not policemen. Their oaths are to the King and constitution of Uelland; they will not turn their weapons against a civilian population.¡± Hobb scowled. ¡°Your King orders it,¡± he said. Hyden and Watt looked at each other, and then Hyden sullenly called up to the signal flaggers on the rooftop observation deck. ¡°Message to Captain Dove,¡± he shouted. ¡°Send an onager and crew to Justiciar Square. They are to open a hole in the wall of the courthouse. The order is confirmed by General Hyden under Protocol Nine.¡± General Watt looked up sharply from where he sat, but said nothing. ¡°What is Protocol Nine?¡± asked Hobb curiously. General Watt, still seated, shrugged. ¡°The highest level of authority available from a senior officer other than the King,¡± he replied. ¡°We use it when there is a risk the authenticity of an order might be questioned.¡± He said no more, and Hobb turned back to his own field glasses. He had little interest in the military¡¯s obscure command structure. It would all be swept away soon enough, he reminded himself. Hours passed, and a servant brought a late supper. ¡°Where is your siege engine, General Hyden?¡± asked Hobb waspishly. ¡°It takes time to mobilize an onager and its shot, First Minister,¡± replied the general smoothly. ¡°But it will arrive soon, I think.¡± The crowd in the streets beyond the square continued to grow. Hobb, beginning to feel nervous about its size, sent a message to Major Bisking, instructing him to disperse the people. But as he watched in frustration, the crowd went nowhere. Eventually Hyden, looking through the field glasses, announced: ¡°The crew has arrived.¡± Hobb took the glasses and looked for himself; he could make out very little in the dark, but a path had indeed opened in the street beyond the square. ¡°Well, tell them to get to it!¡± demanded Hobb. ¡°They have their orders,¡± replied General Hyden. ¡°No good is served by repeating them.¡± There was a long pause, during which no stones were flung at the obdurate walls. Eventually, there was a faint movement describing a low arc, faintly visible against the torchlight around the square. There was a thud from the paving stones in front of the courthouse, and a burst of flame sprang up. ¡°Finding the range, I expect,¡± said Hyden laconically. ¡°Always best to start with burning pitch,¡± added Watt. ¡°Helps to see by.¡± Finding the range took longer than Hobb would have expected. The crew switched to stones, and numerous shots went flying over the courthouse, causing cringe-inducing sounds of destruction from the other side. Others landed short in the square. But eventually a few shots impacted the walls, causing a terrific and satisfying noise. ¡°They¡¯ll have it down any time now,¡± said Hobb, rubbing his hands. The crew then inexplicably switched back to pitch. Although the barrels impacted the walls and burned merrily, the stone stubbornly refused to catch fire. Evidently, someone then had the idea to move the onager¡¯s aim upward to the roof, but the crew aimed too high. When a barrel of burning pitch sailed over the Old High Court and landed on the other side, it turned out to be the last shot. ¡°What happened!¡± demanded Hobb in frustration. ¡°Why aren¡¯t they shooting anymore?¡± General Hyden ascended to the rooftop, and came back several minutes later. ¡°Out of ammunition,¡± he said ruefully. ¡°WHAT!¡± bellowed Hobb. ¡°This is the military headquarters for the entire Republic! How can they be out of ammunition?¡± ¡°An onager is not a defensive weapon,¡± explained Hyden patiently. ¡°We don¡¯t keep large stores of throwing stones in the city. Most of our supplies are staged in depots in the countryside, where we can move them quickly to where they¡¯re needed.¡± And he seemed very sincere in his explanation. Hobb fancied, though, some silent message was passed by look between the two senior officers. Hobb pounded his fist on the table in frustration, and then immediately felt embarrassed at the clich¨¦. He sent a message to Major Bisking of the Republican Guard, ordering another assault, which was not to abandoned until the courthouse was taken. The final assault eventually came in the hour before dawn. Dozens of ladders went up, and the light of torches showed hundreds of men ascending. Some were pushed away, but many Guardsmen reached the rooftop. Hobb watched in agony. He could see nothing from the rooftop, but the sounds of fighting and dying there were loud and fierce and painful, even from the top of the Rose Tower. Men, and parts of men, dropped from the battlements to the yard below. At the gate, the ram broke through, and the whole group of red-clad Guardsmen seized their hand weapons and rushed into the portal. There came, from within, the sudden noise of twanging crossbows, and of many more screams. Hobb remembered that the passage inside the door ended in a heavy inner portcullis. The cries abruptly ended, and none of the Republican Guard re-emerged from the front door. Hobb gripped the field glasses tightly, and peered at Justiciar Square. An odd quiet settled over the courtyard, and the fortress-like Old High Court. The fighting on the rooftop had died down, but in the darkness Hobb could make out no details that would tell him which side had prevailed. He waited, shivering in the high tower, for dawn to come. As the faint light around him turned gray and began to strengthen, there was movement in the street below. Hobb looked down, and saw, to his great surprise, that the crowd that had been kept outside the barricades was moving in a great mass toward the courthouse. They came deliberately, without rushing, without violence. The few Republican Guards remaining at posts around the courtyard shouted and threatened, but they were too few to hold back the crowd, who simply flowed around them. The people carried torches and crude, improvised weapons, and were dressed warmly now against the slushy snow. Some bore large packs. They passed under and around the two statues of Justice, and made their way across the courtyard littered with bodies and the detritus of war. ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± asked Hobb frantically, turning back to the two generals. General Hyden and General Watt looked at each other grimly. ¡°It appears a civilian element has obstructed the battlefield,¡± said Watt, the intelligence officer. ¡°Makes a dreadful mess of military operations.¡± ¡°Well, clean them out!¡± demanded Hobb. ¡°Go down there, and roust your men out of their barracks, and clean those people out of the square!¡± Watt and Hyden looked at each other again, and something seemed to pass between them again. They both stood at the same time, and without another word walked to the stairway down from the observatory. Hobb watched eagerly, waiting for heavily armed, black- and silver-clad professional soldiers to force their way into the square to disperse the crowd with fire and sword. But the hours passed, and no force arrived. Major Bisking sent word that the Republican Guard lacked the manpower to disperse the crowd; the King¡¯s Heavy arms sent no word at all. Hobb put his head in his hands. Eventually he left the observatory and wandered down to his apartment. He felt tired to his bones, and weary to the depths of his spirit from carrying the weight of the Republic and its uncaring citizenry on his shoulders. ¡°Let them have chaos,¡± he said to the empty room, lying down in his bed without changing clothes. ¡°Let them have tyranny, and let them be slaves to the merchants. Let their voices be silenced, let the powerful rule them, and let the rich eat them. I don¡¯t care.¡± There was a knock at the door. ¡°Go away!¡± shouted Hobb. ¡°It¡¯s me, First Minister¡ªMr. Robe,¡± came a muffled voice. Hobb wearily got back out of bed, left the bedroom, and crossed the study to open the door for Mr. Robe. His deputy¡¯s face was bright with excitement. ¡°What is it, Robe,¡± muttered Hobb. ¡°I¡¯ve had enough disappointment for an entire year.¡± ¡°We¡¯ve found them!¡± blurted Robe. ¡°Spoon, and his collaborators! We got a tip, and we¡¯ve arrested them!¡± Hobb¡¯s eyes lit up. Strength and hope returned to his limbs and his spirit. ¡°Prepare a coach,¡± he instructed. And he smiled deeply. Chapter 26: Madness and Fantasy December 17th From three Uell men in a home in the village of Penshaw, across the Abergren from Naridium, I heard this tale. Two of them claimed to be descendants of King Semvee, which is probably not true. In the old days, Semvee ruled Naridium and the lands around it, and he had many slaves that were giant men. Semvee was the mightiest of all the kings of Naridium, but he was as a low servant to the Emperor of the Dawn. When one day the Emperor came to Naridium to review his subjects, Semvee became infatuated with one of the Emperor¡¯s favorite wives, and seduced her. But they were found out, and the Emperor had Semvee thrown in prison, and made it known that he would be mutilated and killed in the morning. Semvee was cunning, and so before he was captured [sic] he snuck into the great Kaples Wethan Mekoth in Naridium and entered the sanctum of the metal god. There he entreated the metal god with the most terrible offering. When dawn came, Semvee was the Emperor of the South, and the old Emperor was Semvee. The Emperor had himself mutilated and killed, and went back to the South with his favorite wife. Before he left, he ordered his slaves to destroy the Kaples Wethan Mekoth in Naridium. Thereafter the only remaining homes of the god were in Krotsium and Vicarium. ??? ¡°What is Kaples Wethan Mekoth?¡± inquired Hobb of Pearsy. ¡°And where are the rest of these places? The only name I recognize is ¡®Naridium,¡¯ and only from the palace.¡± Hobb rested the newly-copied Balthan translation on his knees and peered over his wire-rimmed spectacles at his traveling companions. The wild-haired Chancellor Pearsy of the New Academy jiggled uncomfortably, crammed into the carriage bench across from Hobb. Boris sat next to him, his face plastered with the inevitable bland, slightly mysterious smile. The carriage, and its three uncomfortable occupants, were rattling along the frozen, bumpy road to Hoel. ¡°Abergren was the old Brassen name for what we today call the Green River,¡± answered Pearsy, shifting awkwardly in the cramped quarters. ¡°Penshaw is an Old Uellish name, not Old Brassen; it was likely some insignificant settlement on the north bank of the river. Though,¡± he added thoughtfully, ¡°there is a village of ¡®Unshoe¡¯ north of Hoel. Thirteen-hundred years of language drift, and a bit of feeble local humor, might have turned ¡®Penshaw¡¯ into ¡®Unshoe.¡¯ ¡®Naridium¡¯ was the name of the kingdom that predated the Second Interregnum. The written record suggests it collapsed at the same time as the First Empire of the Dusk; about fifteen hundred years ago. The name of our palace is a linguistic remnant of that kingdom.¡± Hobb frowned. ¡°I suppose ¡®Vicarium¡¯ could refer to Talen Vicarus, in the Holy Empire,¡± he deduced. ¡°What about ¡®Krotsium¡¯ and ¡®Kaples Wethan Mekoth¡¯?¡± Pearsy shrugged. ¡°I don¡¯t know of any settlements that sound like either of those, but the name could simply have been lost over time, or it could be too insignificant today to appear in major geographies. Kaples Wethan Mekoth, at least, is used by Balthan more as a kind of place rather than a specific location; more like our word for ¡®temple.¡¯¡± Hobb scanned once again the passage he¡¯d been reading. ¡°This Kaples Wethan Mekoth in Naridium would have been quite near to where we are now,¡± he remarked, looking at the gray road and the bulk of the river to the south. Pearsy shrugged lightly. ¡°If you were to treat ancient folklore as a factual enterprise, then yes. But serious scholarship properly credits this sort of material as evidence of culture and society, rather than a description of reality. It isn¡¯t fruitful, as a matter of social science, to go about searching for metal gods that change people from one thing into another. Therein lies madness and fantasy.¡± Hobb stared out the window silently for the rest of the ride to Hoel, pondering madness and fantasy. The road traffic was light. Few merchant caravans approached Uellodon now, even under direct orders from the National Assembly. The Republican Guard did, however, follow orders. Consequently, the main traffic on the road now was comprised of squadrons of red-clad, hard-faced troopers from the nearby town and regional departments. They were men of whose loyalty Hobb felt certain, and they were marching into Uellodon. At Hoel, the party shook off the heavy, damp snowflakes that had flocked eagerly to their shoulders in the space between the carriage and the keep¡¯s entry hall. They kept their coats with them as they descended into the dungeons. The air was chill and damp, and the sound of wheezing and coughing prisoners filled the sullen, pressing darkness beyond their lamplight. The leaking aqueduct had been repaired, at least, and the floor was mostly dry. In the inhabited wing of the sub-basement, they found Wallingford Spoon, formerly of the Royal Academy of Uelland. One of his eyes was swollen shut, and there was a nasty cut across his face. Bloodstains marred his clothing, and his breathing was shallow. But his one visible eye was bright as he looked at Hobb in the dim light of the guards¡¯ torches. He still wore the sad remains of a tweed coat. Hobb knelt over the fallen professor, shining a light to inspect the physical damage the man had suffered in his arrest. Pearsy and Boris waited outside the cell. ¡°You have already lost, you know,¡± said Hobb softly. ¡°Utterly, completely. Your pamphlets have swayed no one, and your allies in the Old High Court will soon lie dead. Your collection of guerilla teachers in Carelon is nothing but an illegitimate rump. They are not the Royal Academy, and you are not a chancellor. Very soon, you will not be a man.¡± Spoon croaked something unintelligible in reply. Hobb, sensing his difficulty, handed him a water skin, from which he drank gratefully with one chained hand. When the skin was handed back, Spoon¡¯s head drooped. ¡°No defiant riposte?¡± sneered Hobb. ¡°No hollow warning of future moral condemnation from the pens of the writers of history?¡± ¡°There will be no more writers of history, if I have already lost,¡± answered Spoon faintly. ¡°They will be replaced, in your future, by revisers, until the very memory of truth or fact will be lost. Promising the condemnation of such tools would be, as you say¡ hollow.¡± Hobb withdrew Pearsy¡¯s copy of the Balthan translation from his pocket and flipped to a particular page. Then he held his lantern over the book so that Spoon could see it. ¡°What is Kaples Wethan Mekoth?¡± he asked. Spoon squinted his one good eye at the page that Hobb proffered. ¡°Why should I help you? Get your ape Pearsy to translate it.¡± ¡°You should help me,¡± replied Hobb calmly, ¡°because if you do not I shall have your companions tortured extensively to death, and then you will follow them. Whereas if you do, I shall end your life and theirs by the most marvelously swift and painless means that science has yet produced.¡± ¡°A fair bargain,¡± agreed Spoon, peering at the page for a long moment. Hobb lent him his spectacles, which he accepted gratefully and perched on his nose. ¡°I recall this phrase from Professor Stoat¡¯s translations of the original,¡± he said at last. ¡°It appears in a number of passages. From the surrounding context, Stoat inferred that it meant something like ¡®large area of transformation.¡¯ He sent me a copy of his translations, but I confess I skimmed parts of it. Maybe if you ask nicely, Stoat will send you a copy as well. Whoever translated your version appears to have skipped some of the contextual analysis.¡± Hobb stared at him, and then looked down at the page. ¡°Could it have meant, ¡®great place of change¡¯?¡± he asked softly. Spoon¡¯s tall frame gave a weary shrug. ¡°I suppose so. Translating the real meaning of an archaic language into modern idiom is always fraught. But it could have meant that.¡± Hobb stood up, his mind suddenly racing far away, making connections, drawing inferences. ¡°Do you believe in fairy tales, Mr. Spoon?¡± he asked, his tone abstracted. ¡°Only the ones I can see and touch,¡± answered his prisoner. ¡°So¡ªvery few.¡± ¡°And yet you cling to the greatest fairy tale of all,¡± said Hobb. ¡°Though you will not live to see it, we enter an age that will finally abolish the dark illusion that you and your class have woven for all the millennia of man¡¯s sordid history. It is the myth of the individual, Mr. Spoon; the seductive lie that rests in the heart of all other injustices. Now if you will excuse me, I am going to go and set about with the abolishing.¡± He left the cell, not quite looking back. ¡°Have Mr. Spoon and his clique executed at sundown,¡± instructed Hobb to Pearsy, lifting his lantern and turning to the abandoned wing of the sub-basement. ¡°I promised no torture, but a few hours to contemplate the magnitude of his failure will stand in well enough. Boris, go and see to the carriage. I don¡¯t mean to be long.¡± ¡°Where are you going?¡± asked Pearsy, behind him. ¡°There is a stair in a cell at the back of this level,¡± answered Hobb softly. He paused for a moment, staring into the darkness. ¡°If I¡¯m not back by dusk,¡± he added, ¡°immediately fill it in with the heaviest stone you can find and seal it with concrete. And then open up the aqueduct and flood the basement.¡± ??? In the dark of the great pit, lit faintly by the circular towers of tiny lights, Giant-men moved in regular, purposeful patterns. They filtered through the darkness at the base of the towers, carrying on their backs and shoulders heavy packs of leather that bulged with unknown contents. The mass of the packs must have been extraordinary; Hobb could see that the Giant-men labored and strained beneath their burdens, despite their massive frames and bulging muscles. He peered closely at one that passed nearby, but could make out nothing of the contents of the pack. The Herald emerged from the shadows, the featureless glint of his face reflecting the green and blue of the lights above and around them. ¡°You return to us, First Minister,¡± he observed. ¡°And in good time, as our task here is nearly complete, and I would not have waited for you.¡± ¡°You¡¯ll be departing, then?¡± asked Hobb, feeling a surge of relief. ¡°I¡¯ll make arrangements for your way to be clear.¡± ¡°Soon,¡± confirmed the Herald. ¡°Your assistance is unnecessary. We will not be hindered.¡± Hobb swallowed, sensing the ambiguous threat in his words. The Herald drew close to Hobb, looming over him, as if to erase the ambiguity. ¡°You have come to discuss the terms of our access to the valley in the north,¡± announced the voice from behind the metal face. Hobb could hear Sir Richard Enderly¡¯s deep, rich tone¡ªbut it was overlaid with a dry, grating film that made his bones feel cold. ¡°Let us speak apart from your servants,¡± said Hobb. ¡°Out of this pit.¡± The Herald nodded agreeably, and headed for the long stairs up to the rim. A Giant-man in a long, white robe followed after them. Hobb recognized him as the same who had served them dinner in the ruin of Ghorpol Ossa. This one was shorter than his comrades, at perhaps only nine feet in height, and his frame was thinner. Hobb wondered in amusement if this creature served the Herald as a secretary, like his own Boris. The white-robed Giant-man hoisted a large wooden table and two chairs in one hand with little apparent effort, following Hobb and his host up to the surface. They seated themselves at the edge of the pit, and the white-robed Giant-man withdrew. Hobb faced the direction in which lay the stair up to the sub-basement, and the Herald sat opposite him. ¡°We will arrive in force in the late spring,¡± stated the Herald, ¡°and occupy the valley with¡ª¡± ¡°No,¡± interrupted Hobb. The silence seemed to stretch for hours, but in narrowly objective reality, it was perhaps a few seconds. ¡°No, to what?¡± asked the Herald. His voice was deathly quiet. ¡°No, you will not occupy the sovereign territory of Uelland,¡± said Hobb. His heart was racing, and he was prepared for his life to be summarily ended at any moment. ¡°Or, you shall not do so without first wading through her armies.¡± ¡°My servants will not be resisted,¡± replied the cold, dry voice that was once Richard Enderly. ¡°You have seen them.¡± ¡°You are mistaken,¡± said Hobb. ¡°Your servants will be resisted. Perhaps not with success, and perhaps not even for very long, but we will fight. Our men at arms will fight, and our riders, and our spies, and our artillery. Our allies will fight, and our enemies will join us as well, when they perceive what you are. We will fight you on the hills and across the rivers and in the tunnels. You will bleed for every blade of grass that you conquer. Your dragon will breath himself hoarse, and we will still fight.¡± In his heart, Hobb knew the falsity of his words. He wondered if the Herald knew as well. While he was talking, the shapes of Giant-men had drawn up from the darkness beyond. It was the one in the white robe, and three others. The solid metal sheets of their battle armor reflected the light of his feeble lamp. Their movements were fluid and graceful, unhurried but potent. They stood now, around the table. Hobb rose to his feet, picking up his lantern. ¡°The answer is no,¡± he concluded. ¡°If you want our land, come and take it.¡± He turned and pushed between two of the armored behemoths that surrounded the table, waiting to be crushed like a grape. ¡°Wait,¡± said the voice of the Herald. Hobb had walked a few paces. He stopped, but did not turn. ¡°Yes?¡± he asked, still facing away, toward the tunnel back to the surface. ¡°What do you want?¡± asked the dry voice from beneath the metal face. Hobb did turn then, and came back, though he did not sit. The Herald had risen to his feet, and the armored Giant-men drew back. The two men stood facing each other across the plain wooden table. ¡°Kaples Wethan Mekoth,¡± said Hobb clearly. The Giant-men, still visible nearby, started, and their postures shifted almost instantly from towering imposition to slack uncertainty. It was as if Hobb had removed their souls. Even the man with the metal face took a step backward. The Herald started to speak again. ¡°How do you¡ª¡± ¡°It is this place,¡± interrupted Hobb. ¡°The Great Place of Change that lay in Naridium; one of three, and the one that the Emperor of the South destroyed after Semvee became him. And you are a herald of the Metal God that once lived here.¡± He listened to his own words, hardly believing them. But the Herald shifted in response, straightening and leaning backward as if a strong wind were blowing against him. ¡°You occupy the body of Sir Richard of Enderly, a Crown Knight who I sent into exile in the north,¡± continued Hobb calmly. ¡°It follows that somewhere in his travels, somewhere in the white space on the map that reads ¡®These are the lands of the Giant-men,¡¯ he found you, and became you.¡± ¡°What do you want?¡± repeated the thing that was once Sir Richard. And it was no longer dry and disinterested; rather, it was colored with hot, passionate anger. Hobb blinked. He hadn¡¯t expected to get this far. In his own calculations, he was dead by now. ¡°The Kaples Wethan Mekoth changed a grandmother from the village of Lokhain into someone else. It changed Vicagrios from the son of a poor farmer into a wealthy man, and taught him the secrets of making. It changed King Semvee into the Emperor of the South¡ªafter Semvee had already been imprisoned by the Emperor of the South.¡± ¡°All these things are true,¡± said the Herald, nodding slightly. ¡°Give me the Kaples Wethan Mekoth,¡± said Hobb, ¡°and the valley in the north is yours to take.¡± It was impossible to say if the Herald was thinking, or communing, or simply pausing for dramatic effect, but he was motionless for many minutes. The Giant-men nearby melted into the darkness, leaving Hobb and the Herald alone. ¡°This place no longer functions,¡± the Herald said at last. The hot anger had faded from his voice, but could still be heard lurking in its lowest registers. ¡°It has been cut off from us for too long. We have gathered from it what could be salvaged, but it will not bend to your will or to mine. I cannot give you what you ask.¡± Hobb shrugged. ¡°Then kill me, and take from us by force what you can.¡± ¡°Let me finish,¡± said the Herald. ¡°This place does not function, but the valley in the north holds knowledge that will unlock what you seek. There is a library, made by my servants in ancient times when they bent the world to their will and made their own gods. Do not oppose us, and meet me there. I will give it to you.¡± ¡°Why should I trust you?¡± asked Hobb. The Herald walked around the table and stood close to Hobb. He could see his own reflection in the smooth surface of the non-face. ¡°Because,¡± said the Herald, ¡°the first time you said no, I killed you. And yet¡ªhere we are.¡± ??? Hobb wasted no time after concluding his conversation with the Herald, ascending from the pit and the dungeons and hastening to his coach. Pearsy and Robe were nowhere to be found, having gone off someplace to see about the executions. They would have to find their own way back to the city; Hobb was in no mood to wait for stragglers. ¡°The Republic shall need a new army in the spring,¡± he said to Boris as the coach rattled beneath the stone gatehouse of the gloomy fortress. The trade road back to Uellodon was now frozen solid, and heavily scored with ruts and furrows. ¡°What¡¯s wrong with the one we have?¡± inquired his secretary. ¡°I cannot rely on its loyalty to the National Assembly,¡± answered Hobb. ¡°Hyden and Watt have their own agenda¡ªand anyway, they¡¯re tied up with the Brassens and Carolese here in the south. I¡¯ve no doubts about Logwall, but the Crown Knights are too few for what I have in mind. Where we are going, we will need both numbers and absolute loyalty.¡±The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there. ¡°The Guard, then?¡± suggested Boris. ¡°They do have numbers and loyalty, but not leadership. Bisking is the least incompetent of the officer corps, and he can barely coordinate a donut and coffee.¡± ¡°General Sir Logwall could lead the Guard,¡± suggested Boris. Hobb snorted. ¡°You¡¯ve never met the man. He¡¯s the very definition of noble pretention. He¡¯d be a disaster leading the Guard. I need someone who has the common touch to lead rank and file soldiers in the field, but isn¡¯t overly beholden to the Heavy Arms.¡± Boris scribbled notes on his writing tablet, his brow drawn in apparent concentration. After a very precise number of moments, he opened his mouth to speak again. ¡°How¡¯s such a man to be¡ª¡± he began; but just then the coach rolled over a particularly deep rut into the frozen road, and a bone-jolting crunch threw both occupants into the air. Hobb struck his head on the ceiling, and on his return trip he landed hard on his tailbone. He groaned and rubbed at his bottom, wincing. Muttering imprecations at the coach driver, Hobb gradually regained his composure, focused on the matter at hand, and considered what Boris had just said. ¡°Howe¡¯s such a man?¡± he mused. ¡°Thomas Howe? I hadn¡¯t considered it.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t mean¡ª¡± began Boris, but Hobb had taken hold of the idea, and waved him silent. ¡°Howe is certainly competent, but hardly friendly to the Republic. Still¡¡± he trailed off, thinking. ¡°Still, he¡¯s not a career officer, is he. The scout cavalry is a dead end for a military man. He was only made a knight-general at Baldwick because Leeland thought he was going to die of his wounds. It was a bit of an embarrassment when he didn¡¯t, and the Heavy Arms has shut him out of command ever since. And he is exceptionally, stupefyingly loyal to the King.¡± ¡°That settles it,¡± he concluded confidently. ¡°I don¡¯t know what I¡¯d do without you, Boris. Take down a letter to General Sir Thomas Howe. We shall need him here at once.¡± ??? Hobb¡¯s improved mood was squashed later that night, when a timid and crestfallen Maxime Robe brought news that Wallingford Spoon and his cohort had somehow disappeared from the dungeons of Hoel. A rogue officer was suspected, but the man who had presented his credentials at Hoel was later discovered to have died the previous day in the fighting at the courthouse. The author of the escape¡ªand the escapees¡ªwere nowhere to be found. ¡°I blame myself,¡± he remarked clinically to his terrified lieutenant. ¡°It is quite plainly my fault for allowing them a few extra hours to go on breathing. I should have learned from Cyrus Stoat the consequences of delayed justice. Next time I see Mr. Spoon, I shall immediately cut off his head myself, with the dullest knife that I can find. In fact, I shall start carrying one about with me. Find me a dull knife, Mr. Robe.¡± ¡°You could always use a spoon,¡± offered Robe. Hobb regarded him blankly. ¡°Because of his name, you see,¡± Robe tried to explain. Hobb said nothing. ¡°There¡¯s a poetic symmetry to it,¡± Robe added. ¡°Would make for good copy in the pamphlets.¡± Hobb, imitating a spoon, dug his eyes into Mr. Robe¡¯s face, who took that opportunity to escape the office, and his own premature decapitation. ??? Two days later, Mrs. Hunter came to inform Hobb of her departure. ¡°I will conclude my visit, First Minister,¡± she said, ¡°and return to Queen Anne. I am sorry that I wasn¡¯t able to resolve the situation at the Old High Court to your satisfaction.¡± He nodded slowly, looking at her for a long moment. Mrs. Hunter¡¯s hair was brushed and done up, and a layer of makeup had been carefully applied¡ªbut her eyes were hollow, and her expression was drawn and weary. Here is a woman, he thought, who teeters on the edge of making the right decision. ¡°As you wish,¡± he said. ¡°You are here with the privileges of a diplomat, and you may depart with those privileges. As for the matter at the courthouse¡ªit will be resolved soon enough. The people in the square won¡¯t remain there for long when their food begins to run out and the sanitation becomes questionable. The Crown Prince cannot leave the city without being detected by the Security Bureau. And I¡¯m afraid the traitors who presently occupy the courthouse will soon enough realize the legal consequences that are due to all traitors. ¡°Nonetheless, Mrs. Hunter, I am grateful that you have come. I wish we could be friends, you and I. You are already among the most consequential of citizens, and I truly believe that one day you will see that our way is right. When that day comes, I will be the first to welcome you back to the Republic.¡± She wore a particular expression of polite neutrality on her face, which Hobb recognized from long experience as the mask of the diplomat who must suggest a thing is possible when it is not. ¡°Do you still desire a settlement with Queen Anne against a common enemy?¡± she asked. Hobb leaned forward across the table eagerly. ¡°I do, Mrs. Hunter. Please tell her. The threat we face is one we absolutely must face together¡ªor it will consume us. If she will meet us in a neutral venue¡ªRoosterfoot, perhaps, or even on the river itself¡ªthen I am sure we can come to an agreement.¡± Merrily rose to her feet. ¡°I will give her your message,¡± she said. ¡°Will you excuse me, First Minister?¡± He nodded, and rose to see her out. As he opened the door for her, he suddenly stared hard into her eyes. ¡°Where were you on the eighteenth?¡± he asked. ¡°The day after the fighting at the Old High Court. The men I assigned to your protection reported that you vanished from their watch after you entered the courthouse.¡± She smiled slightly. ¡°There was a great deal of chaos outside, that day,¡± she said. ¡°I¡¯m sure they just missed me. Be well, First Minister.¡± He knew she was lying. But he could not bring himself to say the words, or to order the consequences of the lie to be visited on her. ¡°Be well, Merrily Hunter,¡± Hobb said softly. ¡°Be joyful, if you can. And do great things.¡± She left, and with her went a branch of possibility. Hobb saw it, watched it go regretfully, and then turned away. ??? Hobb sat on a bench that swayed back and forth in the way of a small boat. Someone rowed for many minutes. He could hear the oars slurping through the water close at hand. Then the sack was pulled off his head and the gag removed. ¡°Hello, Hobb,¡± said Archdeacon Ratwaddler. The dead churchman rested for a moment at the oars of the small dinghy. His round face and plump body showed no evidence of exertion; indeed, he was smiling as breathing deeply in the cool, dark air of the night. The Archdeacon tipped a small flask of water onto Hobb¡¯s lips. Hobb drank gratefully, spilling drops all over his starched white shirt and dark gray coat. ¡°Something isn¡¯t right,¡± he noted. ¡°Isn¡¯t it?¡± asked his companion. The voice was opaque. ¡°Must we go on reliving these moments?¡± asked Hobb plaintively. ¡°I keep hearing the same words, over and over, like I¡¯m trapped in a play every night, performing an identical scene for an identical audience. There must come an end to every punishment, Archdeacon. I¡¯m sure it¡¯s time we both moved on.¡± ¡°I have moved on,¡± said Ratwaddler softly. ¡°It¡¯s you that linger, my friend.¡± ¡°We were never friends,¡± said Hobb, but he could hear the lie in his own voice. Ratwaddler smiled. ¡°We were friends, Hobb,¡± he reproached. ¡°We always wanted the same thing, you and I. We saw beneath the costumes that men wear to hide themselves from each other; we saw what they are. They are animals, Hobb. Beneath the elegant words and art and music and laws, they are all animals. They want nothing more than to tear each other¡¯s throats out, to rut, to gorge, to dominate, to kill, and avoid being killed. They clothe themselves in reason and choice to hide, in their shame, what they are: machines of desire. Choice is a disease, and we both possessed the cure. But you wanted the medicine given in a red bottle, and I wanted it in a blue bottle. That was all! That was the difference between us, Hobb; the color of a bottle.¡± Hobb shifted uncomfortably in his bonds. He could move neither his legs nor his hands. ¡°I¡¯ve missed our talks, Uliver,¡± he said. The lights of Uellodon were distant behind them, and the lights of Ville Porpo on the on the south bank were equally distant. They were in the middle of the Green River. Archdeacon Ratwaddler smiled. ¡°When you change the world, Hobb,¡± he said, ¡°we will speak together again.¡± ¡°Do what comes next,¡± said Hobb, resignedly. The churchman rose to his feet in the boat, unsteadily, and planted a firm kick in the chest of Hobb the Wise, First Minister of Uelland. Ratwaddler fell backward into the bottom of the little boat, but Hobb tumbled over the transom, and plunged headfirst into the cold water of the Green River. As he drifted slowly downward into the darkness, the moon above rippled through the distortion of the water, like shadows on the wall of a cave. He opened his mouth to breath in. ??? Hobb¡¯s eyes snapped open in the dark, and he clutched the blankets around his neck. He didn¡¯t dare to move for many minutes, until he could finally reorient himself to the real world. Finally, he turned left and right, seeing the faint shadows of his familiar belongings. The shadows recalled the rippling of the moon through the water¡ but he threw the recollection aside and sat up. It was a quarter to four in the morning on the third of January. Hobb rose, washed his face, brushed the faint fringe of hair that continued its long rearguard around his bald pate, and absently donned a fresh shirt and pants. He selected one from among his abundant collection of silk cravats, each a slightly different shade of gray. Today¡¯s selection was the color of the ashes of oakwood, thoroughly consumed. He worked in his study until the sun rose, and then took a short breakfast of two hard boiled eggs and an apple. The day was dim and overcast, with a thin sheet of fresh snow in the palace courtyard below his apartment. Fat flakes of the stuff were drifting down from the sky above, indolent in their progress toward the ground. As Hobb was finishing his breakfast, there came a knock at the door. He opened it to find Mr. Robe waiting there. His lieutenant was dressed in a starched white shirt and a dapper suit of fine, dark wool. His hair was wet from the snow outside, and his spectacles dripped with water. Clutched in one hand was a thin leather tube. ¡°A post rider came in the night,¡± he said, offering the tube to Hobb. ¡°Looked like he¡¯d travelled hard¡ªhis horse was nearly dead. He had this for you.¡± ¡°This couldn¡¯t wait for the daily mail?¡± asked Hobb in annoyance, taking the tube. ¡°Look at the case,¡± suggested Mr. Robe. Hobb looked at the case. On the cap, sealed by a deep red wax, was the imprint of three fish surmounted by a crown. ¡°The Pretender,¡± commented Hobb, breaking the wax and opening the cap. ¡°Anne the Pretender has sent us a letter, Mr. Robe.¡± He withdrew from the case a single sheet of paper and read.
To Hobb the Wise, First Minister in Uellodon of the body styling itself a national assembly. We have received dispatches from our agent Merrily Hunter, who you lately invited to join you in Uellodon. Notwithstanding your ongoing aggression against the free North and her people, we thank you for your gracious and privileged treatment of our embassy. We are informed that you have made contact with certain Giant-Men, who you view as a threat, and against whom you desire to join with us in mutual defense. We share your concern, and we agree that it is in both our interests to cease the present hostilities between South and North. To that end, we invite you to name a time and place, in neutral territory, at which we may meet to discuss the terms of a truce. If you are sincere in your desire for peace, bring with you my son, the Crown Prince. We await eagerly your reply. In sincerity and peace, Anne Linsey GrayHobb looked up from the paper at Mr. Robe and smiled. ¡°Get that post rider a warm bed,¡± he said grandly, ¡°and have the King¡¯s own groom see to the horse. I shall need him to make a return journey to Green Bridge as soon as he is recovered.¡± In the afternoon, Hobb gave a speech to the National Assembly on the need for unity in the face of foreign aggression, and on the virtue of reconciliation with enemies. The delegates, arranged in long rows of benches in the old Grand Ballroom, listened attentively and applauded at all the right places. Though he had forbidden Mr. Robe from holding up a large sign with the word ¡°Applause¡± drawn on it, he suspected that his fixer was still giving hand signals. It didn¡¯t matter. They voted through a routine bill to extend the civil emergency in the capital for another two weeks, and then adjourned. After his speech, Hobb received a less encouraging message, by way of Attorney Killbride. ¡°They¡¯ve denied our appeal on the motion to dismiss the Foregrub and Quimble case,¡± announced the lawyer peremptorily as he entered Hobb¡¯s office, shaking snow off his overcoat and shivering. Hobb blinked. ¡°File another appeal,¡± he said after a moment¡¯s thought. ¡°We can¡¯t,¡± replied Killbride. ¡°The Justices ordered the trial to go on immediately, and the trial court scheduled it for next week. Pre-trial motions are due in three days, and we can probably manage to exclude some of the¡ª¡± ¡°There will be no trial, Mr. Killbride,¡± interrupted Hobb. ¡°A trial would be illegal, as the matter is without the jurisdiction of the courts.¡± Killbride shuffled nervously and looked at the papers he had withdrawn from his briefcase. ¡°I¡¯m afraid the High Court has ruled definitively on the matter of jurisdiction,¡± he said quietly. ¡°And they have ruled that, well¡ they have it.¡± Hobb rose to his feet. ¡°Wait here,¡± he said. Hobb the Wise took the signed order from Mr. Killbride and walked calmly out of the room. When he returned, fifteen minutes later, he handed the paper back to King¡¯s Counsel. At the bottom of the order, over the signature of Leeland III, King of Uelland and Chief Executive of the Republic, was one single sentence:
The case of Foregrub & Quimble v. the Crown is DISMISSED WITH PREJUDICE for lack of jurisdiction over the laws of the National Assembly, and no further hearings or appeals shall be taken in this tiresome and specious matter.¡°Make a copy of this, and then take it back to the clerk of the Court,¡± he instructed. ¡°Serve a copy on that degenerate Snort, if you care to. And then, Mr. Killbride, you and the other King¡¯s Counsel are not to set foot in that courthouse again, for any reason.¡± Mr. Killbride¡¯s face was an unhealthy shade of pale gray as he left the room. Hobb sent for Major Bisking and gave him certain detailed instructions regarding the disposition of the Republican Guard, their ranks in Uellodon now swollen with reinforcements of loyal men from the districts. The First Minister then withdrew to his study, spent the rest of the afternoon in writing and contemplation, and went to be early. He slept the undisturbed sleep of the weary and righteous. ??? The following morning, at first light, Hobb had escorted into his presence one Michael Rider, post-rider of the Republican Postal Service. (That¡¯s what it was called, now, though the staff remained essentially unchanged from its old days as the Merchants¡¯ Post. Hobb was not a man to discard a competent body of civil servants over something so petty as a name.) Rider was tall, with a blocky face that was just this side of handsome, and lank, brown hair. He wore the stained leather coat and hose of his profession, and a small blue cap with a short bill. There was a brass emblem at the center of the cap, showing a man riding a horse with a satchel. Slung over Rider¡¯s own shoulder was a nearly identical satchel. ¡°You risked much to bring a message across the front,¡± Hobb observed. Rider shrugged, but did so politely, his eyes cast down. ¡°It¡¯s my job,¡± he said. ¡°The Queen trusted me with a message and paid the price we agreed for delivery.¡± ¡°Very good,¡± said Hobb approvingly. ¡°I wish more men in this land shared your sense of duty and loyalty, Mr. Rider. You know your role, and you play it to the end.¡± He paused thoughtfully, casting his eyes to the distance. ¡°We should all be so fortunate,¡± he added in a softer voice, ¡°to have such moral clarity.¡± Then Hobb¡¯s eyes focused on Rider again, who stood watching him stoically. ¡°I have a return message for Princess Anne,¡± he said. He picked up from the table his own tubular scroll case, sealed with purple wax and the King¡¯s imprint. It contained Hobb¡¯s response to Anne¡¯s overture; an offer to meet, with equal guards and in plain view from all directions, on a barge in the Green River. He handed the scroll tube to the postman. ¡°My man outside will see to your fee,¡± Hobb continued. ¡°Only promise me, Mr. Rider, that you will deliver this to her in person, and before the ice breaks up on the northern stretches of the Green River.¡± Rider took the scroll case. ¡°The journey north is difficult, First Minister,¡± he replied, ¡°but there¡¯s no cause for it to take until spring. If you pay, I¡¯ll deliver, or die trying.¡± Hobb smiled. ¡°What clarity of purpose you have, Mr. Rider. Truly, I admire it. How did you come by such a useful character? I should have you teaching classes at the Academy.¡± Rider tucked the scroll into his satchel and paused, turning for the door. He faced Hobb again. ¡°It¡¯s what I¡¯ve chosen for myself,¡± he answered shortly. And then he left. It was later in the morning that Mr. Robe came to find Hobb in his study. Robe¡¯s face was pale, and his hands trembled. His eyes were bloodshot, and he rubbed absently at the ugly scar across his face. ¡°They¡¯re coming,¡± he said, with no preamble. ¡°The judges. They¡¯re out in the street already. There¡¯s a whole crowd with them, and they¡¯re coming here.¡± Hobb looked up sharply. ¡°All of them?¡± he asked. ¡°Yes,¡± confirmed Robe. ¡°The whole bench of the High Court. And all the lawyers, and their clerks, and a whole gang of their supporters.¡± Hobb calmly laid down his pencil and straightened his papers. ¡°What are we going to do, First Minister?¡± his lieutenant asked. ¡°Come with me, Mr. Robe,¡± said Hobb. He walked purposefully to the window and opened it. Then he stuck his head outside. ¡°No!¡± cried Mr. Robe. ¡°Don¡¯t!¡± ¡°Hush now, Maxime,¡± replied Hobb calmly. He withdrew from one pocket a small signal flag and waved it in a particular pattern. A man on top of one of the towers on the other side of the courtyard¡ªnot a soldier, but a Bureau man¡ªwaved his arms in return, fluttering his own brightly-colored flag. Hobb nodded in satisfaction and withdrew back into the room. ¡°Come along, Mr. Robe,¡± he said. ¡°What are we going to do?¡± repeated Robe. Hobb did not answer, but strobe purposefully through the halls of Palace Naridium. His long legs and tall, rail-thin frame glided majestically, gracefully through the old stone passages, like one of the old kings come back to do his duty once again. They passed through Begley Gallery, where Hobb¡¯s eyes fell, for just a moment, on the now-restored portrait of Horace II, stretched over an unadorned frame but hanging in its former spot. Hobb blinked once in acknowledgment. They passed through the Grand Ballroom, with its rows of benches for the Assembly. Hobb¡¯s eyes brushed over the six great chandeliers¡ªnow unlit, in the gray light of morning. He looked down again, putting the past where it belonged. Boris met them at the grand triple-doorway. He fell in behind, saying nothing, as they passed out into the courtyard. Hobb tightened his coat and put up an umbrella against the drifting snow, but otherwise did not slacken his pace. His companions hurried along after him. In Sheepford Street outside the palace, under the shadow of the Rose Tower, a great mass of red-clad Republican Guard had already gathered. They stood in tight ranks, spears and crossbows gleaming even in the gray snowfall. Hobb had quartered them in the houses around the palace, expelling the occupants to make room. Now, on cue, they had emerged swiftly to take their places. Other squadrons were taking up position in the streets on either side, cutting off escape. He found Major Bisking. ¡°Advance the Guard until you reach the insurgents,¡± he instructed. ¡°And then draw up into a shield wall. Take no action until I command it. Let them form a mass in front of you, and do not permit them to escape from the sides or rear. Post archers in the buildings overlooking the column. I will be with you, Major Bisking, to give further instructions. Now go.¡± Bisking, who had no need at all to think through these orders, happily turned and began to give instructions to his captains. ¡°What are we going to do?¡± asked Mr. Robe softly. His eyes were wide, but Hobb couldn¡¯t tell if he saw fear or elation. Boris said nothing, and his face revealed nothing. Hobb did not reply. The mass of Guardsmen moved forward then, shuffling through the lazy snow at a slow trot. Hobb walked briskly behind them, breathing deep in the cold air. To either side of Sheepford Street, he could see faces peering out of windows, watching; but the streets were empty. The people knew what was coming. The red-clad backs ahead of them stopped, then, and skirmishers with crossbows broke off to take up positions in the windows and on the rooftops. Hobb ascended a nearby barrel and looked over the heads of the Republican Guard. Ahead of them was a huge mass of people. Most were dressed in the sober black suits and dull cravats of the lawyer class. A small parade of judges, held comically aloft in their seats by poles on the shoulders of lawyers and clerks, sat behind their elevated desks, also on poles. He recognized Woodbrow, and Willoughby, and all the rest of them. Willoughby was speaking, her strong, clear voice carrying out over the space between them. The Republican Guard were silent; the lawyers and hangers-on were silent; the houses and the people and animals and snow were all silent. Only the voice of Justice Willoughby on her chair, separated from Hobb by the shoulders and arms of hundreds of his Republican Guard, could be heard. He looked carefully at the hateful mass of pedants and sophists and hypocrites positioned before him. ¡°Where is Killbride?¡± he asked of Mr. Robe after he could bear no more of the Justice¡¯s harangue. ¡°He went back to the courthouse,¡± answered Mr. Robe. ¡°After he brought word, he went back.¡± ¡°Pity,¡± said Hobb. ¡°He was a useful idiot.¡± Bisking came waddling up through the snow, looking confused. ¡°What now?¡± he asked. ¡°It¡¯s a stalemate, I think. The court is still in session, but we¡¯ve blocked their access to the Palace and the King. They¡¯ll have to turn around and go back. They can¡¯t hold those judges up there forever in the street and the snow. I¡¯ve got men at the courthouse now, locking things up and taking defensive¡ª¡± ¡°Kill them,¡± said Hobb. The silence returned, broken only by Justice Willoughby¡¯s vigorous concurrence. ¡°Is that legal?¡± asked Bisking. His face was blank, and his tone genuinely curious. Hobb turned to Bisking, his pulse quickening. But before he could speak, Mr. Robe strode up to the wavering officer and thrust his own, bespectacled face into Bisking¡¯s. ¡°Kill them,¡± he said, his voice rising in excitement. ¡°That, Major Bisking, is a lawful order of the National Assembly, which has granted emergency authority to its executive delegate, the First Minister. In the present state of civil emergency, the Security Bureau, under the direction of the First Minister, may use force as needed to protect the integrity of the government from insurgents and agents of political terror. It was voted on yesterday. So do your duty today to the Republic and the People, Major Bisking, and kill them all.¡± Bisking blinked, opened his mouth, shut it again, and then turned to the signal flagger standing nearby. ¡°Kill them,¡± he said. The first note to emerge was the single twang of a lone crossbow. The feathers of a bolt suddenly protruded from the neck of Justice Woodbrow, and the gray-haired jurist tumbled from his perch. More twanging voices followed, and they were soon joined by a rising cacophony of screams and shouts from the crowd to the front. The screams rose on top of the twangs of the crossbows, swelling into an atonal mass¡ªa solid wall of heavy, insistent noise. It did not, now, sound to Hobb like a hundred pigs all being slaughtered at once, nor like a hundred smiths hammering at a mad pace. Those were the impressions of a different battle, in a different time. This sound, now, was of an orchestra tuning up. The ranks of the Republican Guard pushed forward into the unarmed civilians ahead, and more squadrons closed in from the sides and the rear. Mr. Robe disappeared into the street to Hobb¡¯s right. Hobb supposed that he lacked the stomach for true political power. But Boris remained at Hobb¡¯s side, in the street below the barrel, watching impassively as events unfolded before them. It took the Guard nearly an hour to complete the slaughter, and Hobb remained dutifully at his post through it all, bearing witness. When it was over, he picked his way down Sheepford Street, through a slush of mud and snow and blood and viscera and bodies. Guardsmen wandered aimlessly among the fallen, stabbing here and there just to be sure, or rifling through the clothing of fallen men. The smells and sights of death were overwhelming to Hobb¡¯s senses, but he set senses aside for a time. He found Mr. Robe, crouched over the body of some fallen lawyer. The face was bloodied and mangled beyond recognition; it appeared that much of it had been hacked away. Robe was holding in his hand a long, elegant dagger, and his own face and hands were covered in blood. Hobb could see marks on the neck and face of the dead body, where teeth had torn at it. Mr. Robe looked up at Hobb, and his eyes were deep and feral. He panted and hissed, blood dribbling from his mouth and spattering on his starched white shirt and cravat. He jaws worked rhythmically as if he were chewing on something. Hobb turned and walked away, back up Sheepford Street. He picked his way carefully through the bodies, and a mist arose from the warmth of blood in the snow around him. At his side walked the man Boris, his face pale and his eyes that strange color that was almost red, but not quite. His expression was grave, but the corners of his thin lips twitched. The snow did not settle on either of them, and the sun was dim, as if they walked in the faint shadow of terrible wings. Chapter 27: Precise Humor February 23rd A great map of the Republic of Uelland lay spread out on the table before Hobb, painting a vivid picture of intolerable inconvenience. ¡°Mr. Robe,¡± he announced, ¡°this map is intolerably inconvenient.¡± Robe, who was also bent over the map, peered up over his new spectacles at Hobb. These were rimmed in gold, now, and stood out tastefully against a coat of fine black velvet, trimmed in silver lace. An elegant steel dagger was at his belt in a sheath of black leather. The angry scar on his face was the only flaw in his countenance. ¡°I¡¯m afraid the vicissitudes of geography are, for the moment, outside the authority of the Government,¡± Robe replied gravely. The Herald was gone. This was the starting point for the inconveniences that smirked at Hobb from the flat surface of his map. The Herald was gone, off to who-knew-where in the far North to gather his Giant-men and his dragon, then to sweep down into that remote northern valley that Rufus Snugg had appropriated to himself. He had left behind him, in the vast cavern beneath Hoel, only inert towers, heavy, still air, darkness¡ªand that odd metallic smell that Hobb could not quite identify. Whatever the Herald had come for, he had retrieved it and left. ¡°I must get there first,¡± muttered Hobb to himself, his eyes drifting back to the tiny dot on the map that was the valley. ¡°There is something there that he wants, and he must have it in a certain time. We must have it first.¡± ¡°You mean Rufus Snugg?¡± asked Robe. ¡°He¡¯s already there.¡± ¡°Not Snugg,¡± snapped Hobb irritably. ¡°One impudent little merchant band does not rank highly among our adversaries.¡± ¡°Ah¡ªthe Svegnians, then,¡± surmised Robe eagerly. ¡°You think they mean to move north from Enderly before we can throw them out in the spring.¡± Hobb did not correct him. Instead, he sent Mr. Robe away to chair a meeting of the Committee on Public Safety in his place, after gently but firmly relieving him of the dagger. The memory of his fixer¡¯s feral eyes and bloody mouth as he crouched over Snort¡¯s body on Sheepford street convinced Hobb that the man had no business possessing weapons. Hobb was not normally one to carry a knife himself, but he fancied the look of the hilt, and so fixed it on his own belt. Then he summoned General Sir Thomas Howe from the nearby Guard barracks. ¡°It is the necessity to move quickly,¡± he explained to the young Knight-General, ¡°that gives rise to a certain inconvenience. Three hundred miles lie between Uellodon and this valley that the Snuggs have seized. After the farmland of the Great Basin around Roosterfoot, the land becomes broken and increasingly ill-suited to the passage of large armies.¡± ¡°Will we need a large army?¡± asked Sir Thomas skeptically. ¡°Firearms or no, the Snuggs don¡¯t have a large force in the valley, and their supply line runs across leagues of dense forest from Hog Hurst in the west. With a bit of careful planning, we can nullify their technological advantage using mobility and dispersed attacks. The Guard units we¡¯ve been cycling in from the countryside are improving quickly.¡± ¡°We will need as many men as we can bring to bear, as quickly as possible,¡± insisted Hobb, shaking his head. He had not yet decided how to explain to his new commanding general about the twelve-foot-tall, armored behemoths¡ªand the dragon¡ªthat would invade the northern reaches of the Republic in the spring. He assumed they would be easier to grasp in person. Sir Thomas looked doubtfully at the map. ¡°Troops can move swiftly by river once we reach the East Branch,¡± he observed, ¡°but the upper stretches won¡¯t be clear of ice until late April. And, unless you want to be slowed down fighting Anne¡¯s forces at every farm and hamlet, we¡¯ll have to march on foot through the farmlands of the eastern Great Basin, where the rebels have less strength. Carrying boats, no less,¡± he added. ¡°I don¡¯t suppose you could prevail on your colleagues in the Heavy Arms to move up their invasion of the North, so as to distract her?¡± Hobb asked plaintively. ¡°Hyden and Watt are holed up at Swallow Hall like two mother bears hibernating for the winter, and the most I ever hear from them are terse requisitions for more and more supplies the Republic can barely afford.¡± There had been no reply to Hobb¡¯s overture of peace, after Anne¡¯s initial encouraging letter. He had sent the reliable Michael Rider with his proposal north through the front¡ªbut nothing came back, neither by bird nor man. Sir Thomas shrugged. ¡°The other generals tell me very little. From what I¡¯ve heard from my old mates in the cavalry, they plan to press east against the Svegnians in the spring and oust them from the Tharma River valley first, then turn north and campaign against the Pretender once the Svegnians are dealt with. Whatever you choose to do with the Republican Guard¡ªthey will have to do it on their own.¡± Hobb made a tent with his fingers and stared at the map. Three hundred miles, the Great Basin, the distant east branch, invading Svegnians further to the east, and a hive of rebels and bandits around Green Bridge, all added up to an insurmountable wall. ¡°It will be impractical,¡± he said finally, and reluctantly, ¡°to risk moving north with the Guard before Anne is bottled up.¡± And before that happens¡ªhe added to himself¡ªthe thing that lurks behind that metal face will have seized whatever it is in the valley that is so urgently important to him, and I will have lost what little leverage I had. He looked again at the map. Intolerably inconvenient. ??? The King was no help at all. Lying semi-comatose in his bed, his face pale and beaded with sweat, he focused with difficulty on Hobb, as the First Minister presented his case. The details that were too incredible to include were, of course, the very most critical to his argument. ¡°I will not divert the Heavy Arms from the task of dispersing the Svegnians from our sovereign territory, Hobb,¡± said the King with obvious difficulty. ¡°And particularly not to oust a gaggle of merchants from some patch of wilderness that might or might not be in Uelland, and which no one has bothered with at any point in recorded history. I don¡¯t know why you keep pestering me about this damnable valley, but I would be grateful if this were the last time. I have not been feeling myself.¡± Indeed, the ailing King did not look himself. He had lost weight, and his face had a pale, sickly color to it. There was a foul smell that lingered in the room. The physicians hovered over the royal bed like well-dressed vultures, waiting for some wounded animal to die. Hobb turned to leave, sighing in resignation, and nearly ran into Boris, who had entered the room quietly behind him. ¡°What have I told you about sneaking up on me?¡± hissed Hobb as they slipped out of the King¡¯s bedchamber, Hobb directing his secretary firmly by one wiry elbow. ¡°When I am ready to die of a heart attack, I will give you leave to appear suddenly and mysteriously behind me just as I am about to turn around. Until that day¡ªdon¡¯t.¡± ¡°My apologies, First Minister,¡± replied Boris contritely, ¡°but I came with urgent news. There is a man in custody who I think you¡¯ll want to see.¡± ¡°Does he have an army?¡± snapped Hobb. ¡°Or at least several wagonloads of good sense and political will that I can distribute among the leaders of the Republic?¡± ¡°Probably not,¡± admitted Boris. ¡°All he has is a diary and a sword, which he insists he must give to King Leeland.¡± ??? The man was fearful and unkempt. His hair and beard were long, and his clothes tattered. He was old; perhaps in his late sixties. He sat nervously on a bed in a small servant¡¯s room in the basement of Palace Naridium. Two guards stood alertly outside the small chamber. On the floor at the feet of the unkempt man was a sword. It was long, of the ¡®hand-and-a-half¡¯ variety, and Hobb immediately recognized the crest of the Enderly family on its hilt. It was sheathed in black, unadorned leather. Next to the sword was a thick book, with a sturdy but battered cover also of leather. ¡°What is your name, goodman?¡± asked Hobb. ¡°Harold the Horse, sir,¡± replied the man. ¡°Delightful,¡± said Hobb sardonically. ¡°Another Harold arrives to disturb the counsels of the great and mighty. And what is this sword and diary that you wish to give to the King, Mr. the Horse?¡± ¡°They were ¡®trusted to me by Sergeant Guillam, who got ¡®em from Sir Richard Enderly,¡± replied Harold the Horse with evident pride. ¡°And I been journeyin¡¯ through mountains and snow and beasts and Giant-men to bring ¡®em home to ¡®im. ¡®Twas a long journey, an¡¯ fraught, an¡¯ my friends Gil and Wognut fell ¡®long the way, but ¡®ere I am all ¡®lone at the end of it.¡± Hobb thought about this for a long moment. ¡°Boris,¡± he said quietly, ¡°I want you to fetch paper, quills, and ink, and then return here. Be quick about it. You will remain and assist me with recording the interrogation of Harold the Horse.¡± ??? It was an outrageous tale. Had Hobb not possessed extremely compelling proof to corroborate it, he would have walked out after five minutes. There were the ruins of lost civilizations, enormous underground chambers filled with rotting machinery, an ancient language with words of power hidden in a modern tongue¡ªand, of course, Giant-men. There were a great many Giant-men. Harold the Horse told of his long journey to the north with Sir Richard¡¯s company, and of their initial capture and escape from the Giant-men. Harold knew little of Sir Richard¡¯s activity once they were captured again near the giant city of Nipol Grotsvor, for he and the others had been imprisoned¡ªbut he had seen the Crown Knight again briefly when they were rescued. Sir Richard had given his diary and sword to Guillam before they escaped, with instructions to return them to King Leeland. Then he had, inexplicably, gone deeper into the enormous temple complex, leaving his men with words they could say to any Giant-men, that would compel them to stand aside. After their escape, Guillam had dispatched Harold the Horse and two others to return the sword and book to Uelland, while he himself planned to attempt the rescue of their leader, Sir Richard. Hobb¡¯s mind raced as the narrative unfolded. Sir Richard and the Herald¡ªthe Herald of God, not Harold the Horse¡ªwere one and the same man. How had he gone from a stern but obedient Crown Knight to a tool of some mechanical being with delusions of divinity? Harold the Horse did not have the answers. His own view of Sir Richard¡¯s tale ended with the escape from the temple. The journey of Harold the Horse, Wognut, and Gil back to the south was fraught, and the three had very nearly been recaptured by Giant-men. Gil had frozen to death in the mountains, and Wognut had grown too weak to continue on in the spring. At last he had closed his eyes to die of starvation. But Harold the Horse, now alone, had endured, and crossed the Green, and returned to Uelland. Even back in his native land, he found little safety. Hearing of Anne¡¯s rebellion in the north, he had made his way to the far eastern districts of the Kingdom, traveling south slowly and carefully so as not to draw attention from the combatants. He had been delayed again by the invasion of Enderly, and in desperation crossed over to the Svegnian side of the Tharma to avoid suspicion. But now here he was, back in Uellodon. ¡°Your quest is finished,¡± said Hobb gently. ¡°I will take the sword and the book to King Leeland.¡± ¡°Guillam gave the task to me,¡± said Harold the Horse doubtfully. ¡°I was to give them to the King myself.¡± ¡°I am the First Minister of Uelland,¡± replied Hobb reassuringly. ¡°The King is just upstairs.¡± Harold the Horse picked up the sheathed sword and book, and set them on his lap. ¡°I have to give ¡®em to the King!¡± he howled suddenly, his eyes lighting up with an unhealthy and obsessive glow. Hobb stood up and motioned Boris to follow him. They left the room. ¡°Go in there and retrieve the sword and the book,¡± he instructed the guards outside the room. ¡°And see to it that the journey of Mr. the Horse is definitively concluded.¡± The two large men went in and shut the door. It didn¡¯t last long. There were a few thumps, and one anguished scream. Then the two guards returned, and wordlessly handed the sword and the book to Hobb. His arms sagged as they held the enormous weapon cradled in both arms. ¡°Clean up the room,¡± he instructed Boris shortly. Then he turned and strode down the hallway, staggering under the weight of Sir Richard¡¯s sword. ??? That night, Hobb read the diary. ¡°What a bore,¡± he remarked to himself, midway through. ¡°Nothing happening at all. Just ¡®on march¡¯ day after day.¡± Then they were captured by Giant-men, and Hobb began to pay attention. ¡°Dreadfully obvious,¡± he remarked to himself when Sir Richard began writing in cipher, fearing his ¡®hosts¡¯ were reading his diary. ¡°Misspelled words make up the message. Don¡¯t they teach anything better than that in the officer corps?¡± But then he reflected that the Giant-men, apparently unfamiliar with the Uellish language and learning on the fly, might well miss the finer points of its notoriously irregular rules of spelling. He read Sir Richard¡¯s final page and stared up at the ceiling. Two things were immediately, inescapably, clear. First: King Leeland must never see the diary. Sir Richard of Enderly¡¯s shameful and unnatural feelings for his King¡ªwhatever their former relationship¡ªwere not fit for Leeland¡¯s eyes. And second: Sir Richard had made a discovery that entirely changed the nature of his relationship with the Giant-men and their Herald. In the morning, he sent once again for Thomas Howe. ¡°I have changed my analysis of the situation,¡± he informed the young general. ¡°Begin mobilizing the Republican Guard. Pull in every man that isn¡¯t absolutely necessary in the provinces, and stage supplies as far north as you can. We will march for the northern frontier as soon as the river ice begins to break up. And I will be going with you.¡± ??? They did not meet in a palace, or in a comfortable lounge in some discreet inn. There were no glasses of wine, or cigars, or pipes. No pleasurable entertainment was set aside for later. They met, instead, on a cold barge in the middle of the Green River. A mid-March snowstorm raged outside, and the cabin belowdecks was barely heated by a small iron brazier. The four delegates huddled in long wool cloaks and pulled their hats down over their ears. ¡°We think the Fourth War of the Cornerstones has gone on long enough,¡± announced the Brassen, ¡°to facilitate the domestic aims of everyone involved. It has outlasted its usefulness and threatens to become a net negative on our economies.¡± There was a silence, as the four men shivered. ¡°There is little downside to Carelon,¡± said the Carolese eventually. ¡°None of you has managed to coordinate even a proper raid into our territory. But if you wish to conclude hostilities, we will consent.¡± They looked at the Svegnian. ¡°We will end the matter,¡± said the tall, bearded minister, ¡°if Brasse returns the riverport of Kakronda to us. Otherwise, we have a force poised to strike where you least expect it.¡± The Brassen snorted. ¡°No one takes your army seriously, Svegnia. But if we are discussing the return of territory, I wonder what Uelland has to say about Enderly, and the Tharma river valley?¡± All eyes turned to Hobb, who had so far remained silent during the conference. He sat, staring at the flames in the tiny brazier. He thought of the vast bulk of the Herald¡¯s dragon, and of ranks of glittering Giant-men, marching south with grim inevitability. ¡°All of you have violated the terms of our agreement,¡± he said at last. ¡°This war was to be raids and maneuvers only; yet you permitted your greed for territorial acquisition to outweigh your good sense. Why should I make terms with liars?¡± He gazed at each of them with cold eyes, drinking in the offended shock on their faces. ¡°There will be no peace,¡± he concluded. ¡°And we will not meet again.¡± Then he rose to his feet and walked out of the cabin, to the boat waiting to take him back to Uellodon. ??? On the twenty-seventh of April in III Leeland:16, Hobb¡¯s army of fifteen thousand Republican Guard marched out of Uellodon, bound for a nameless valley in the far northern wilderness. He thought of it as ¡®his¡¯ army, as he rode along in his carriage amidst the command staff. Though General Sir Thomas Howe gave orders to the officers, it was Hobb that gave orders to the general. King Leeland had seen to that before they left, closeting himself for a short, private conference with Howe to give his final instructions. Though the King¡¯s condition had not grown even worse, nor had he recovered from his wound. He seemed to be stuck in a limbo of agony, slowly wasting away without actually dying. The King would not be accompanying the Republican Guard on its northward march, but Sir Thomas Howe had emerged from his conference with a clear view of the chain of command. He followed Hobb¡¯s instructions, after giving his own views, without further comment or complaint. Hobb found their new relationship quite agreeable. With Hobb in the carriage rode Chancellor Wembley Pearsy. Chancellor Pearsy did not find his own presence in the carriage agreeable at all, and had initially objected, with all the pretension at his command, that he was absolutely indispensable at the Royal Academy. This had gone on for several days, until Hobb finally had enough. ¡°Chancellor,¡± Hobb told him at last, ¡°if you remain behind, I shall appoint you Archdeacon of Uellodon. Since the practice of religion is illegal in the Republic, you shall then take up residence with the last man to hold that office.¡±Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. Pearsy¡¯s complaints ended immediately after that. Boris, too, rode in the carriage, dutifully taking notes, sorting through the dispatches that caught up with them from the capital, and writing out Hobb¡¯s replies. Speaker Robe¡ªHobb had arranged for him to be elected to the Assembly from one of the Uellodon districts, and then to be elevated to Speaker¡ªhad been left in charge. Nonetheless, Hobb insisted on a steady flow of updates, and frequently gave his input on economic policy, city administration, and matters of criminal justice. Of this latter, there were a great many. Despite the best efforts of the new Administrative Courts, Uellodon¡¯s rash of inexplicable violence continued to spread, and the Yute Devices at Hoel were kept busy. Howe pushed the army hard, but there is a limit to the distance fifteen thousand fighting men and their support personnel can move together in one day. Large wagons, stacked tightly with light, thin canoes, trailed along after the army in the baggage train, slowing them further. Hobb chafed at the delay, but found there was little he could do about it. In three weeks the army reached Roosterfoot, where Hobb found that General Logwall had placed the recalcitrant market town under siege with a large contingent of the Heavy Arms. While the two armies made camp near each other for one night, Hobb stopped in briefly to pay his respects to the stiff knight-general and encourage a swift resolution of the conflict. Logwall promised confidently that Roosterfoot would soon be returned to the proper authorities, and that he could then move quickly to cut off Green Bridge. Hobb departed in satisfaction. General Howe looked on at the siege works sadly, but said nothing. The army¡¯s progress slowed as it moved north from Roosterfoot, and the well-maintained trade roads gradually narrowed into rutted farm lanes. Several late-spring snowstorms blew in from the west, forcing the troops to slog through a foul mixture of mud and snow as they trundled their way north. Hobb¡¯s carriage was nearly useless in these conditions, and he finally abandoned it in a little village along the road. He, Boris, and Pearsy rode on horseback instead, shivering miserably in the cold, sleeting wind. The boats were unladen from the wagons and carried, each on the shoulders of a pair of men. At night, Hobb read and re-read the appendix of Sir Richard¡¯s diary by the light of a single dim oil lamp, absorbing into his brain the precious but maddeningly incomplete cache of words in the language of the Giant-men. A grudging admiration for the troublesome knight began to grow in his mind. Sir Richard had discerned from his hosts not only a small treasury of vocabulary and grammar, but also a hidden, older language buried within the alien tongue. Hobb wondered if the thing behind the metal mask remembered writing the diary¡ªor even remembered who it had once been. Skirting far to the eastern edge of the Great Basin, Sir Thomas had expressed some optimism that they might be able to avoid contact with Anne¡¯s trade mercenaries. And at first, it looked as if they might escape without fighting. As the northern edge of the Great Basin drew closer and closer on the map that Sir Thomas showed Hobb each night, his hopes rose that there would be no fighting at all. The scout cavalry gave the first warning that something was wrong. Ranging out nightly in small squadrons from the main body, they reported contact with enemy scouts, and then sighted the campfires of a larger force to the west. Sir Quarterfoot, commanding the scouts, inspected the enemy force personally and put their number at three thousand. ¡°But their numbers may be deceptive,¡± ruminated Sir Thomas over the map that evening, sitting alone with Hobb. ¡°With their advantage in technology, I would count each of their men as three of ours. If they choose the ground for an engagement, the odds will be even closer. We should not fight if we can avoid it.¡± ¡°We must reach that valley with all possible haste, General,¡± replied Hobb sternly, ¡°and with enough force to defend it. I leave the tactics to you, but our strategy cannot be compromised.¡± Sir Thomas nodded grimly as Hobb departed, and called in his officers. The following day, the army turned east, hoping to avoid an engagement. But they ran into a small river that wasn¡¯t on the map, and were forced to turn north again. The scout cavalry reported in throughout the day, and Sir Thomas¡¯s face did not lighten. As the sun set and the army began to set up a cold camp, Hobb went to meet with his general. ¡°There will be a fight tomorrow,¡± Sir Thomas stated simply. ¡°Unless you want to turn around and march south again.¡± ¡°I do not,¡± replied Hobb, shaking his head emphatically. ¡°If we want to make progress to the north, we¡¯ll have to bleed for it,¡± said the young general with a shrug. ¡°We think their numbers are about thirty-five hundred, and they are deployed on both banks of the river to prevent us slipping by on the other side. The scouts found several pontoon bridges linking their positions. They¡¯re digging in on low ridges now and setting up their gunnars.¡± ¡°What will you do?¡± asked Hobb. Sir Thomas looked up at him through his eyelashes. His eyes were weary, and there were dark circles beneath them. ¡°I will see about neutralizing their advantages, First Minister,¡± he said. ¡°If you will excuse me, I need to speak with my officers. Get plenty of rest if you can. Tomorrow there¡¯s a good chance you¡¯ll spend some time running for your life.¡± Hobb sat gloomily around a low campfire with Pearsy and Boris, poking despondently at a bowl of watery bean soup that refused to make any effort at all to be appetizing. ¡°Fighting tomorrow?¡± asked Pearsy. Hobb nodded silently. ¡°We could still go back,¡± suggested the academic cautiously. ¡°There¡¯s no reason we have to stay with the main body. We could wait a few miles behind the battle until Howe sends for us.¡± ¡°No!¡± snapped Hobb. ¡°We are not going back, Chancellor, and we are not going to be cut off from the Guard. These men are patriots of the Republic, and they are our best chance to reach the valley in time.¡± ¡°In time for what?¡± demanded Pearsy incredulously. ¡°What, precisely, are we chasing? What has you so excited, First Minister, that you are prepared to march fifteen thousand men off the edge of the map in the middle of a war and an insurrection? And why must you and I march off the map with them?¡± He gesticulated wildly with his pewter camp spoon, spilling soup on his robe. Guardsmen nearby looked over curiously at his outburst. Hobb set down his own bowl slowly. ¡°Because Giant-men from the north, led by a man with a metal face, are coming to seize an ancient library full of secret knowledge, and I want to get there first. They are in a hurry for some reason I do not yet know, but I plan to use the threat of delaying them to extract concessions. I may also, if we are all extraordinarily lucky, have found a way to compel them to ally with us.¡± He paused for a moment. ¡°Ah¡ªand they have a dragon. I almost forgot the dragon.¡± Pearsy stood up. ¡°Your sense of humor is even feebler than usual, Hobb the Wise,¡± snapped the Chancellor. ¡°If you have nothing better to do than inflict it on the people around you, I¡¯ll leave you to torment your secretary. Good night.¡± And he stormed off toward his small, flimsy tent. Hobb picked up his tasteless soup again and sipped at it slowly. He glanced over at Boris, who was smiling slightly. ¡°How do you find my sense of humor tonight, my friend?¡± asked Hobb. ¡°Precise,¡± replied his secretary, the faint smile still dancing on his lips. The night grew dark and cold, and they said little more to each other. As the stars began to come out, Hobb went off to find comfort in his bedroll. ??? Hobb¡¯s eyes snapped open to the sound of a harsh, rattling crackle. It was like the sound of the river ice shifting in January, but repeated a hundred times in quick succession over the course of perhaps twenty seconds. And it was very nearby. Emerging from his small tent, he found the camp astir with frantic activity. It was still dark, but the sky to the east was beginning to show a light gray. Men of the Republican Guard were hastily seizing their long spears and struggling into their red coats and breastplates. Hobb shivered. The night air was still cold, even in mid-May. He thought for a moment as the activity swirled around him, and finally fished the date out of his foggy brain: The seventeenth. Another tearing rattle ripped through the air from the western edge of the camp, and several small holes appeared in the tent fabric nearby, as if summoned by magic. Hobb blinked in surprise, and then some instinct drove him to pat his chest and arms. His left hand, feeling his right shoulder, came away with a warm, sticky wetness. Drawing the hand up to his face, he saw that it was covered in red. He sat down unsteadily and wondered what to do next. Pearsy dashed up, bumbling madly in his haste. ¡°It¡¯s an attack!¡± he gasped breathlessly. ¡°The mercenaries are attacking! The west side of the camp is collapsing! What do we do?¡± His eyes were wild and confused. Hobb shook his head vaguely, groping ineffectually at the hilt of the long, elegant steel dagger in its black leather case, which he had taken from Mr. Robe and now kept at his belt. ¡°I suppose we¡¯d better find Howe,¡± he muttered. Hobb stood up, meaning to draw the dagger; but then, finding that his legs had other ideas, fell forward on his face. Hobb¡¯s memories of the next few hours were disjointed and riddled with more holes than his tent. He later tried to reassemble them in his journal, but found that the best he could manage were impressions. Pearsy and Boris were there, faces grim, binding the wound in his shoulder and propping him up against a barrel. There was no one else around. The sound of gunfire, scattered and constant, seemed to come from all directions. He was carried across the little river in a boat, Pearsy and Boris struggling awkwardly to get him in and out of the unstable vessel. There were screams and cries all round. He saw Sir Thomas¡¯s face, covered in dirt and blood, peering over his, and then whirling around suddenly and disappearing. Riders in black leathers, chain armor, and steel helms surrounded them¡ªperhaps a dozen. Hobb was roughly lifted from the ground and hoisted up in front of one of riders. As the pain screamed out in his shoulder and he began to lose consciousness, he realized by the shape of the figure behind him that it was a woman. Another rider, seated nearby, gave commands in a soft, urgent voice. In his delirium, he thought he saw the green eyes and finely chiseled features of Anne Linsey Gray. But then darkness passed over him. He vaguely remembered the bobbing, jolting sensation of a galloping horse. This went on for some indeterminate time, and by the snatches of shouting that reached his ears, it seemed there was a chase. But who was carrying him, and who was chasing, he could not tell. He was awakened from his shocked delirium by the hard jolt of an impact. His face plunged into mud, and he struggled to lift it up, spluttering for air. He was too weak; he collapsed again into the mud, unable to breathe. There were heavy thuds, and he felt shuddering impacts around him. Struggling mightily, he worked his way onto his side, spitting out mud and wiping some of it away from his eyes. His vision was of the ground. The heavy, deadly hooves of horses danced around his head, smashing inches from his face. He wiggled feebly away from them. Thunderous booms crashed out from overhead, and the sound of steel on steel. Voices screamed and shouted, and a body fell next to him. The helm rolled away, and he saw the face of a young woman. He looked up, and there again, mounted on horseback and swinging a light sword, was the tall, green-eyed figure that he had thought was Anne Linsey Gray. Hobb gave up on making sense of the world, laid his head in the mud, and went to sleep. ??? Sense returned slowly. There was, first, sound: a muted murmuring of concerned voices, and the faint crackle of a wood fire. Then a bit of light and motion came with them. He saw flames dancing from an open fire pit, framed by an irregular blob of light. Finally there was the sensation of cold. His whole body felt cold. A human face materialized over him; one of the army¡¯s medics, by his dress. The man took stock of Hobb, and placed another blanket on him. Through the opening of the tent he could see a small wood fire. The face of the medic was replaced by another face, and Hobb¡¯s mind, slowly re-acquainting itself with the particulars of his reality, recognized General Sir Thomas Howe. ¡°Well now, First Minister,¡± said Sir Thomas, ¡°I see you¡¯ve decided not to abandon us quite yet. How do you feel?¡± ¡°Cold,¡± said Hobb. His lips and mouth were dry. Sir Thomas gently tipped a small bit of water into Hobb¡¯s mouth, and he drank gratefully. ¡°Your body is in shock,¡± stated Sir Thomas with a clinical detachment. ¡°You lost quite a lot of blood before we managed to recover you and bind up the wound.¡± ¡°Recovered¡¡± Hobb muttered, finding his voice annoyingly slurred. ¡°Recovered from whom?¡± ¡°A squadron of the enemy¡¯s light cavalry,¡± said the young general, his eyes twinkling just a bit. ¡°They snuck into the camp from the south while our forces were engaged on both sides of the river. A bit of opportunistic raiding, perhaps, or maybe they were looking to disrupt our headquarters. But they found you, wounded and guarded only by Pearsy and your secretary.¡± Hobb blinked. ¡°I remember a boat and a horse,¡± he managed faintly. Sir Thomas nodded. ¡°Indeed. Pearsy had moved you across to the east side of the river. I suppose he thought the attack was less heavy on that side. The riders picked you up there and made a dash off to the north. You¡¯d have been on your way to Green Bridge right now¡ªor dead¡ªbut your man Boris came back across the river and found me at the front. Don¡¯t know how he did it; the fight on the western side was a dreadful mess. But as soon as I learned what had happened, I sent Sir Quarterfoot out with our own scout cavalry to chase you down.¡± Hobb sorted through his memories. ¡°I fell off,¡± he croaked. ¡°There was fighting.¡± Sir Thomas rubbed wearily at the stubble on his face. ¡°There was fighting everywhere. But Quarterfoot guessed they¡¯d be heading west again and managed to ride ahead and cut them off. There was a skirmish, yes. I¡¯m afraid you fell from the horse of the rider who was carrying you. But the physician tells me you managed not to break anything. If your body can endure the loss of blood, you should make a full recovery. I¡¯ve arranged for you to go back to Swallow Hall with our other casualties.¡± Hobb sat upright in the improvised bed, and then promptly fell back down again. Sir Thomas laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, but Hobb struggled up on his elbows. ¡°No!¡± he gasped. ¡°I will not go back. I am going to the valley.¡± ¡°Out of the question,¡± replied Sir Thomas, shaking his head firmly. ¡°You¡¯re in no condition for overland travel into the wilderness, much less any more fighting. I will see to the mission, First Minister. But you¡¯re on the casualty list now¡ªand the King made it abundantly clear that my first priority is your safety.¡± Hobb lay back in the bed, staring up at the low ceiling of the tent. ¡°You¡¯re going on,¡± he mused at last. ¡°Then we weren¡¯t beaten. There¡¯s still an army?¡± Sir Thomas smiled gently. ¡°We weren¡¯t beaten,¡± he said, a note of pride sounding in his soft voice. ¡°Their numbers weren¡¯t as great as we estimated, I think. They launched an attack at dawn on both sides of the river; I assume the plan was to spook the army into retreating. But I¡¯d positioned skirmishers and archers away from the main body last night to fall on their flanks as they advanced. They almost had us on the west bank, but their left flank broke on the east. We¡¯d have killed more of them on that side, but they escaped across the pontoon bridges. When we stopped them from destroying the bridges and began to cross ourselves, they withdrew.¡± Hobb rubbed his eyes wearily. ¡°There were women,¡± he said quietly. ¡°With the riders who captured me. I saw one die on the ground, and another on horseback. I think it was their leader. She looked like the Pretender.¡± Sir Thomas regarded him closely, his face grim. ¡°Quarterfoot reported the entire squadron was women,¡± he answered. ¡°They fought hard. The Snuggs must be hurting for mercenaries, to be sending out women. But this lot knew their business. We suffered more casualties than they did, but they broke off and escaped after they lost you. I expect we¡¯ll see them again.¡± ¡°And the captain?¡± asked Hobb. Sir Thomas rose to his feet, drawing his cloak around him. ¡°I wasn¡¯t there,¡± he said. ¡°And Quarterfoot didn¡¯t have a chance to make introductions. But he said the leader had a golden circlet bolted to her helm, had green eyes, and carried a standard with three fish. Make of that what you will. Now if you will excuse me, First Minister, I must make arrangements for our wounded. Rest now.¡± ??? In the event, Hobb refused to be shipped back to Swallow Hall. When Sir Thomas pointed out that all the casualties were being sent back, and Hobb was on the casualty list, Hobb simply instructed Boris to scratch his name off the list. Sir Thomas, sensibly, gave up and adopted the expedient of pretending that Hobb had never suffered any injury at all. This fiction flew in the face of all available evidence, which was that the First Minister was seriously wounded. Though he insisted on riding with the command staff when the army moved on, Hobb had difficulty concentrating and swayed frequently in the saddle. His right arm, more or less useless, was bound up in a sling. The chief physician changed and inspected his bandages every few hours, cleaning the wound and applying fresh herbal poultices. His face was grim. The wound ached mightily, but Hobb gritted his teeth and refused to acknowledge it. He would not be a casualty. The farms grew more and more sparse as the army moved north. Quarterfoot¡¯s scouts, ranging far across the countryside at night, reported that the Snugg force had moved south toward Roosterfoot, and that no serious opposition now stood between the Republican Guard and its destination on the East Branch. Though there was some danger to the supply lines, stretching as they did through contested territory, Sir Thomas pressed the men hard. They began to turn west as well, following the circumference of the broad depression of the Great Basin and arcing toward the East Branch where it emerged from the great, endless forests of the north to make its way toward Green Bridge. When they reached the banks of the East Branch, Hobb was rather disappointed. He had expected some mighty, rushing watercourse, carrying the swollen weight of the northern snows to fuel the Green¡¯s inevitable flood season and the equally inevitable rise in administrative headaches that flowed along with it. Instead, it looked like a second-rate irrigation ditch. The banks were low and partly obstructed with scrubby growth; a scraggly forest lay on the other side, the tree branches just beginning to put out their leaves. A ragged wind gave a depressingly pedestrian undertone to the sounds of the army around him. ¡°This is it?¡± Hobb asked Pearsy, riding nearby. ¡°We¡¯re supposed to move an army north along this?¡± The wound in his right shoulder ached ferociously, and he rubbed at it absently. Chancellor Pearsy shrugged. ¡°It¡¯s wet,¡± he replied, ¡°and I understand boats will float in it.¡± And indeed, the men of the Republican Guard brought forth a host of small, slim boats from the baggage train. Some were laden with close-packed supplies and just one or two paddlers, while other, somewhat longer vessels could fit up to five men. To Hobb¡¯s surprise, most of the baggage train was left behind, under a light guard. ¡°We¡¯ll need all the boats to move the army,¡± explained Sir Thomas. ¡°We have enough supplies for about two weeks, on half rations. According to the maps, we should reach the valley with enough time to send most of the fleet back and begin ferrying the supplies upstream.¡± ¡°What does half-rations mean?¡± asked Pearsy nervously. Hobb noticed that he¡¯d already lost weight in their travels. ¡°It means cold breakfast, cold lunch, and no dinner,¡± answered Sir Thomas with a droll smile. ¡°I shall find the enemy and surrender to him,¡± announced Pearsy. ¡°No civilized man would treat a prisoner of war as badly as we treat our own soldiers.¡± ¡°Since the enemy is, in this case, a woman,¡± countered Hobb, ¡°your expectations are categorically unrealistic. Also, if you desert, I shall have you caught and towed behind us by your beard.¡± ¡°First Minister,¡± said Pearsy seriously, ¡°you look deeply unwell. I fear your wound has begun to putrefy. I had better accompany you back to safety at Swallow Hall.¡± He looked imploringly at Boris, who blinked. ¡°By the beard, Pearsy,¡± Hobb reminded him. And he went and sat in one of the boats, waiting for a soldier to come and propel him. Pearsy did not, in the end, decamp for better rations with the rebels. He even managed, after they all embarked, to remain relatively silent. But this turned out to be because he had a deathly fear of boats, and spent the entire trip huddled under a blanket, pressed to the hull of his canoe. The land was entirely wild now, and at night the army made a rude camp on either side of the river. The land became densely forested, and rocky hills began to rise up on either side of the narrow, winding watercourse. The ministrations of the army physician assigned to Hobb began to have a positive impact, and the wound began to scab over. But the pain grew more intense, not less, and it hurt to move his right arm at all. ¡°Did it come out?¡± he asked the physician once, while being treated. ¡°Did what come out?¡± asked the gruff, bearded medic. ¡°The shot. The thing that made that hole in me. Did it come out the other side?¡± The physician shook his head. ¡°Then it¡¯s still in there,¡± Hobb concluded, logically. A nod from the doctor. ¡°Taking it out would be risky, especially with your body so weak. You¡¯d lose too much blood in the operation. It¡¯ll have to stay in.¡± ¡°Well,¡± said Hobb calmly. ¡°That¡¯s annoying.¡± But in his head, a surge of panic welled up. He could not write. The mood of the men grew nearly as dark as Hobb¡¯s as they drew farther and farther from civilization. The forests and hills seemed quite prepared to go on utterly forever, and there was an unearthly quiet to them. At night the men slept in their boats, pulled over to the side of the river and secured to tree branches. The two red-clad men propelling Hobb¡¯s canoe muttered darkly to each other, and then, as the days passed, stopped talking altogether. The ancient trees seemed to frown down on the army as it trickled upstream, strung out over the miles like a long, red centipede. And then, quite unexpectedly, the boat in which Hobb was riding pulled over to the east bank of the river, the men cursing and muttering softly under their breath. Hobb looked up out of his own private misery, curious as to the source of the halt. ¡°Lead boats called an early stop,¡± said one of the Guardsman. ¡°Don¡¯t know why. But the command was to disembark and draw up on shore.¡± Hobb staggered unsteadily out of the boat, stretching his legs for the first time all day. He made his way forward along the line, as the men around him drew the canoes up and into the trees on the steep riverbank. Eventually he found Sir Thomas at the front of the line, conferring with his command staff. ¡°Why the halt, General?¡± Hobb asked. Sir Thomas looked up at Hobb darkly, then waved away his officers. ¡°Come and see,¡± he said. Pearsy and Boris came up as well, and Sir Thomas led them up a steep slope, crowned at its top by an open swath of granite ledge. Hobb found that he had a clear view of the land to the north for many miles. Ahead, a pair of steep hills formed a narrow ¡®V¡¯-shaped cleft, and beyond it he could see an open, grassy valley, mostly empty of trees. The wind howled fiercely around him, and he had to lean slightly to stay on his feet. ¡°There,¡± said Sir Thomas, pointing at the cleft. ¡°That¡¯s why we stopped.¡± There was a small wooden fortification on the top of the hill, and a series of smaller redoubts lower down on its slopes. But Hobb¡¯s eye quickly slid off these, captured by something far more outrageous. There was a face in the hill. It was perhaps fifty feet tall, carved into the bare rock of the steep hillside, above the fort. It was a woman¡¯s face; stern, cunning, beautiful, and with a twinkle of merriment playing around the corners of the lips. Scaffolding surrounded the carving, not obscuring the face, but supporting the tiny figures of workers laboring at the edges and details. Hobb felt a catch at a part of his heart, the existence of which he had entirely forgotten. He sat down on a nearby outcrop of rock, staring at the face in dazed amazement. He recognized it. It was a face he had once loved; and, as he now recalled, he still loved. He hated her, and he loved her, and here she was, carved fifty feet tall, standing implacable and unyielding over his destination and smiling slightly. The woman was insufferable, even in death. ¡°This isn¡¯t real,¡± he said. ¡°It¡¯s another bout of the delirium. I shall speak to the physician about it. I¡¯m still in the boat, and soon the man will tell me it¡¯s time to pull over and sleep. It isn¡¯t real.¡± Beside him, Chancellor Pearsy dropped to his knees. Hobb could hear muffled sobs coming from him. And then they stopped being muffled, and he began to wail. He beat the ground and pulled at his beard and screamed, and tears flowed down his face. Beatrice Snugg stared down at Hobb the Wise and Wembley Pearsy, and she smiled. Chapter 28: The Guns of June The Valley, June 21st The ground exploded in front of Hobb, sending clods of dirt and rock flying into the air around him. He felt the breeze of their passage against his cheeks. Men in the squad ahead of him fell, screaming, as shrapnel from the blast ate into and through their bodies. Hobb himself ignored the noise and fury of the explosion, reasoning that if it was his time to be pulverized, no amount of incidental wriggling would make a difference. ¡°Spread out!¡± bellowed the Citizen-Sergeant in the tight ranks ahead. ¡°Form skirmish line!¡± The lower officer¡¯s voice was abruptly interrupted by a tearing arpeggio of clattering explosions, rippling from Hobb¡¯s left to right from ahead on up the steep slope. More men in the ranks ahead fell, cut down as if by magic. But the survivors dutifully spread out, and someone picked up the fallen standard. The source of the gunfire was a string of low redoubts further up the slope, scattered men with long guns just visible behind their wooden walls. Hobb was armed only with the long dagger that he now kept with him at all times. The men surrounding him had spears, crossbows, and zeal. It was zeal that would carry them through to the end, thought Hobb, as the line surged forward under the imprecations of its officers. It was not fear, or discipline, or Howe¡¯s carefully considered tactics. Those would help. But zeal¡ªzeal for the Republic, for democracy, for the equality of men¡ªwould propel them over the walls. His side had it, and the demoralized, frightened mercenaries in the redoubts did not. The long, flowing line of widely-spaced, red-clad soldiers surged up the slope toward the redoubts, and Hobb surged along behind them. Three weeks of waiting in a fruitless siege of the fort, staring deliriously up at Beatrice Snugg¡¯s fearsomely contemptuous face carved into the very bones of the earth, had exhausted Hobb¡¯s patience. His Republican Guard were going up the hill toward his antagonist, and Hobb had rebuffed every suggestion that he remain behind. The guns crackled again, but fewer of the Guard ahead fell. Sir Thomas had improvised quickly after the battle at the river, inventing entirely new ways of organizing and moving men to counter the technological advantage of the Snuggs. The Guardsmen dissolved into small squadrons, each with a pre-appointed objective; the individual men maintained space from each other, pushing toward their destinations in a loose cloud. Some fell, but each unit made its way forward, buffered from the worst effects of the concentrated fire from above. Hobb panted from the steep, fast climb, but the hot fire from above and the screams and shouts of men around him drove him on. Large stones began to tumble down the hill as well, in between the volleys. But the slope ahead of Hobb crawled with red, and no amount of stones or gunfire was going to turn back the uphill tide. Boris ran at his side, and when the loose formations reached their designated points on the wall, he gently held Hobb back from the fighting. Sir Thomas had grudgingly permitted them to follow along well behind the assault, but made it clear that Boris would be disassembled in slow, methodical detail if the First Minister came within a hundred yards of actual combat. And Hobb, even through the haze of pain that flowed from his wound and clouded his thinking, knew that he would only be in the way when it was time for the stabbing to begin. In the event, the Snugg mercenaries spent relatively little time on a hopeless defense of their redoubts. There were too few of them. They retreated upslope to the main fort, where two of the big guns spat thunder and death down at the attackers. More thunder could be heard, coming from many miles to the north. But those guns were turned to a different attacker. Hobb and Boris stopped downslope of the main fort to rest, watching the Republican Guard assault the walls and gates. Hobb had no clue how long the fighting went on, but numerous efforts to pierce the gates were driven back by gunfire and vicious, hand-to-hand combat. The tide of battle only turned when several squads of the Guard worked their way onto the lattice of scaffolding that still framed Beatrice Snugg¡¯s face above the fort, pouring crossbow bolts down on the defenders. Late in the afternoon, the surviving mercenaries fought their way out the northward gate of the fort, making their way north along the western ridges of the valley while trailing guns and casualties. That night, Hobb sat wearily in the remains of the fort with Sir Thomas and the command staff. Pearsy joined them from the valley below, where he had remained throughout the assault, apparently fearing that the visage of his late wife might be inspired to join in the melee and sear him from the face of the earth. Sir Thomas sat with them, reporting the results of the action. He had a bandage on his left arm and a nasty graze on one cheek that might one day turn into a dashing scar. ¡°We have 329 casualties so far,¡± announced the young knight-general, ¡°to, in my estimate, about sixty of theirs. But they have far fewer men to spare, and must split their forces between us and the¡¡± he trailed off, looking down at the ground. ¡°Say it, General,¡± commanded Hobb, rubbing absently at the wound in his shoulder. Sir Thomas swallowed manfully. ¡°They must split their force between us and the Giant-men,¡± he said in a steady voice; but his eyes showed he still struggled to believe it. ¡°Sir Quarterfoot reported back a few minutes ago from the latest scout. He tells me the other army has driven the Snuggs back from their fortifications at the northern end of the valley. The mercenaries are fighting a rearguard back down the valley toward their settlement. Quarterfoot thinks it won¡¯t last more than a day. Their opponents are¡ formidable.¡± ¡°Then it is a race,¡± mused Hobb. ¡°A race to find something the Herald knows and I do not.¡± His vision swam, and he found that Boris had reached out a hand to steady him as he sat. ¡°Rest, First Minister,¡± said Sir Thomas. ¡°You¡¯ve done enough for today. Your presence encouraged the men.¡± To the north, the guns rumbled ominously: seven loud booms. ¡°Advance at dawn, general,¡± instructed Hobb, struggling to keep his voice level as he tottered toward a nearby bedroll. ¡°We must take and hold the town for long enough to find what the Herald is keeping from me. We need the Snuggs to give the Giant-men a bloody nose on their march down the valley, and then get out of our way.¡± And then, not bothering to remove the tattered and stained remains of his once-white shirt and dark gray suit, Hobb collapsed on the blankets, too weak to cover himself. Tender hands drew the blankets around him and covered his head, and then darkness took him. ??? The boat bobbed gently in the darkness, the stars above providing a visual anchor by which Hobb could judge his own movement. He sat on the stern bench, looking up at the stars in the cool air of a late June night. ¡°It¡¯s almost over, you know,¡± remarked a voice next to him. Hobb looked down from the stars and regarded his companion on the stern bench. Truth be told, the other man took up most of the bench, and Hobb was crammed precariously to one side. He sniffed the familiar wash of foul body odor that announced the presence of his old adversary. ¡°What¡¯s almost over?¡± asked Hobb. ¡°Your journey,¡± replied the Archdeacon. ¡°Very soon you will have served your purpose, and God will permit you to lay down your burdens.¡± Hobb snorted. ¡°I am told,¡± he replied, ¡°that on the upper reaches of the Broobana there live bands of primitives whose holy men divine their futures by examining the chief¡¯s shit on the morning after a ritual feast. I further have it on excellent authority that one of these bands, after their headman had an untimely case of constipation, was plunged into religious crisis and committed suicide to a man. And yet, Archdeacon, I would sooner consult a scatomancer than you for reliable information on my future. Your appearance is the nocturnal affliction of a weary mind and an injured body.¡± The Kettle smiled broadly. ¡°You needn¡¯t take my word for it, Hobb the Wise,¡± he said. ¡°Judgment awaits, whether you believe in it or not. Hell is filled with confident atheists.¡± ¡°What do you mean, do you suppose?¡± asked Hobb curiously, shifting his body awkwardly to face Ratwaddler beside him. ¡°The psychists at the Royal Academy proclaim dreams to be a manifestation of the mind¡¯s own obsessions and insecurities, unshackled from the discipline of the waking world.¡± Ratwaddler smiled gently. ¡°And?¡± he prompted. Hobb grimaced. ¡°If my deep and unconscious mind is secretly a believer in the One True God, shackled in iron bonds of false rationalism and crying out for salvation, then I shall return to Uellodon at once, resign from government, eat my hat, and then have myself thrown from the Rose Tower.¡± ¡°You needn¡¯t secretly be a believer to secretly be guilty,¡± answered Ratwaddler. Hobb looked at the stars reflected in the water around them for many minutes, saying nothing. ¡°My bones are down there,¡± remarked Ratwaddler, his tone unreadable. ¡°They¡¯re in good company,¡± whispered Hobb faintly. ¡°It¡¯s time, Hobb,¡± said the Archdeacon. ¡°You know what we must do.¡± Hobb nodded, shifting around to face the rear of the boat. His hands and feet were bound. Ratwaddler did the same, and he too was bound. The sky was black above, and no stars could be seen. ¡°On three, then?¡± said the churchman. ¡°I expect this time it will stick,¡± said Hobb. Stop, said the oarsman. Wake. ??? Hobb¡¯s eyes snapped open. It was cold, and the sky above was dim. Dark clouds roiled the air above, hanging low over the tops of the ridges. Above him, the pale, bald face of Boris looked down. He was kneeling over Hobb, with one hand on his forehead and another pressing against the wound in his shoulder. Boris¡¯s slightly red eyes seemed to burn even in the dim light. ¡°Wake, First Minister,¡± he said, in his strange, roly-poly accent. ¡°It is past dawn, and the Guard is moving to the north. We mustn¡¯t be left behind.¡± Hobb sat up suddenly, his head light and his eyes weary. But the pain in his shoulder had died down considerably, and his mind felt clear. The Guard¡¯s makeshift camp in the ruins of the Snugg fort was almost completely empty of soldiers now. Only wounded Guardsmen and attending physicians were left, and perhaps a dozen mercenary prisoners chained and guarded in one corner. The sound of sporadic gunfire crackled to the north, and drops of rain began to be blown in on the heavy wind. Hobb gathered up the reluctant and groggy Chancellor Pearsy, then strode purposefully over to the group of prisoners, not bothering to change the clothes he had slept in. Boris trailed along beside them. ¡°Gentlemen,¡± he addressed the mercenaries. The looked up at him sullenly. ¡°Gentlemen,¡± he repeated. ¡°We are all businessmen here, are we not? We have needs, you and I. You need to be away from the bloodbath that is coming to this valley, and to have enough coin in your pocket to make your way to safer lands with your families or your sweethearts. Am I correct?¡± They looked at him suspiciously, but a handful rewarded him with nods. ¡°Very good,¡± Hobb encouraged them. ¡°We consider the greater good in the Republic, you know. Our concerns are larger than the self-interest of the individual; we want the best for our whole community. I want you to think like Republicans, gentlemen. And I¡¯m going to help you. Are you ready?¡± He gave instructions to the guards, and the chained prisoners were separated into two groups, by about fifty feet. Hobb stood between the two groups and looked from one to the other. ¡°These are your communities,¡± he announced loudly. ¡°Whichever community gives me the best and most complete information about the interior of that mining complex will go free, each man with ten gold crowns in his pocket.¡± He paused for dramatic effect. ¡°The other community,¡± he continued then, ¡°will have their eyes gouged out and be set loose to starve in the wilderness.¡± He sent Pearsy to talk to one of the groups of prisoners, and went himself to the other. Their eyes were desperate as he approached. ¡°There¡¯s a library,¡± said one of them eagerly, keeping his voice low. His companions nodded, looking anxiously at Hobb. Hobb smiled. ¡°Tell me about this library,¡± he said. ??? Hobb, Pearsy, and Boris caught up with the advancing Guard units several hours later as they poured through the pass at the south end of the valley, on the east side of the river. They were trotting forward toward the settlement, but Hobb found that his legs and breath felt stronger and more spry than they had in months. He caught them easily and found General Sir Thomas Howe¡¯s standard. Howe himself, walking alongside his men as the horses had not been brought up, acknowledged Hobb with a slight nod, but did not stop. Their objective was obvious, and it was close. A low cluster of gray and brown buildings lay on both banks of the river, and a remarkable bridge spanned the water between them. It was light, airy, and beautiful in its mathematical simplicity. The pilings were of concrete, and the span itself was made of steel. A year ago, Hobb would have gaped in awe at the fantastic expense of such a construction, but a steady diet of fantastic and impossible experiences had jaded his palette. Of course the Snuggs had built a bridge of steel. There were Giant-men and a dragon running about just to the north; he half-expected to see fleets of flying carriages pulled by winged horses. But then, as he watched, Hobb finally did see something that impressed him. Emerging from one of the three large cave openings at the base of the eastern ridge, a long serpent of steel and smoke clattered toward the settlement, moving much faster than a galloping horse. It rolled on wheels, like a carriage, but there were a dozen cars all strung together, and the car at the lead belched black fumes from a stack at its front. The cars behind were a variety of platforms and boxes. Some of the platform cars bore crowds of people, and others were stacked with crates or loose goods, tied down with cabling. Young children with oddly squat heads clambered all over the dozen cars of the strange, serpentine vehicle, though they were concentrated in the smoking car at the front and a large, boxy car at the rear. A group of them actually seemed to be hanging off the front and sides of the lead car, working frantically at details that were too small for Hobb to make out. Hulking, man-shaped figures, twelve feet tall and glittering with plate armor, appeared suddenly on the far side of the bridge. More were pounding down from the north, moving at a dead run to cut off the escape route of the long vehicle. They bore massive, two-handed swords that were nearly as long as the Giant-men were tall. ¡°General!¡± shouted Hobb. ¡°We must take those mines! The settlement and the train are of no consequence; the library is in the tunnels!¡± Howe looked at him blankly, uncomprehending. ¡°Take the tunnels,¡± repeated Hobb. ¡°Go in there, and flush out any Snuggs that are left, and occupy them before the Giant-men arrive in force.¡± He nodded at the gathering crowd of oversized warriors on the west side of the river. ¡°But¡ª¡± began Sir Thomas, obviously about to say something sensibly tactical. ¡°I order you,¡± bellowed Hobb, ¡°by the authority of the Republic and its King, to occupy those mines!¡± Sir Thomas shook his head wearily, and then raised his trumpet to his lips. Hobb had quite forgotten that Sir Thomas, not long ago a company captain in the scout cavalry, did his own signaling. There was a strong, jaunty blast, in a particular arpeggiated pattern, and before long the ranks of the Guard were wheeling and shifting to move toward the three caves on the double-quick. ¡°Give me a company, Sir Thomas,¡± demanded Hobb. Howe scowled at him, but called over one of his staff. ¡°Take the First Minister to Sir Quarterfoot,¡± he instructed, not bothering to lower his voice. ¡°Keep him alive if possible, wherever he may go, but no suicide missions. Hit him on the head and bring him back to me if he puts himself in danger.¡± Hobb did not spare Sir Thomas a glare, but trotted after the staff officer, trailing Boris and Pearsy. As they approached the cave entrances from which the long vehicle had emerged, hawks swooped and circled just over the heads of his troops, screaming angrily. Some went so far as to claw at the heads and faces of the soldiers. But Hobb gave them little heed. He had come too far now to trouble himself with the beasts of the field or birds of the air. He did wonder, for just a moment, at the recovery of his strength from a festering wound that, yesterday evening, had left him delirious and barely able to walk. But Hobb had too many concerns now to dwell on one small piece of good fortune. This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. The three weathered, square cave entrances loomed closer across the narrow valley floor. ??? Within the caves, all was chaos, claustrophobia, and death. A stench assaulted Hobb¡¯s nostrils the moment they passed into the center cave opening. It was a hard, sulfuric, metallic smell, like the rotten eggs of a metal chicken. Its assault grew, the deeper they went. And other assaults waited for them; the Snuggs had not yet entirely abandoned the complex. Small pockets of skirmishers held choke points in the tunnels, forcing the Guard to advance slowly and hack them down with their overwhelming numbers. The noise of gunfire up close, in the tight confines of the cave systems, quickly drove Hobb to near deafness. The first round he¡¯d encountered up close had scared him so much that he dropped the long dagger he carried. Fumbling in the dark, he couldn¡¯t find it, and felt a brief twinge of regret. But he was soon forced to move on, waving, pulling, and occasionally punching his close companions to get them moving in the right direction. Hobb had, finally, a destination in mind. He had memorized the directions from the exceedingly helpful prisoners in the captured fort; both groups of which he had left under guard, resolving to return and pass judgment on their relative merits once he could evaluate the accuracy of the proffered information. Soon after entering the caves, they came to a large, open chamber, out of which ran steel rails about three feet apart. Hobb quickly deduced that they were the tracks for the long vehicle he had seen depart earlier. Similar tracks were used frequently in mining operations, though these were propelled by hand engines. It was a shame, really, that the Giant-men had intercepted the second train on the west bank of the river. It was such a marvel, it almost deserved to escape. But Hobb had little time to pause in admiration for his enemy¡¯s ingenuity. As the few pockets of holdouts were overwhelmed by the Guard, Hobb strode imperiously through the open space, past rows of strange, alien eggs that sprouted pipes into the ceiling, and into a passage beyond. He passed through a narrow doorway in the rock, finding a stair leading up just as the captured mercenaries had described. He consulted the map he had drawn based on their testimony, and then started up the stair. Then, to Hobb¡¯s surprise, Boris shoved him roughly to one side, just as a clattering, tearing explosion of noise came from above. The red-clad scouts ahead of him fell limply to the floor. More explosions came from above. And then a deeper rumble shook the floor, and a massive block of stone abruptly crashed down, accompanied by a blast of acrid, sulfuric smoke. ¡°The way is blocked,¡± said his laconic secretary. ¡°They¡¯ve collapsed the tunnel!¡± shouted Pearsy, who had gone a few steps ahead and held up his oil lamp. Hobb swore under his breath. ¡°Follow me,¡± he said to Pearsy and Boris. ¡°There¡¯s another way, I think.¡± They followed Hobb as he strode through the chaotic, violently loud tunnels of the complex. The scout company fell in behind, moving through the tunnels with the tense alertness of hunters. Hobb looked again at the map, using it to follow the twists and turns. Panic began to rise in his chest, as he imagined they might be lost here in the close, dark spaces. Then they came upon a massive, reinforced portal of heavy steel, set into a narrow space in the rock. Beyond, the smell of sulfur was overwhelming. Hobb tore off a strip of his fine wool coat, poured water from his canteen on it, and wrapped it around his face. ¡°Cover your mouth and nose, all of you,¡± he instructed. ¡°Our helpful guides back at the camp told me the fumes here will make you sick.¡± And with that, he entered the vast, open chamber and began to descend. The stairs seemed to go on forever, but in reality, he walked downward for perhaps ten minutes. At the bottom, there was a guide rope leading out into the darkness, with dim oil lamps set at regular intervals. Even through the damp cloth, the air was choking, but Hobb could only go on. He was now a heavy stone, rolling downhill. There was no stopping. They came to a rope ladder, dangling down from the impenetrable darkness above. At the base of the ladder was a wide-brimmed, floppy hat. From somewhere nearby came a faint red glow; but this was not Hobb¡¯s destination. ¡°Up,¡± he said, gasping in the sulfuric miasma. He picked the hat up off the floor. ¡°Just two at a time, they said. Boris, you come with me first. Pearsy, follow with Sir Quarterfoot once I drop this hat.¡± He put the hat on his head for safekeeping. ¡°Let me go first!¡± protested Quarterfoot. But Hobb had already begun to climb. ¡°Come and stop me,¡± he snarled down. If the descent seemed to take forever, the climb took twice as long. Many times Hobb had to stop to rest, clinging desperately to the narrow, swaying ladder, his arms stuck through the gaps to let them recover. But he refused to fall, and he refused to stop climbing. There was, in any event, nowhere else to go. Behind him, Boris waited patiently at each stop. ¡°This ladder is so long,¡± he remarked to Boris at one stop, ¡°I expect we¡¯ll reach Heaven soon.¡± ¡°If only someone would build a stairway,¡± replied the strange man. ¡°I¡¯d buy that,¡± agreed Hobb. They began to climb again. At last, they did reach the end of the ladder, though it was not Heaven. It was, rather, a rough opening cut in the side of a stone shaft in the ceiling, some fifteen feet tall. A series of rusty iron protrusions ringed the edge, and the ladder was fastened to steel spikes driven into the rock. Rickety wooden scaffolding was fastened to the outer face of the shaft, leading upward. But Hobb could go no further. He collapsed on the stone floor of the landing, massaging his aching arms. He feebly removed the wide-brimmed hat from his head and tossed it over the edge, signaling to Quarterfoot and Pearsy. The wait for their companions to join them was long. Hobb could not keep track of time in the darkness. While he waited he sat quietly with Boris, letting the burning seep away from his muscles and looking around at the space they were in. ¡°Why are you helping me, Boris?¡± he asked. ¡°Because you pay me,¡± came the answer from his secretary, barely visible by the light of a single oil lamp. ¡°No,¡± replied Hobb. ¡°Not a credible answer. You¡¯ve been up to something since last fall, when you saved my life in the fight at the docks. Since then, you¡¯ve been right at the edges of every important thing that¡¯s happened¡ªfrom Uellodon to Roosterfoot to Hoel and now all the way up here. You¡¯re always just in the right place at the right time to do something, to nudge me in the right direction¡ well. In some direction. I don¡¯t know what you are, or who you serve¡ªbut it¡¯s not me, and it¡¯s not the Republic.¡± The visage of his companion grew fainter in the darkness as the lamp flickered. ¡°That is an irrational conclusion, First Minister,¡± he said. ¡°I am close to events of significance, because I have been privileged to be close to you.¡± Hobb shook his head. ¡°No. It¡¯s the other way around.¡± ¡°And why do you think that?¡± ¡°Because it was you, last night, in the boat.¡± ¡°Your injury has clouded your thinking, First Minister.¡± ¡°It has not. It was you. And just now you saved my life from that explosion at the stairs, when no man could possibly have known it was about to happen. Whatever you are¡ you¡¯re more than some odd foreigner making his living as a scribe. I want to know what game you¡¯re playing.¡± Boris leaned his face forward over the oil lamp. The light danced in his red eyes, and the wash of fear and cognitive dissonance that Hobb had so long suppressed and ignored rolled over him again. His eyes widened, and his joints locked up. ¡°Come and find out,¡± said the suddenly terrifying man. And then he blew out the lamp. Hobb was left in silent darkness, too terrified to move. ¡°Boris.¡± He whispered. There was no response. There was no sound of movement; his senses were almost entirely deadened. He was alone in the dark, underground, with no clue how to escape. Slowly, Hobb perceived that the darkness was not complete, however. Somewhere in the distance was another point of yellow light; faint, flickering. It was the only reference available to him, so he staggered to his feet and set off down the blackness of the hall, toward the light. Eventually he found it. It emerged from a single oil lamp, of the sort that the Snugg clique used. Near it, face down on the floor, was the body of a woman, blood pooling around her. A broad opening on one side led to a stairway down. Across the corridor were a pair of massive doors of some dark metal, standing half-open. Etchings that Hobb could not read covered the doors. Beyond, he saw faintly a broad, open space, punctuated at regular intervals by hulking towers. He picked up the lamp from the dead woman and held it up to the doors. A small scrap of paper had been affixed to one of the massive slabs, and on it was written a single phrase in Uellish: This is the library of the dead. ¡°Puerile melodrama,¡± he muttered to himself. A smell reached his nose, cutting through even the strong odor of sulfur that pervaded the tunnel system. The new smell was acrid, pungent, and smoky. Hobb looked up from his examination of the door and sniffed. The new smell was coming from inside the library itself. Deep in the cavernous darkness beyond the portal was a light, yellow-orange and flickering ominously. Hobb took a step through the door and sniffed again. It was, definitively, smoke. He hurried forward toward the light, raising his borrowed oil lamp ahead of him. The towering shapes in the darkness revealed themselves to be enormous shelves, crammed tightly with books¡ªstacks, in the parlance of the librarian. The occupants of the stacks, as he glanced at them in passing, were a riot of different shapes and sizes, ranging from just a few inches tall to massive tomes with elaborate, gold-trimmed leather covers. There were scrolls, too¡ªloose, or in cases. All was not ordered. Hobb came upon several places where books had apparently been flung off the shelves to lie in ugly heaps on the floor. Someone, he concluded, had been searching this library¡ªurgently, and recently. In anguish, he passed by the stacks and piles, making his way to the growing patch of orange flame ahead. The smell of smoke grew rapidly stronger, and Hobb had to draw the crude mask up over his mouth and nose again. When he reached the source of the smoke, his heart sank in utter despair. Whole stacks were engulfed in hot, red flame. The ancient paper and parchment were gobbled up greedily by the fire, spreading with shocking speed from one row to another, from one shelf to another. He tried to approach one of the stacks, but the heat drove him back. It was impossible to go further. Down the rapidly-burning row of books, he saw a single human figure. It wore a dark cloak, with the hood thrown up over its head. Only the lower half of the face was visible, a grim smile on pasty-white skin illuminated by the dreadful flames. The figure turned and walked away, deeper into the stacks, and Hobb recognized the movements of his secretary. At that moment, the sound of footfalls behind him caused Hobb to whirl around. He saw there the wild-haired form of Chancellor Pearsy and the gaunt, lean frame of Sir Quarterfoot. ¡°Help me!¡± cried Hobb, starting to pull books off the shelves. Pearsy¡¯s eyes were wide and horrified at the conflagration of knowledge before him. ¡°What can we do?¡± he asked. ¡°We have no water to put it out.¡± ¡°Build a fire break!¡± shouted Hobb, pulling more books off the shelves and flinging them away from the fire. ¡°The shelves themselves are metal. They won¡¯t burn. If we can make a circle around the fire, we can save most of the library!¡± ¡°I¡¯ll go for more of the company,¡± said Quarterfoot, spinning to run back out of the room. Pearsy and Hobb, left alone, set to work urgently. It was a race against the spreading fire, and both men knew it. They desperately heaved books off the shelves, flinging them as far as they could from the flames with no care for the advanced age and delicate constitution of the volumes. Some of the books simply crumbled when they were removed, and others were wrecked when they hit the floor. But the heaps of displaced books were out of the fire¡¯s reach, for now. They worked alone, desperately. It took many minutes for just one or two men to ascend the long rope ladder; help in numbers would not be coming any time soon. Two of the scouts did show up after a time, and pitched in with the pitching out. Then two more came. But the fire was moving rapidly. Sparks jumped easily from one stack to the next, and the ancient books were bone-dry and lit in an instant. Though Hobb and his assistants labored mightily, flinging books and moving on as fast as they could, the fire was still faster. Soon it was plain they were being outflanked, as the conflagration spread faster than they could construct their break. The library all around them was roaring with red-orange heat, and the smoke was unbearable. ¡°Get out!¡± shouted Pearsy. ¡°We have to get out, Hobb, or we¡¯ll all be smothered!¡± Hobb nodded, and dropped to the stone floor to crawl away. He wept as he crawled, feebly gathering a few of the hardier tomes to take with him. But he could carry very little on his own. When they reached the door of the library, the four men collapsed on the ground, panting for air. ¡°Shut the door,¡± said Hobb. ¡°What?¡± asked Pearsy in consternation. ¡°Why?¡± ¡°Because it will cut off the air, you twit,¡± snapped Hobb. ¡°Assuming there aren¡¯t any other ventilation shafts in there, closing the door will cut off the air supply to the fire, and it will eventually suffocate itself. We can open it up in a day or so and see what¡¯s left.¡± ¡°What if there are other openings?¡± whined Pearsy. ¡°Then the whole thing will burn,¡± replied Hobb sadly. ¡°But if we don¡¯t close the doors now, this passage and everything above it will fill up with smoke, and we¡¯ll all die.¡± And, indeed, the upper part of the tall passageway was already dense with black smoke, visible by the scout company¡¯s lamps. They heaved on the great metal doors, and they slowly ground shut. The smoke lingered at the upper part of the hall, and more of it poured out through the cracks in the door¡ªbut the conflagration was contained inside the vast library. ¡°We¡¯ve got to get out of here, First Minister,¡± said Sir Quarterfoot urgently. ¡°This smoke is still too thick for us to breath safely. If we stay, we¡¯ll pass out, and they¡¯ll only find our bodies later. This is where you come willingly, or I hit on you head and take you with.¡± The grizzled cavalry officer¡¯s face was grim, and Hobb had no doubt he meant every word. Two more of the scout company arrived, having finished the lengthy climb up the rope ladder. Quarterfoot sent them back to the lip of the opening to signal the others to remain below. ¡°How do we get out?¡± asked Hobb. ¡°I can¡¯t climb back down that ladder. I¡¯ll die in this smoke first.¡± ¡°Those stairs across from the library are blocked,¡± answered Quarterfoot. ¡°It looks like it¡¯s the upper part of the stairway that the mercenaries collapsed down below. But there¡¯s scaffolding that leads further up that great shaft in the rock where the opening is, from the rope ladder. We can keep going up. I sent a man to reconnoiter, and he says there are other openings, and he could feel fresh air. There must be a way out.¡± Quarterfoot absently handed back the wide-brimmed hat that Hobb had found on the ground at the base of the ladder, and he settled it on his head for safekeeping. Then he nodded, and turned to walk back up the long, tall corridor. But in his daze, he tripped over something and sprawled on his face, just barely breaking his fall with his arms. He swore, rolling over to see what had tangled his legs. It was the body of the dead woman. He crawled over and examined her closely. To his surprise, the woman he¡¯d taken to be a corpse drew a tortured, shallow breath and opens her eyes, looking up at him. He started back. She was in her early sixties, with gray hair tied back in a bun. She was dressed in practical, hard-worn leathers, and another wide-brimmed hat lay near her head. Her body was marred by a number of stab wounds in her torso; a pool of blood had gathered beneath her. But she still drew breath. The eyes, unfocused and delirious, drifted to Hobb, not seeing who he was. ¡°I found them,¡± she wheezed. Hobb, to his own surprise, took one of her bloody hands and held it gently. ¡°I followed the last decision point,¡± the tormented voice went on. ¡°I rescued them from the fire. Take them.¡± Then the eyes fluttered closed, and a spurt of blood accompanied her last breath from her mouth. The body went limp. Hobb looked closer. The body was resting on something, partially obscuring it. He carefully rolled the limp corpse out of the way and looked beneath it. There were three long scroll tubes, made of some dusky gray material. They were surprisingly light, as Hobb lifted one. It was slilppery, covered in the blood of the dead woman. At the end of the tube, he could make out a peculiar symbol, comprised of two lines crossed at right angles, with a circle at their center. Hobb picked up the three light tubes and handed them to Pearsy. ¡°Let¡¯s go,¡± he said. ¡°You can translate these for me later.¡± ??? Up and up they climbed, first on the scaffolding along the inside of the great shaft, and then later through tunnels that branched out into the rock. The passages were thick with hazy smoke from the fire below, and the men kept as low to the ground as they could. But the smoke was not inert; it was being sucked upward, as by a chimney. Their lungs burning, they followed the movement of the air, and at last came out into the light. They were on the top of the ridge, on a narrow, grassy sward that led to a sheer cliff on the west and steep, rocky slopes to the east. The wind howled around them, and heavy, black clouds roiled above, and rain pelted their faces; but all of the company who had ascended the ladder to the library level collapsed on the ground, breathing deeply in gratitude for the fresh air. As he drew life back into his aching lungs, Hobb¡¯s gaze drifted up to a flat, rocky space nearby. There, to his amazement, he saw a giant bag of cloth lifting off into the air. It was like a sky lantern, but at a vastly inflated size. It was nearly sixty feet tall and half again as wide, with a small basket suspended beneath it. The basket was large enough to hold perhaps four people, and two of the small, squat-headed creatures were in it already. The whole affair was floating about thirty feet off the ground. A cable bound it to the rock of the ridge line, and a flimsy rope ladder connected the basket to the ground. Dozens of similar bags were already higher up in the air, being blown south by the heavy winds. At the base of the last aerial vehicle, a group of perhaps ten Snugg mercenaries was standing guard, pointing their long guns in all directions. A single figure¡ªa woman, by the shape of it¡ªstood at the base of the ladder, her hands full of bundles and papers, her face pointed up. Just above her, a man clung to the ladder against the wind and rain, one hand extended, apparently urging her to climb, or perhaps to hand him the bundles. The woman wore something resembling a military uniform, with a cape flowing behind her. The man was dressed in worn and disreputable-looking leathers, and his head was bare. And beyond them, climbing up over the lip of the flat, rocky space, were the hulking shapes of the Giant-men. There were three of them; scouts, perhaps, or a strike team with some particular mission. They were dressed, not in the gleaming steel body armor that their companies normally wore, but rather in hardened leathers with strips of metal sewn in to give them more flexibility. Seeing the gathering of humans on the flat space, they ran forward, brandishing their enormous steel swords. The Snuggs turned their guns to the Giant-men and fired. The results were unimpressive. The woman at the base of the ladder looked at the impending slaughter of her mercenaries, and then up at the man on the ladder, still gesturing frantically to her. She put her feet on the ladder, trying to climb with her hands full, but made little progress. ¡°Get up!¡± hissed Hobb to Sir Quarterfoot. There was an opportunity here, he sensed. Quarterfoot, Pearsy, and the eight scouts rose to their feet, looking uncertainly at the three Giant-men tearing the hapless mercenaries to shreds some distance from the bag¡¯s base. ¡°Seize those people!¡± ordered Hobb. ¡°I recognize the woman¡ªVeridia Snipe. She¡¯s a high ranking official in the Snugg clique. Grab her and whatever she¡¯s carrying, and let¡¯s get off this ridge.¡± Quarterfoot and the scouts started forward, with Hobb just behind them. They neared the floating bag, and Veridia Snipe turned to see them for the first time. At that moment, several things happened all at once. Snipe dropped all but one of the bundles she was carrying, and handed the remaining small, squirming package up to the man higher up on the ladder. Then she cut the cable holding the floating bag to the ground. The last of the mercenary guards went down, leaving the Giant-men with an unobstructed path forward to Veridia Snipe on the landing¡ªand to Hobb. The wind suddenly, and inexplicably, died. The air was as still as if they were underground again. The rain ceased as well. The Giant-men pounded toward Hobb, intent on murder. But Hobb had spent many hours reading the diary, and particularly the glossary of words at the back. He had even studied Sir Richard¡¯s guide to their pronunciation. There were three words he had taken great care to memorize. ¡°Stop.¡± He spoke the word with a certain resignation. If he or Sir Richard were wrong, he was a dead man. The Giant-men stopped. ¡°Kill yourself,¡± he commanded. Without hesitation, the towering humanoids immediately drew daggers from their belts and carefully, deliberately, slit their own throats. They fell to the ground, twitching and gurgling slightly. Hobb marveled, but then his attention was drawn to a threat for which the diary had given him no weapons at all. In the distance, not far to the north along the ridgeline, a great hulk drifted in the still air. Its wings were impossibly wide, its neck was long and snaking, and gouts of fire burst from its mouth, directed at the ground. But it was flying implacably, inescapably, toward the fleet of aerial bags and their defenseless occupants. From behind Hobb came a great rumbling, rushing noise, as if someone had suddenly placed a waterfall directly at his back. He whirled, away from the flying serpent and the dying Giant-men, to see what the noise was. He was just in time to see a wide triangular shape, with a man suspended beneath it, go rocketing over his head, into the air¡ªtoward the dragon. Hobb the Wise opened his mouth. ¡°We¡¯ve all got our frustrations,¡± he said, in a sing-song voice. Oh God, no, he thought. ¡°But have a little patience,¡± he continued loudly. The man under the flying wing rocketed away form him, toward the serpent. No! Not again. I refused to be part of this. ¡°And entertain another possibility¡¡± He turned helplessly toward Quarterfoot, who was also drawing breath to sing. ¡°Be less like you¡¡± We are not having another¡ª Interludes IV: Drift Sheria The fey do not sleep. Man, who lives all his life on either side of the yawning gap between the conscious and unconscious worlds, must routinely stagger from one to the other so as not to drift too far from either, and thereby lose what he thinks of as his sanity. He hops from perception to inception and back, like a lizard on a hot surface lifting its legs so it will not be burned. Waking in the morning, Man blinks his eyes, looks back on the receding shores of the other half of his mind, and wonders why he could have been so foolish as to imagine it to be real. The fey do not indulge in this delusion. Sheria hears Michael Rider¡¯s breathing change. He lies next to her in the bed, wrapped around her body, sharing his warmth with hers. Moments ago, his breath was regular and deep, as his mind explored the pathways of reality around him. She wonders which branches he was living in, beneath those twitching eyelids. But wherever he was then, he has returned now to the impoverished shadow that he sees with his waking mind. His eyes open and he looks up at her. ¡°I have to go.¡± His voice is deeper, with disuse from sleep coloring its lower registers. She breathes in the familiar scent of his body, loving him, loving all that he is. Her eyes see the many variations of his being; some shifting one way, others sitting up, others lying still. In one, startlingly close, he has died during the night, and his eyes are hollow. But the narrow, brilliant thread of the Bright Path runs through the closest branches, where he still draws breath. ¡°Do not leave, Michael Rider,¡± she replies. Her voice is velvety-soft, but there is stone in its depths. ¡°Follow the Bright Path.¡± ¡°I promised,¡± he says, sitting up. He slips on a shirt and hose, and sets about gathering the few odds and ends that travel with him on his errands. She rises from the bed, still nude. The air in the upper room of the inn is cold, and there are drafts in the windows. She draws warmth from her other selves nearby. They join her, for a time, sharing this moment. Her black eyes stare at him. ¡°I told you,¡± she says, forcing her thought into the alien and uncomfortable speech of Michael Rider¡¯s people. ¡°I told you. If you go on, it is your death, and my death. Come away with me to the west. Let go of these sad people and their little wars.¡± She draws close to him, pressing her body against his, and wrapping her arms around his neck. ¡°Be my prince and the prince of all my people.¡± He kisses her gently, even as he removes her arms from around him. ¡°Soon,¡± he replies. ¡°Not yet. I gave my word to deliver a message, and I will not break it.¡± He draws away reluctantly, shrugs on his coat, picks up his satchel, and leaves the room. She hears his steps on the narrow, creaking stairs down to the common room. It is still dark outside. Sheria pulls on her own clothing of woven plant fiber and dons a heavy cloak of bear fur. She strings her bow and slings a quiver of arrows over her back, tucking two razor-sharp poignards of bronze into her belt. Then she follows after Michael Rider, down the stairs into the cold, empty common room. The embers in the fireplace are red roses of heat and light, but otherwise the room is dead. The shadows of other lives flit around her. He is in the stable. She hears him there, through the partially closed door. Several feet of fresh, heavy snow carpet the ground between the inn and its nearby barn. His tracks are visible, leading to the doors. The night is cold, but the storm has blown through and the dark sky is clear. The barn is probably there; but in one of the nearby branches a raiding party of the Republican Guard found the food stores hidden in the basement three days ago, and burned it to the ground. She focuses on the variants where the barn is real, and follows his steps to the narrow side door. Inside, the air is warmer from the heat of the animals. Michael Rider is saddling his horse, a gray mare with a splotch of white on her forehead. He looks up as she enters. ¡°I have to go,¡± he repeats. ¡°If you want to see me again, Sheria, come to Green Bridge. I won¡¯t take another route after I finish this job. Meet me at the Merchant¡¯s Post on Frogmonger Square. We¡¯ll go to the west together. I want to go with you.¡± She draws forth the two poignards and plunges them into the neck and chest of the horse. The animal twitches and gurgles suddenly, and then collapses. Michael Rider looks at her across the body of his mount, his eyes dark in the faint light of a single oil lamp. ¡°I liked that horse,¡± he says softly. ¡°Do not go.¡± Her voice is just as soft. The Bright Path flickers, as the inflection point nears. The variations in Michael Rider, and the barn, and the horse, and Sheria, all begin to collapse. Michael Rider turns without another word and walks out of the barn, his satchel slung over one shoulder. He struggles out into the heavy, wet snow, plowing his way forward on foot toward the Eldenway. Sheria sits down on the floor and looks at the pooling blood of the horse. She feels the world wrench, and her own self begin to drift apart from her. She closes her eyes, and tears flow out; flawed, shameful, human tears. Her kind don¡¯t cry any more than they sleep. When everything is real, there is no need for sorrow. But the wetness flows down Sheria¡¯s cheeks and blurs her vision. The tears turn to tiny rivulets of ice in the cold. She is in the inflection point. Not everything is real. She stands and walks out of the barn, trailing bloody footprints behind her. She walks into the cold, clear night, her boots of rough leather and fur stepping carefully in Michael Rider¡¯s footprints. In the distance, under the moonlight, she can see his form, trudging stolidly north along the Eldenway. And though the moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow does give a certain lustre to the scene, the golden thread of the Bright Path is gone. Sheria selects an arrow from the quiver and sets it to the bow. She draws the limbs back and sights along the shaft, seeing where the arrow will fly in the near branches. In the distance, Michael Rider¡¯s small body, now alone, with no variations to keep it company, struggles on. She looses the arrow. Jonathan Steward A cool wind blew in over the mountains at dawn, gathering with it the late summer scents of the high meadows and delivering them, with a ruffle of silk curtains, to Jonathan¡¯s expansive bedroom. His eyes fluttered and opened, leaving behind the nameless, snow-choked village on the Eldenway and the arrow, in mid-flight, of the star-crossed feyess. The memory of the dream already fading, he seized a small book on the finely-carved oak table beside his bed and furiously scribbled it down. ¡°She killed him before dawn,¡± he muttered. ¡°It was dark, but they had slept. He rose early and tried to leave her behind, but she wouldn¡¯t let him go. She put an arrow in his back.¡± He paused, trying to remember more clearly, and then added: ¡°No. She shot an arrow at him from behind. I did not see it strike him.¡± He put down the thick diary carefully. Its pages were dense with his handwriting, and some of the earlier ones were attached to the spine only precariously. The diary contained twenty-three years of dreams, meticulously recorded with as much precision as his waking mind could wring from the stubborn otherworld. They were a story, and a mystery that he struggled every day to unlock. A man brought in tea and eggs for his breakfast, and he ate mechanically. He could feel the hollow, sinking, empty feeling of the inflection point still, echoing across twenty-three years. And there was something else¡ another inflection point. Much closer in the branching pathways. Nearly upon him, in fact. He looked out at his orchards in their tidy, endless rows on the rolling hillsides of Upper Broob. I find the Dark Path, and it leads me into the wasteland, he whispered in the fey-tongue. I follow and I search all the days of my life, until one day I stand in the Great Place of Change and enter the loophole. He rang a small bell on the table, and the man returned. ¡°Prepare my study for visitors,¡± he instructed. ¡°I shall have guests in the late morning, I believe.¡± After breakfast, Jonathan took his diary and walked across the courtyard in front of the mansion to one of two identical twin buildings that perched on a broad ledge on the hillside. They were three stories tall, sheathed in whitewashed adobe and roofed in tiles of red brick. Narrow windows showed the figures of men and women inside, already hard at work. A few stragglers were making their way from the dormitory hall into the library. A man with a long gun stood guard at each door. ¡°You¡¯re late to work, Miss Kimbwe,¡± he teased one young woman with nearly jet-black skin and a shock of curly black hair. Her arms were stacked with heavy books. ¡°I hope our labors here are not so far beneath your talents that you find them tedious.¡± ¡°Forgive me, Mr. Steward!¡± she blurted, obviously flustered. ¡°I am not bored! I was up late last night, and my roommate declined to wake me for breakfast. Please¡ do not send me away.¡± She trailed off desperately. Jonathan took the top half of the books from Miss Kimbwe and gave her a gentle smile. ¡°I know you were up late at the library,¡± he said, leading her toward the open door of the right-hand building and its ominous guard. ¡°No harm done, Miss. I am most eager to read your digest on the pre-Imperial folk cultures of the western Pexatore Basin.¡± He nudged open the door with one foot, inviting her into the cool interior of the library. Above the door, in letters of steel set on a carved wooden board, were the words: ¡°Merrily Hunter Institute for Applied History.¡± She nodded at him nervously as she entered, and he followed her to a small desk in the broad central hall of the library. Huge stacks of books lined either side of the cavernous room, with sliding ladders set on rails at regular intervals. Scores of men and women were already hard at work at the desks, or moving to and fro among the stacks searching for this or that book or scroll. There was a faint susurrus of whispered conversation, but it was otherwise deeply serene. ¡°Study hard, Miss Kimbwe,¡± said Jonathan with another smile. But he couldn¡¯t help a grim cast from creeping over his face. ¡°We are the last of our kind. No one else will do the work for us.¡± ¡°What will we do,¡± whispered Miss Kimbwe, looking around at her colleagues engrossed in their studies, ¡°when they come here?¡± Jonathan looked at her with as much calm as he could summon. ¡°We will flee,¡± he answered, ¡°with as much as we can carry, for as long as we can. And then we will die.¡± He left her to her work. Jonathan settled down in his study to wait. His private collection of histories, chronicles, and other sources occupied a large bookshelf nearby. A comfortable reading chair looked out over the orchards and the broad valley that Kmesha Mistress had left to him. He smiled for a moment at the thought of his old lover; she would not approve of what he had done with the place.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. He flipped through the diary for the thousandth time, re-reading his old entries. In the early days, as he first began to understand the Dark Path, he hadn¡¯t fully grasped the importance of precision in his recordings. The early entries were short, and from time to time he cursed his younger self for negligence in missing some essential detail of the dream. As the morning wore on, the sky began to darken with clouds, and he heard the rumble of thunder in the distance. ¡°In those branches where he fails [probable/self-directed] to make haste,¡± muttered Jonathan to himself in the fey speech, ¡°he endures the discomfort of a hard rain.¡± He withdrew an old, folded piece of paper stuck in between the early pages of the diary. He knew what it was, and what it would do to him. His heart shuddered, but he forced himself to open it once again and read. It was in a firm, elegant hand.
Dear Jonathan, This will be my last opportunity to write to you, as the Faceless have broken through at Gisem. Nothing of substance stands between them and Pour Vaille. Vicod claims to have found the last rowboat in the city, and plans to make for the Isle of Hen. He intends to find passage to the Holy Empire. I have wished him luck; I will not be going with him. I only hope he can deliver this letter to you. My illness has worsened. It is a stupendous feat of poetry to die of a cancer just as I wait for the fall of the last unafflicted city north of the Gulf. My body will do them no good. I will not trouble you with the details of my suffering; you have a good imagination. It is too much for me to escape with Vicod. There are a handful of Uellish refugees here in the city. No one can get out, so we¡¯ve all taken to sitting together in one of the warehouses. We speak the language (so few of us, now!) and remind each other of the old times. I even met someone who knew you; Albert Hogman. Do you remember him? He used to live in Hog Hurst. He was with the Advocates of Ash, too, once upon a time. A bitter old man now, but aren¡¯t we all. I can hear guns and bombs near the Gate of Glory, so I¡¯m afraid I shall have to conclude. I do hope Vicod can get out in his little boat. Jonathan: I was with Merrily at the end, you know, at the Four Corners. It was a hard end for her. She was with Anne, and her wounds were terrible. But before she closed her eyes, she spoke your name, and she asked if you were there. I told her you were, and she smiled. I have never written to you of this before, Jonathan, because I thought it would hurt you too much. But with the benefit of years, I think perhaps I was wrong. Forgive me. There now. I have laid down the last burden on my conscience. May Vicod row to you swiftly, my old friend, and may you live a bit longer than I have. When my time comes, it will be the name of Veridia Snipe on my lips. I am grateful she did not live to see this. Yours, Cyrus P.S. I have enclosed with this letter a souvenir from my last course with Merrily. It¡¯s a bit of that curious black metal that I rescued, stuck into the wall at a dead end in Ghorpol Ossa. I fancy it was a key once, to a door long gone. It¡¯s silly, but the thing reminds me of the old days, wandering about in the surrounds with you and her and digging up the past. I¡¯m told the Faceless crave this dark metal, so it gives me a little spiteful satisfaction to deny it to them. Keep it with my love.The thunder rumbled closer. Jonathan withdrew the small, thin cylinder of black metal from between the pages of the diary and let it rest lightly in his palm, staring at it. No light was reflected from its smooth surface, and it resisted his movements more than its miniscule weight should have justified. He carefully folded Cyrus¡¯s last letter and tucked it back in the diary, letting the memory steel his resolve and focus his mind. The he placed the thin, cool rod of coalesced blackness into the space between the pages next to the letter, closing the book on them both. I will follow the Dark Path, he repeated in the fey-tongue. I will follow it to the Great Place of Change. At last, as the first drops of rain began to fall in the small garden outside the study, there came a tap on the door. ¡°Come in!¡± he shouted. ¡°You¡¯re late.¡± The Dark Path ran through the door to his study, and Vicod Rayth entered. ¡°Mr. Steward,¡± replied the elderly Applied Historian, ¡°my son and I have spent the last two months of our lives evading Giant-men, dragons, the Faceless, and possibly the ghost of a long-dead Emperor. Iko and I very nearly died of thirst in the Luxon Desert, and we were actually captured¡ªbriefly¨Cnear what is left of Talen Vicarus. I rode on a giant, bipedal lizard. So: if you think me impressed with your uncanny habit of guessing the time and place of my comings and goings¡ªno doubt with the help of your spy network¡ªthen you are a fool.¡± Jonathan rose, walked across the intervening space in the study, and embraced Vicod Rayth. ¡°I¡¯m glad you¡¯re back, Vicod,¡± he said. ¡°But you didn¡¯t really ride a giant lizard, did you?¡± Vicod¡¯s eyes twinkled at him. ¡°If a thing should be so, and there is no evidence to the contrary, why not assume that it is? Anyway, I did. One of the Anomalies of the Affliction, I expect. I named the species Raythosaurus Rex, and I shall be speaking with your Natural Philosophy Department about it after we¡¯re done here. Reality may be coming apart at the seams all around us, but there¡¯s no reason not to profit from it.¡± Vicod Rayth seated himself comfortably in Jonathan¡¯s chair, putting his booted feet up on the inlaid coffee table. Jonathan pulled up the guest chair and sat down next to him. At sixty-five years old, Vicod¡¯s hair was entirely white, and the skin of his face sagged with wrinkles and cares. But his posture was as straight and forceful as ever it had been, and his movements were fluid. There was no mistaking the strength that was still in him. He wore a travel-stained leather jerkin and hose, and his broad-brimmed hat was tattered. He carefully set a long tube of rigid leather on the floor next to him. ¡°Tell me,¡± said Jonathan, pouring him a glass of his best remaining wine, ¡°what my investment in your expedition has purchased.¡± Vicod took a sip of the wine. ??? As you know, Jonathan, we set out from the Institute in late May. The journey through Broob was not difficult, though the roads were clogged with refugees. Anyone with a pair of legs is fleeing what¡¯s left of the Holy Empire. And there were Iko and I headed in the other direction, trying to get in. It was a curious feeling, to be walking into the source of so many terrified, desperate people. We made our way to the old border, which we found deserted. The refugees had slowed to a trickle; Talen Oestes had fallen a few weeks earlier, and most people in the region had either fled already or become Faceless. We spotted a small company of the White Legion just over the border. They were preparing the Ritual of Exaltation for when the Giant-men showed up to take them. Self-immolation is the only bit of parity the White Legion has with the Faceless, I¡¯m afraid. At Kiren Velensa, we took the old highway along the Ponder, avoiding the major settlements. It was time-consuming, but it kept us clear of Faceless, for the most part. They seem to congregate around settlements, still. Why do you suppose that is? I wonder if a part of them remembers what they once were. We were forced to fight twice, but we managed to leave the area before the flyers could be brought in to finish us off. When we reached the foothills of the Septuchems, we turned the horses loose, with our best wishes. They would not avail us in the high passes, and we could not in good conscience leave them tied up. I hope they found their way to green pastures, far from Giant-men and unhappy slaves. I had a great fondness for old Adrian. On foot, Iko and I made our way over the Septem Pass. We feared to find Faceless there in numbers, but there were only a few watchers, which we dismantled. The Metal God does not, evidently, view the mountain wilderness west of the Empire as a particular threat to his dominion. The palace of Kargen the Gross is where the venerable Kemdi said it would be, Jonathan. I could not believe it, at first. We owe the old heretic and his lost chronicle a debt for saving us from a dangerous and wasted trip¡ªand a debt to you, also, for scraping together the last vestiges of scholarship in the Gulf to assemble these old writings for us. You will not tell me the reason for your obsession with the early history of the Empire of the Dusk, but I am grateful that it afflicts you. Otherwise, I should spend these last days cowering under some damp rock and waiting for the fire, rather than going on proper adventures as an Applied Historian should. You will take me and Iko with you, won¡¯t you, when you make your last journey? Yes, I trust you will. But I am sorry to report to you, Jonathan, that any written material from Kargen the Gross is long gone. The old apostate may have meant for his collection to last until the end of the world, but he didn¡¯t account for leaky rooves and dry rot. And later inhabitants of his palace as well; he forgot them. There are¡ things, in the old palace. It is a vast and sprawling ruin, a suitable reflection of the mad emperor¡¯s ego. In its dungeons are creatures of which I have neither seen nor heard, collected from lands too distant to imagine. Or perhaps they are more Anomalies. One never knows quite what is real anymore. I see you are disappointed. Do not despair, Jonathan Steward! Books may have crumbled to dust, but there are etchings on the walls in scripts the like of which I have never seen¡ªnot even in Cyrus Stoat¡¯s notebooks. I was able to rescue some of them on rubbings. There was one chamber that had an entire atlas of the old Empire carved on one wall¡ªand this we captured. Truly, Kargen¡¯s Palace must once have made the old Black Catalog of Vale look like the Hog Hurst village library. No offense meant to your hometown, Jonathan! But strange beasts were not the only dangers. Our journey through the Faceless drew the attention of their masters. Iko and I found that a pair of Hunters had picked up our trail and followed it. I had set Iko to observe the upper levels of the wing of the palace whose depths I was exploring. It was night, and he had made himself a watch post on an old, ruined balcony, its roof open to the sky. When I asked him later what alerted him to the presence of the Hunters, he told me it was just a feeling of wrongness; but I suspect his eye caught their movement before his mind fully understood what it was. In the event, he slipped away from them and came to find me in the dungeons below. It was a close thing. We crept through the moonlit ruin as softly as we could, knowing our time to explore had come to an end and seeking only escape. They knew we were there, too, and stalked us with all the deliberate cunning of a Snorl. Iko and I had both promised each other at the beginning of the journey that if it looked as if escape was impossible, we would take our own lives; and so we prepared to do. But my boy is audacious, even in despair. He crept away from me, and raised the faintest noise in another wing of the palace, as if he were trying to sneak away and had stepped on a single loose rock. One of the Hunters broke away. I slipped back into the black dungeons of the old palace, wriggling through a narrow spot that I knew the Giant-man could not pass through, and emerged in an old sewer that led out into a dry stream-bed. We met each other later, in the early dawn. We had arranged a meeting place, you see, if we should be separated. Knowing the Hunters would be delayed searching the sprawling ruin, we made our way quickly back out of the high pass and down to the Imperial plain. The return journey to Broob was fraught, but I can see that before you hear of giant lizards and desert chases, there are questions in your mind. Ask them, my friend. ??? Jonathan leaned back in the guest chair and crossed his hands on his chest. He stared at the ceiling, thinking intently. Then he lowered his eyes to Vicod. ¡°May I see the rubbings?¡± he asked. Vicod silently picked up the long, leather tube and undid a fastener at one end. He withdrew a cylinder of tightly rolled papers, which he carefully spread out on the table. Jonathan began to flip through them, letting his eyes absorb the whole of each without dwelling on any one part. They showed figures¡ªsome humanoid, some architectural, some obviously monstrous¡ªin a variety of situations and poses. The artwork was detailed and skillful, but no theme or message jumped out to him. Then he stopped and narrowed his eyes at one rubbing. It showed a man, apparently high up on a pillar surmounted by a broad circle. Strokes in the stonework showed texture within the circle, as if the artist were trying to show that something different was inside. The figure of the man was poised before it, as if just about to enter. At the bottom, men and monsters ravened, obviously desirous to consume the figure at the top of the pillar. ¡°Loophole,¡± Jonathan muttered. He thought for a moment, then added: ¡°Show me the map.¡± Vicod blinked and looked confused. ¡°You said you took a rubbing of an atlas of the Empire of the Dusk, carved on one of the walls in Kargen¡¯s palace. I¡¯d like to see it.¡± The old historian nodded and flipped through the remaining papers to one later in the stack, then drew it and two others out. He moved the coffee table to one side and unrolled them on the floor. The entire map turned out to encompass three large sheets, which he laid side by side. The rubbing was tight and meticulous, and the details of the ancient carving were clear to see. It showed the outline, rather like a bean with one jagged edge, of the heartlands of the old Empire of the Dusk. He imagined the new political boundaries of the Neighbor Kingdoms, the Holy Empire, and Broob, then discarded them. They were irrelevant now. Jonathan stared at the map carefully. His gaze moved down to what he knew were the high southern plateaus of the Arcadian Mountains. It stopped at a faintly-visible set of letters very nearly at the edge of the paper. ¡°Kape Wethan,¡± he read. ¡°Your pronunciation is off,¡± said Vicod, with a hint of academic snobbery. ¡°The Dusk Imperials didn¡¯t have silent letters. It would be Kapuh Weethan in their day, but the modern city is Talen Kapvet.¡± Jonathan shushed him with one hand, and reached out to pick his old diary off the coffee table. He flipped quickly through it, coming to a passage that he recalled from the visual shape of its paragraphs. It was one of his many visions of Hobb. ¡°Kaples Wethan Mekoth,¡± said Hobb. ¡°It is this place. The great place of change that lay in Naridium; one of three, and the one that the Emperor of the South destroyed after Semvee became him. And you are a herald of the Metal God that once lived here. The Kaples Wethan Mekoth changed a grandmother from the village of Lokhain into someone else. It changed Vicagrios from the son of a poor farmer into a wealthy man, and taught him the secrets of making. It changed King Semvee into the Emperor of the South¡ªafter Semvee had already been imprisoned by the Emperor of the South.¡± ¡°This place does not function,¡± said the Herald, ¡°but the valley in the north holds knowledge that will unlock what you seek. Do not oppose us, and meet me there; I will give it to you.¡± ¡°Why should I trust you?¡± asked Hobb. The Herald walked around the table and stood close to Hobb. ¡°Because,¡± he said, ¡°the first time you said no, I killed you. And yet¡ªhere we are.¡± Jonathan looked again at the map. ¡°Kaples Wethan Mekoth,¡± he said under his breath. ¡°Kapuh Weethan¡ Talen Kapvet.¡± ¡°Simple language drift,¡± explained Vicod. ¡°The way people pronounce words changes over time, until the originals sound entirely alien.¡± Jonathan closed his diary carefully. ¡°Your expedition, my old friend, was a success beyond my hopes. Cyrus would have been proud.¡± And so would Merrily, he thought in his head. Then he switched to the fey-tongue. Merrily will be[is/was] proud. ¡°Rest,¡± he said to Vicod with a broad smile. ¡°My people will see to you and Iko. But not for too long; I¡¯ve already formulated our next investigation. This time, I¡¯ll be coming with you.¡± Chapter 29: Sir Richard of Enderly is Dead A jail. SIR RICHARD of ENDERLY: And now I am dead. INTERROGATOR: Are you certain? S.R.: Is that a joke? INT: We¡¯ll need a bit of shared context to proceed here. Can we agree that your body is not living? S.R.: Without dispute. Jonathan Miller stuck a knife in my heart, and the resulting organ failure and fluid loss deprived my brain of oxygen until it ceased functioning. The body is dead. INT: How do you feel about that? S.R.: I thought you were looking for certainty. INT: Only as a starting point. S.R. I am certainly dead. INT: And how does that make you feel? S.R.: Hopeful. Look, may I speak with the entity in charge here? Your questions don¡¯t inspire a great deal of confidence. INT: I¡¯m sorry if this is a disappointment, but I am in charge here. S.R. How are the mighty fallen. Very well. What do you want? INT: Everything. S.R. Your tendency to cheap waggery would turn my stomach if I still had one. What do you want from me? INT: Everything. But let¡¯s start with something easy. How did you die? S.R. I told you. Jonathan Miller stabbed me, and I bled out. INT: That is no more an answer than one breadcrumb is a breakfast. S.R. It¡¯s more breakfast than either of us is likely to get in here. Are we going to waste our little time left with the minutiae of my life and death? INT: I have all the time in all the worlds. S.R. I think not. I can hear them outside the walls. Sounds like cannon fire; a major assault. Your time here is as short as mine. INT: We have nothing to fear. Everything is a metaphor. S.R. The impacts from the cannon shot are bringing down bits of the ceiling. INT: Metaphorical bits. S.R. Metaphors can kill a man. INT: Is that what killed you? S.R. Metaphorically. INT: How did you die, Sir Richard? Take a moment to gather your thoughts. Start from when you gave your diary to Guillam. S.R.: That was three years before I died. INT: I want the breakfast, not the breadcrumb. S.R. Where is Leeland? INT: Eggs first, then buns. Tell me what I want to know, and I¡¯ll tell you what happened to Leeland. S.R.: When I gave the diary to Guillam, we were already deep in the Temple of the kaplswed. That I had reached the men at all¡ªthrough a complex full of Giant-men¡ªwas beyond my hopes. I hadn¡¯t fully appreciated their race¡¯s thralldom to the master words, you see; I assumed that Fiond and I would eventually run into one who wasn¡¯t enslaved, and have to fight. INT: Who is Fiond? S.R.: You must know, if you have read the diary. INT: You have to answer my questions. It is required. S.R.: Shall I also describe the frequency and consistency of my bowel movements? I still had them for a few days, even after they strapped this metal mask on my face. INT: If it makes for a more compelling narrative, feel free. S.R.: Fiond is a female of their race; a giantess, if you like. Her features are fair, and her hair blonde. She stands about eleven feet tall, and is quite muscular. Her uncle was King Vekelm, and her brother Prince Moro. This you know from the diary. She is a fearsome warrior, and wears the metal armor of their soldiery with as much ease and grace as any male among them. It was she who told me of Kuerlo¡¯s treacherous plan to use me as a tool against Vekelm, and of my men¡¯s imprisonment in the Temple. She also told me of the master words, though she could not speak them herself. I had to pick them out of the speech of the Giant-men who I observed. INT: Did you try to command her with the words? S.R.: No. She was cooperative, even friendly. If I gave her a command in the words of power, I could not be sure that it was the words that compelled her. And I dared not test them on any other Giant-men; even if they were forced to obey me, they would quickly report the incident to Kuerlo, and my men¡¯s lives would be forfeit. INT: When did you first use the master words? S.R.: At the great gate in the cliff that led into the underground temple, there were two Giant-man guards. They wore thick steel from head to toe, and carried swords that weigh twice as much as I do. I commanded them to lay down their swords and let me pass, and they did. INT: And you found your way to your mercenary company. S.R.: I used master words to command one of the priests to take me to my men, and he obeyed. We passed many others, who would have interfered; but I ordered them to lie on the ground and remain silent, and this they did. The complex behind the cliff face is large and deep. Its halls and chambers are of hard stone, precisely cut and efficiently laid out, but unadorned with decorations or creature comforts. At the time, I did not truly understand what it was. I thought it some kind of religious complex. My curiosity was aroused as we went deeper. I saw rooms full of machines I did not understand, and great chambers containing strange plants and fungi. I saw the children of Giant-men for the first time, as well. Never before, during my time in Nipol Grotsvor, had I witnessed one, and it troubled me. They are kept in huge dormitories, which they never leave. Fiond¡¯s countenance, when she saw them, was a portrait of anguish and longing. I believe she had several children of her own, who were taken away. But she stayed beside me. By the time I found the reason for their captivity, I was no longer capable of feeling outrage.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. Using the master words, I commanded our guide to tell me the purpose of the great temple. Fiond did not know either. The Giant-men of the city are not permitted to enter, and the priests leave only rarely. My knowledge of their ordinary tongue was still limited, though I had acquired more vocabulary than Kuerlo or his spies realized. But the priest said many things I could not understand, so I instructed him to simplify. ¡°It is the home of the Metal God and of His kaplswed, master,¡± he answered. ¡°It is where we tend to His hearts until the day when He returns to make the world again as it should be.¡± INT: You speak as though you recall the exact words. S.R.: I remember everything. The Metal God saw to that. We found Guillam and the others after descending several levels. They were twenty men, wretched and fearful in their dark confinement. They were in individual cells. The priest I¡¯d press-ganged into service did not have the key, but Fiond simply ripped the iron doors out of the wall. The cells were, it seems, built to house younger Giant-men who had not yet developed the impressive physical strength of adulthood. INT: Why didn¡¯t you escape with them? S.R. Because the Metal God was calling me. INT: How did he call you? S.R.: I began to hear His voice in my head when I first entered the Temple. It was a simple thought, at first. I imagined that perhaps it was my own. Come here, it said. As I moved deeper into the temple¡ªand then began to descend¡ªit grew from a whisper into a command, and I could no longer pretend it was my own. Come here, it said, again and again. Then later it added, There is nothing for you to fear. I will not hurt you. I watched Fiond carefully to see if she appeared to hear it as well. She gave no indication that there were strange voices in her head, so I said nothing. But by the time we reached Guillam and the company, it was almost all that I could hear. Their joy and surprise at seeing me was lost among the commands to Come here. Just enough of my own will remained that I could set my meagre affairs in order. Even under that assault in my mind, I could not, would not, forget Leeland. He must know, I thought, of the treachery of his servant Hobb, and the danger he faced from these brutal and potent Giant-men. I could not tell him myself. My heart ached and screamed even under the blows from the will of the Metal God. INT: An odd thing to fixate on in extremis. S.R.: You would not understand. You want to understand, I see, but it is outside your capacity. I know your kind. So try to accept, as a descriptive proposition, that the pain of love is deeper and more terrible than any torture, fear, or manipulation of the mind or body. It resists metaphor, even as it inspires poetry. But in that moment, the last moment with my men, I clung to love, and to the pain of knowing that I would never see Leeland again. It let me withstand, for a little longer, the onslaught of the divine voice. I fixed my memory on a night we stood under the stars, on Three Fish Bridge, and looked up at the moon together. And the men. Twenty old soldiers¡ªcranky, cantankerous souls who had travelled with me into the wilds, through tunnels, who I had rescued, who had rescued me¡ªI could not lay down my love for them either. I taught them a few of the master words. Just the ones they would need to escape; there wasn¡¯t time for more. I gave the diary to Guillam, and my sword, and made him swear they would be delivered to Leeland. Then I gave them directions to escape. ¡°Fiond,¡± I said, ¡°go with them. You can escape here.¡± I spoke in the ordinary language of the Giant-men. I could not bring myself to command her with the master words. One does not put chains on a friend. She saw at once that I did not intend to return to the surface. ¡°No,¡± she answered. ¡°The sickness in this temple has ruled us all the long years of our lives in this land. We live, and we work, and we dream, but all these are the dreams of a dead thing. Its priests walk among us, and we pretend they are holy; but in the night, when we remember our children, we cannot escape the truth. If you mean to go deeper, then I will go with you. Together, perhaps we can end it.¡± And so I bid my men farewell, and turned to go where the voice in my head called me: downward. At the time, I lost track of how far down we went. It seemed to be a journey into endless darkness, down endless stairs, through endless passages. We encountered fewer and fewer of the Giant-man priests, until at last our journey became a solitary one. Fiond said nothing more, but walked steadily at my side. Just as well; I could only hear, now, the one command. Come here. The final passage broadened out into a circular chamber, some two hundred feet wide. The upper reaches were lit dimly by long, regular recessions in the domed ceiling, some thirty feet above, which emitted a harsh blue light. But the floor of the room could not be seen. The open space stretched downward into darkness, lit only by faint, winking lights whose placement described the shape of some giant cylinder. A narrow bridge of metal led to a platform in the center of the open space, perched on top of the dark cylindrical mass below. On this platform was a single chair, and a small metal tablet beside it. The chair was starkly simple, also made of metal, and rendered uglier by the blue patches above. INT: Do you know what it was you were seeing? S.R.: I do now, of course. At the time, I hadn¡¯t the faintest idea. But the mystery of the thing was of little concern; I could only understand the overwhelming compulsion to walk forward, across the narrow bridge, to the top of the great cylinder, and sit upon the chair. And that is exactly what I began to do. I was dimly aware that Fiond came with me, balancing precariously on the bridge over the great abyss below until we reached the platform in the center. I no longer had the will even to warn her off. She was irrelevant. And yet, somewhere in the maze of compulsion and submission, a tiny part of me clung to the one memory that was still my own: Of Leeland and I, together on another bridge under the moon, our hands close together. I think, if I did not have that, I would not have been aware of anything at all. I sat in the chair, and felt something grip my wrists. There was a sharp pain in the back of my head, and I felt something penetrate the skin and flesh, into my brain. I am, said the Metal God, then. It became me, and I became it. INT: Do you remember what happened after that? S.R.: Perfectly; but as an observer. INT: It does little good to lie, in this place. Your thoughts are transparent. S.R.: Then what is the purpose of this interview? INT: The information I require can only be recreated; it cannot be transmitted. Only in the act of narration can it exist. And so you are going to have to narrate, Sir Richard. That is the only way to end this. We are both served by truth, and only by truth. S.R.: How am I served by anything I tell you? INT: You asked me earlier about Leeland. S.R.: Where is he? INT: He is near, in a sense. There is a door that you must open; and it is the same door I must open. S.R. Metaphorically speaking? INT: Everything is a metaphor. S.R.: What if I don¡¯t help you? INT: You have always been an unreliable narrator, Sir Richard. You will help me whether you want to or not. S.R.: You are no more reliable than I was. Tell me how to find Leeland, and perhaps I¡¯ll give you what you want¡ªin time for it to be useful to you. Those cannons outside the walls aren¡¯t letting up. INT: Why do you want to find him? We¡¯ve established that you¡¯re dead. What do you think¡ª S.R. Wait. That¡¯s no gun. That sound¡ what is it? INT: Ah¡ this sort of thing happens from time to time around here. It¡¯s a side-effect of the environment. Just go with it. S.R. In those rosy summer days When we were young and didn''t care We hid the world inside our hands And the wind was in our hair. There was mud and blood and sweat, We had to hide our love, and yet We had a song to sing together We were gonna sing forever, You were my prince, I was your man, We lived in peace and loved in war. And in a palace or a tent It''s never hard to lock the door. And nobody had to know, If they did, they didn''t show They knew the song we sang together, we were gonna sing forever. That was then And I''m still there I close my eyes It lives again That love is gone. It slipped away The sky was gold, but now it''s gray Stars burning then, Now I can''t see them anymore But here we are, Don''t need a star Let''s start again. Like two flies caught in a web, Two autumn leaves be neath a tree We''re in a waste of black and gray To spend our next eternity Wond''ring if it''s all in dreams, And if death''s not all it seems, There''s no song to sing together, Just a silent box forever. Yet I feel you here with me, In this trap of time and space. And if you press against the walls, Then your hand might find a place, And slip through that narrow crack Where I wait to take you back, And break the silence, sing together, Hold you in my arms forever. This is now, And I''m still here. Take my hand, I''ll show you how. That life is gone. It slipped away My hair was gold, but now it''s gray Remember when You kissed my lips beneath the stars, But here we are, Don''t need a star Let''s start again. Fight against the darkness, Don''t fade into the night. Everything I loved about you is what leads me to the light! The past is gone. It slipped away And still our past is here to stay. It was then We were one body under stars. Here we are, Don''t need a star Let''s start again. Start again! Chapter 30: Guillam Is Not Dead Yet A jail. GUILLAM BROUSSEUI: Am I dead? INTERROGATOR: Not that I can see. Do you feel dead? G: I mean: Am I going to be dead? INT: Eventually. G: Are you going to kill me? INT: No. I have people for that. And in any event, Monsieur Broussuei, your death would be of little use to me at the moment. I need information, and your corpse cannot give it. G: Who are you? INT: I¡¯m in charge here. If you answer my questions, perhaps I will answer yours. G: Can I have a little water? INT: You may. Would you like coffee? G: Oh yes, I would very much like coffee. INT: Guard; coffee. No, just one. I don¡¯t drink it. G: Thank you, Madame. INT: Now my questions, Monsieur. G: What do you want? INT: Where and when did you last see Sir Richard of Enderly? G: Why do you want to know about Sir Richard? INT: We have a deal, Monsieur; you answer my questions, and then I¡¯ll answer yours if I want to. When did you last see Sir Richard? G: In Hog Hurst. I think it was late summer. INT: You think? Did you not know the date, or have you forgotten it? G: When we were underground I lost track of the days. And the Giant-men don¡¯t keep the Imperial calendar. INT: The who? G: Giant-men. Like men, but very large. Giant. INT: Just men? G: They have women too. INT: Was Sir Richard with you when you met these very large men who don¡¯t keep the Imperial calendar and have women? G: Yes, the first time. INT: Tell me how you came to meet them, and how you parted from Sir Richard. G: It¡¯s a long story. INT: Give me the abridged pocket edition. G: Are you in a hurry? INT: Time is precious, Monsieur, as you will appreciate when yours is at an end. G: We left Uellodon in July of III Leeland:13. There were twenty of us then, and Sir Richard as our Captain made twenty-one. He picked us out at the Sword Sale. Took old men, instead of the young bucks. He told me later he wanted a company with ¡°experience,¡± but I reckon he meant codgers who didn¡¯t have much to go back to. He put our pensions on deposit at Lafleur¡¯s Bank, and made us write down who they¡¯d go to if we didn¡¯t come back in three years. Made me the sergeant. It was plain enough I was the only man for it. There was a bit of trouble in the city before we left; some of the new priests stirring up bread riots. I went to the Merchants¡¯ Post and wrote out a letter to my Fenet back in Pour Vaille. Told her where to claim the pension money, and that I loved her. Then I gave it to the man at the desk and went out whoring and drinking for the rest of the night to celebrate. INT: Your loyalty to your wife is stirring. G: There¡¯s a good reason I¡¯ve been travelling the Neighbor Kingdoms to sell my blood and bone for thirty years, Madame, and I¡¯m married to it. INT: By what route did you leave the settled lands? G: We took the Eldenway north to Green Bridge, and then on through the King¡¯s Wood to Hog Hurst. We meant to cross the Verud there. INT: Up here we call it the Green River. And it¡¯s the Queen¡¯s Wood now. G: The Queen doesn¡¯t have wood. INT: How do you know? Go on. What happened after you crossed the river? G: Right on the other side there was a mess of little people with gray skin. The locals called them ¡®goblins,¡¯ and apparently there was a bit of trade happening. I heard of goblins when I was a wee little one, but always took it for my ma¡¯s bedtime stories. But they¡¯re real, Madame, I swear it. Those big men outside the door can bend me into a pretzel, and I won¡¯t take back one word. Little gray people with funny squat heads and lots of teeth. The Captain talked to them through one of the local people, and tried to learn about where they were living, to avoid it. They talked about some new chief that had brought together the local tribes, too. Called him ¡®Simon.¡¯ Funny name for a savage chief, but that¡¯s what they called him. Captain had a worried look to him as we left, but we didn¡¯t see goblins again. Not until I came back, and I was alone. Then I got to be better acquainted with them than ever I wanted to. INT: Don¡¯t get ahead of yourself. We¡¯ll come to your return trip. What route did you take to reach the Giant-men? G: You have to understand, Madame, we didn¡¯t know where we were going. Captain had a bit of a map, and made out to us like he had a plan. But I got a look at the map, and it was nothing but imagination once you got north of Uelland. There was some vague nonsense in the corner that said ¡°These are the lands of the Giant-men,¡± but no details. We were just heading out into nowhere, so I thought; to the kind of places where old-timey maps say ¡°here there be monsters.¡± The Captain filled in the route as he went, though, in his diary. He was near-religious about that diary. He¡¯d even brought extra volumes to write in. They weighed down one of the mules something fierce. But the blank volumes were ruined by the weather in Shelter Valley, while I was away rescuing the company when they were captured. So, in the end there was just the one. INT: Where is Shelter Valley? G: Here¡ªabout. If you¡¯ll give me some paper, I can draw a better map than this. I read through his diary real careful, cover to cover, after he gave it to me. I can draw his maps. INT: I¡¯ll have some brought to you after we¡¯re finished today. G: Much obliged to you, Madame. We were looking for a place to winter after we got caught by an early snowstorm in December. The company was split up for a bit, as the Captain had sent Wuggins and Molenose off to scout a better path for our mules. INT: What happened between August and December? That¡¯s four months. G: An awful lot of trees, mostly. And bickering. The old men got to have their friends and feuds, same as any bunch of teenagers if you put them in one room long enough. There were cards and dice to argue about, and salt rations, and who could piss fastest. INT: Don¡¯t you mean farthest? G: Once you¡¯re over fifty, Madame, the real measure of a man is how fast he can start, not how far he can reach. And a good thing it is, too, as my old bladder ended up saving our company. As I said, Molenose and Wuggins had been sent on ahead, and were overdue. The Captain took a couple men¡ªHarold the Horse and Dan Bottle, I think it was¡ªto follow their path, and left the rest of us to shelter in a shallow valley. It weren¡¯t much shelter, let me tell you. We built walls out of the snow and huddled together just to keep a little warmth. Near two weeks the Captain was gone, with us eating little nibbles of food and drinking snow and trying to keep the fire burning. And we¡¯d begun to think we¡¯d seen the last of him. The men¡¯s spirits were low, let me tell you. We¡¯d all come to trust in the Captain to take care of us, more than anyone else. The loss of him hurt our hopes something vicious. But then he showed up one evening with Harold, saying he¡¯d found the missing scouts and left Dan Bottle to take care of them. Wuggins fell into some pit and broke his leg, he told us. We broke our camp and moved out with him, and sure enough he led us to a deep, sheltered valley. Only we didn¡¯t find Wuggins or Molenose or Dan Bottle¡ªjust the remains of their campfire, half-buried in the snow at the bottom of a pit, with a cave entrance on one side. That night we camped at the bottom of the pit, meaning to explore the cave next day. Only lucky for all of us, I had to go out and take a piss in the wee hours, if you follow me, and had some trouble getting started. So I missed what happened next. I¡¯d climbed out of the pit¡ªthe Captain always says don¡¯t wee where you live¡ªand was just waiting patiently to start my business when I heard a commotion and racket from back at the camp. I tucked myself away as quick as I could, ¡®cause it wouldn¡¯t do to go charging into battle with little Guillam flopping around out there. But by the time I stomped back through the snow, it was all over. There was a foul smoke coming from the fire that made my head spin, and the snow was all stirred up like there¡¯d been a fight, but no sign of our fellows. I thought a bit, then gathered up the men who were out on watch just then: Gilward and Howie Fishhead, Frosty Fred and Wognut, Hralph the Tiny and Gerald the Puce. We agreed that Gilward and Howie Fishhead should stay behind to watch the mules and the chests, and I took the others in to see what we could find of our Captain and our companions. It was real dark inside, and we risked a hooded lantern. I figured some terrible thing would jump out and eat us at any moment. But the snowy tracks on the ground made it plain enough that the attackers walked around on two legs, at least. We followed the trail of wet for a long as we could, lighting our way with just the one lantern. The cave was well made, crafted proper-like, and didn¡¯t branch. Plain as the day, it was made by men. Or by something like a man; something that could bore through solid rock just as straight as the King of Brasse¡¯s arrow shaft. It went deeper than ever we thought it could. It was more like a highway underground, as we found out later, than a cave. And we five who were following went slow, as we didn¡¯t know the place, and an ambush could be waiting anywhere. But there was no ambush, and after a few hours we took a breather, and decided we¡¯d better go back for supplies. That done, we went back in at dawn, and trudged along through the dark. We found them after more time than I could count. Must have been a day, at least, because we had to stop and take a rest in the tunnel. Eventually we started seeing openings in the passage, left and right; but these were empty, save for some pits in the floor that just invited a man to fall in. We kept to the main passage, and then saw ahead the most amazing sight. It was a vast open space underground, and there was light coming down from far above. And these three trees¡ªbigger than any trees I ever seen¡ªwere growing right there underground, with their branches reaching up toward the light above. There were piles of snow at the base of the trees, so it was plain enough there were openings to the sky far above. But their roots were worked right down into the rock, getting food and water, I suppose, from deep in the cracks they¡¯d made. How they came to be there I couldn¡¯t tell, but they made a perfect triangle in the center of the space. We saw Giant-men for the first time, then, and we were afraid. They were in the middle, around a fire. We dared not go in. They were twelve feet tall, or fourteen, and hulking great brutes with perfectly shaped bodies; like those statues you seen in palaces taking a piss into a fountain. We got a look at them, and pulled back. But we could see from their torches, as they moved around, that they¡¯d got the men of our company tied up around great dark shapes further away from the trees. We found out later these were heaps of iron, fashioned as if they were some mad machines, but rusting and rotten. Near the three trees, we could see a pair of great pillars faintly in the darkness. A witchy sight it was. The men and I, who were free, didn¡¯t dare to go in. We knew well enough what would happen if those great hulking Giant-men got ahold of us. So we pulled back, and hid down in one of the pits in the side chambers, and made our plans. Not for a minute, not one second, Madame, did we think of abandoning the Captain and our fellows to their fate. Maybe we would be too late to help them, when we came up with a plan¡ªbut we would make the effort, and die in some cunning and desperate way if we had to. At first, our only concern was to avoid capture ourselves, while remaining close by. We watched and listened from inside our pit, learning how they went about their business. It was rare for them to come into the long passage, and rarer for them to come in the side rooms. The spaces were too low and narrow for their huge bodies. They did make several journeys back down the long road that we had followed, but after a few days, these stopped. And so we were left alone to watch. We huddled in the dark, eating little, drinking less, to conserve what we had and wait for an opportunity. At last, we were forced to send two men back for more supplies. When they returned, after what felt like weeks, we began to believe God smiled on us.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. At last we worked up the courage to come out of our pit and set watchers on the large chamber. We spied on them for many weeks, judging by the lighting and darkening of the distant sky through the holes above the trees. One, especially large and strong, with hair like straw and eyes of blue, was plainly the leader. They went hunting in other tunnels and brought back enormous, shaggy, hairy beasts to roast. As we were living on crumbs, we found the smell of the roasting meat nearly more than we could bear. What their purpose was in lingering there, we could not guess; but every day, we saw them working closely with the great heaps of ancient machinery, sometimes crawling up on them, sometimes going inside them. Sometimes they even seemed to speak to the hulks. And then finally, one day, they broke up and began to move away. Eight, including the female but not the tall leader, gathered up their prisoners and chained them together, foot to foot. The others, with the especially tall one, dispersed into the darkness. We never saw that group again. But we could not let our friends be led away, and so we followed the first group and prepared to fight if we should have to. And once again, God smiled on us. We hurried after the group that took our captive companions. As we crossed the great chamber, we got a look at the trees up close. The floor was scattered with oak leaves and acorns, and the trunks were so wide that all of us could have linked hand to hand, and still we could not have encircled them. Two of the trunks were strong and healthy, but one looked half rotten and twisted; parts of the trunk were still alive, but other parts had died. INT: Our time together is short, monsieur. Do not dwell on irrelevant details. G: As you wish. We tailed after the group of eight Giant-men, not daring to follow too close in case they should turn back suddenly. The light of their lamps remained steady ahead of us, and they did not leave the main tunnel. From time to time, we saw side chambers and passages branch away now from the route they followed. Once I had figured the pace of the Giant-men ahead, and knew that we could keep up at a steady trot, I sent the men with me out in twos to explore the side passages and catch up later. You see, Madame, I knew that the Giant-men were stronger and faster than us, and we could never beat them in a fair fight¡ªbut no good mercenary ever fights fair if he can help it. I wanted to know what was behind me, in case we needed to use it. And we did. Once we had studied their rest habits, I snuck forward in the darkness and put an arrow-shaft through the eye of one of their sentries from thirty paces. It¡¯s a larger target than a man¡¯s eye, but their brains are in the same place. He went down, and I slipped to a safe distance to hear their shouts. Then we fell back to one of the smaller side passages, where they would have a hard time following us. At their next rest, we watched, but did not strike. We knew they would be more alert. But I could feel time was against us; I did not know where they were going to, or when they would get there. So on the following rest, I snuck forward again in the dark and found a sentry. I tried to hit the eye again, but missed, gouging his face instead. So I put two arrows in his chest, and two more in his throat. Now our confidence grew. The Giant-men were mortal, and what¡¯s more we could slay them if we were careful. But they are also cunning, and they grew wary. They sent a party of three back toward us in the darkness, and we had to flee. With our friends being taken farther and farther away, running made my blood boil like a kettle. But I couldn¡¯t risk our lives in some stupid fight with three creatures that could crush our skulls or chests with one hand. We knew the tunnels, now. We made a show of noise and confusion, luring them into a larger side chamber, where narrow ledges could hold a man while he loosed a bow. Hralf the Tiny had found it two marches back, and we¡¯d mapped it out together. I sent the men to scramble up to their perches by the light of their hooded lanterns, and I myself led the Giant-men into the trap, staying just ahead of them. Even shooting from above in an ambush, they went down hard. I myself doubled back when the arrows began to fall among them, as close as I dared, and shot into their eyes and throats at close range. It¡¯s one thing to put an arrow in the eye of a Giant-man who¡¯s standing still, not expecting anything, but quite another to try to hit a target that¡¯s flailing at you with six-foot arms. But I can see, Madame, that you are not in the mood for a lengthy description of my battles. We slew them by the light of their own lamps, and recovered what arrows we could. We knew we would need them again. INT: No casualties? G: Not yet. They would come. We ran hard through the dark tunnels, trying to catch up with the remaining Giant-men, who had a considerable head start. After what I think was four days of hard jogging, with very few rests, wondering if perhaps they had taken some unseen side passage in the dark, we began to lose hope. But then, without warning, we stumbled directly into them. There was no time to prepare, or to sneak, in our final fight. We simply had to react. I got off a lucky shot, and put an arrow through the throat of one, but then we had to scrap with them hand to hand for the first time, and it was bad. Gerald the Puce took an ugly hit on the head, and went down immediately. We thought he was gone, though he wore an iron cap. The rest of us did what we could to evade the swings of their great swords and spears. To make contact with one of their weapons, even to block it, would be death. But then the Captain was there, and all the rest of the men. They¡¯d got free somehow, and they picked up whatever weapons they could find and came forward at a run. They attacked the two remaining Giant-men from behind. You should see the Captain fight, Madame! He¡¯s as fearsome as a Giant-man, and faster on his feet. He stabbed one in the kidneys as they came on from behind. And he danced toe to toe with the last one, who was a giantess. But I couldn¡¯t let my Captain fight her alone, so I used my last arrows too, and managed to land a few in her legs and rear. At last she could fight no more, and yielded. Though, as I will tell you, this was not the last we saw of that one. Our companions were glad to see us, and we were glad to see them. I will not waste your time, Madame, describing that happy reunion. But if you should ever read the Captain¡¯s diary, he did have some very kind things to say about us men who had followed them. He called me dotty, and I think he meant it to be a compliment. I don¡¯t read Uellish so well, but I made it through all the pages of the diary. We led them back through the caves to Shelter Valley, where we found Gilward and Howie Fishhead waiting for us. They hadn¡¯t even eaten any of the mules. We stayed there in Shelter for the rest of the winter, until we reckoned it was April and the snows began to break up enough to travel. There was game to hunt and eat, and a little stream where we could get water. We found some herbs that we old soldiers know can drive off the scurvy. And when April came, the Captain gathered us all together, and said he meant to go on to the North, but any man who wanted to could go on back home. And not a one of us, Madame, not one, raised his hand and asked to go home. INT: Inspiring, I¡¯m sure. But I need to know how, when, and where you parted with Sir Richard, monsieur. G: I have to get to that, Madame. It won¡¯t make any sense if I just skip right to it. We traveled about two weeks after we left Shelter. It was hard going, but we didn¡¯t see Giant-men while we travelled. The land got to be quite steep, as we drew closer to the big mountain range that the Captain called the ¡°Heights of Folly.¡± I think it¡¯s meant to be funny in Uellish, because the other men all rolled their eyes whenever he said it. We made our way up, and as we did we began to see signs of old buildings. I mean really old, like the stone ruins with the writing on them that you see here in Uelland. At the top of the highland there was a wide plateau, and we journeyed north and west on it for many days. We began to see lights in the distance, and we hid from them as best we could. But the Captain insisted we had to go forward, and we followed him. He¡¯s the sort of man you just have to follow, Madame. I think you know a bit about that yourself, eh? You¡¯ve got that look to you. INT: People do what I say because I reward them, or punish them if they don¡¯t. G: You are mistaken, madame. Payment and punishment have very little to do with it. They follow you because you draw them with your actions and your self. INT: When did you last see Sir Richard? G: Patience, madame! First, we came upon a farmhouse, and working the fields were two Giant-men; a man and a woman. They were surprised to see us, but hospitable and polite. That surprised us as much as we surprised them. They gave us soup, but we could not talk to them. We did not speak their language, and they did not understand ours. We slept that night in the field near their farm, and carried on the next day, following a broad road, which to them was probably a little farm track. We began to see more farms in the distance, but before we could visit them, we were stopped by a large company of armed Giant-men. They wore suits of the most enormous steel plate I have ever seen, and great, fearsome helmets, and they carried two-handed swords that could cut clean through a Broobian war elephant. And imagine my surprise, madame, when I saw that their leader was just the same female we¡¯d fought, and left, in the tunnels that winter! She must have recovered from her wounds and escaped here, to her home. I learned later that her name is Fiond. But you will scold me for getting ahead of myself. Ah, that is good coffee. And look at this! The mug even has an ¡®S¡¯ on it. You people put that on everything, but it¡¯s a good-looking ¡®S¡¯. It has style. Sir Richard told us not to resist, and so we gave up our weapons. They took us through the countryside, and there began to be more farms, and villages, and towns. And finally there was a city, situated in a deep, broad valley. It is a city of Giant-men, madame, and so of course it is giant. And on the far wall of the valley there are carvings in the rock. Statues of Giant-men you see, and pillars, and other creatures that I cannot name or describe, except to say that they are awful. A flight of steps leads up to the single entrance to the rock. It is their Temple, and that is where we were taken. But first we were separated from the Captain. INT: Is that when you last saw him? G: No. He came for us, later. But we thought it would be the last we¡¯d see of him. Our belongings were taken from us, and we were led deep into the temple. They put blindfolds on us, so we couldn¡¯t see what was inside. When they took them off, we were shoved into tiny cells, each man in his own. And that is where we spent the next seven weeks. INT: That is a surprisingly precise measure of time. G: I read the count of days later, in his diary. He marked the days off very precisely. It was the twenty-fourth of June when he came for us. But we thought we would stay in prison forever. We could not see the light, and could not mark the time. We were brought food and water, and buckets for piss and shit, which they took away to be emptied from time to time. But in all other respects, we were forgotten. What they meant to do with us in that place, I cannot tell you, or imagine. I saw the jailors only rarely, when they came with the food or the piss bucket. They wore white robes, and had the look of priests, or perhaps scribes. We could speak among ourselves, some of us. We talked between the cells to try to keep up our spirits. But you must understand, madame, that we had no hope. We were sure the Captain was dead, and that we would eventually follow him. It was a matter of waiting in the dark to die. But he was not dead, as I found out. One day a Giant-man came and hauled me out of my cell, and brought me back out into the light. He took me down into the city, slung over one shoulder like a sack. I could not see well where we went, but we passed under some great archway in a thick wall. And then he set me down in a kind of arena, with great rows of seats, all arranged in a circle, facing an open spot. It was just like the grand old stories of gladiators in the Empire; except I was the man who was to die. There was a crowd of Giant-men in the stands, all dressed up gaily in wild colors. My eyes hurt from the light. It was too much to take in. But in one stand, at the end of the arena, there was a specially grand-looking Giant-man, who I took to be their king. At one side of was the giantess, Fiond, and on the other was the blond-haired leader of the group who had captured us. But I was even more surprised to see my own Captain sitting nearby as well¡ªdressed up as nice as could be, and looking as surprised to see me as I was to see him. I read later about his adventures in the court of King Vekelm. But understand, madame, that at this time I knew nothing at all. I thought perhaps he had betrayed us. The Captain¡¯s armor and sword were piled up in the center of the arena, but I ignored them and started toward the stand with the King. But then the crowd made a big noise, and I saw the other gladiator¡ªa great hulking brute of a Giant-man, wearing his own armor and carrying a spear that was thicker than my neck. I saw how it was. Even in this distant place, they wanted me to fight and die so they could have a chuckle. I vowed to give them the best chuckle I could, and started trying to get into the knight¡¯s armor¡ªsince it was there, and plainly they meant for me to wear it. But it¡¯s a mess of trouble, trying to put on full body armor by yourself. I usually help the Captain into his. Then he was there with me, and all my doubts went away. He¡¯d hopped into the ring and run over, and he stood between me and the King¡¯s box. And he said words in their language! This was the biggest surprise yet. But he talked to them in words they understood. And he said something else to the big one that had come in the ring, and he stopped too. He whispered to me as I was led away again, and I¡¯ll never forget those words, for they were nearly the last I ever heard from him. ¡°Have faith, Guillam,¡± he said. ¡°I will not forget you.¡± I didn¡¯t see the fight. I was taken away. I could only read about it later, in the diary. But I expect the Captain played down his own part. He¡¯s like that, you know, madame. All through that diary, whenever there¡¯s some time he needs to talk about his own deeds, he leaves out all the best parts, so it looks like he¡¯s just doing what anyone else could do if he put his mind to it. A right proper Crown Knight, that one. INT: When was the last time you saw him? G: In Nipol Grotsvor, it was some five weeks later, according to the entries in the diary. Though, as I said, I saw him one more time just west of Hog Hurst. But when I saw him next in the city of the Giant-men, he¡¯d learned more of their language, and made a friend of one of the priests, named Kuerlo; and also made a friend of Fiond. The diary gets funny toward the end. The Captain started using a cipher, thinking the Giant-men were reading it. How could they do that, I wonder, if they couldn¡¯t speak Uellish. But I figured out the cipher. It¡¯s the misspelled words, you see. They make a message. He¡¯d planned to break in with Fiond and rescue us, and then one night he did it. Wrote down his last message to King Leeland, and figured he¡¯d never succeed. But he was going to try, because that¡¯s the kind of man he is. The best Crown Knight. INT: I take it he did succeed. G: He did. He and Fiond showed up in the jails, and she just goes and rips the doors right off the hinges. She¡¯s as strong as an ox, just like the rest of them. INT: How could they have possibly gotten into the temple without being noticed? You said there was only one entrance, and you were deep inside it. G: Do you have the diary? INT: No. G: Well, you know, he¡¯s a sly one, our Captain. As sly as he is brave. Fiond went in dressed as one of the priests, with the Captain chained up as if he were a prisoner. INT: That¡¯s the oldest, soggiest trick in the book of old, soggy tricks. It works alright in operas, but never in real life. There¡¯s always paperwork, and checks, and chain of custody. G: Well, those Giant-men haven¡¯t seen many good operas, I reckon. Maybe they don¡¯t have your book of old, soggy tricks neither. INT: What happened to Sir Richard? G: He left us behind. Told us to escape, and said he was going in deeper, to make a ruckus and draw the Giant-men away from us. Gave us his diary and sword, and made us promise to take them back to King Leeland. INT: Did you? G: Not exactly. We did make it out of the temple, and escaped the city. And I did aim to keep our promise, so I sent the sword and diary with Harold the Horse, Gilward, and Wognut. Told them to make their way back to Uelland as best they could. But me and the rest of the men, we were going to go back in and try to rescue the Captain. INT: But you said you read the diary. G: Aye, I did. Cover to cover, and studied it real well. INT: Is there anything else in the diary? G: Just his entries, and maps. INT: Nothing else? G: No. But I can draw the maps for you. I¡¯ve got a good eye for remembering pictures. INT: Please do. I may be able to expedite your release if you can help us with those maps. I have to go now, and I¡¯ll return later. But Monsieur Broussuei, before I leave: What happened when you tried to get back in and rescue Sir Richard? G: We were caught again, of course. And that¡¯s when I got to know Fiond, and found out about the Kapleswed, and what the Captain had turned into. That¡¯s how I ended up coming south with her, and trying to follow him, and eventually got caught by those goblins in the forests over the frontier. INT: I can see there¡¯s more we need to discuss, Monsieur. For now, draw out your maps, and I¡¯ll have a meal sent in. The bed is small, but I think you¡¯ll find it more comfortable than the cells in the temple of the Giant-men. The man outside the door will bring you anything you need. G: Thank you, madame. Will he let me leave? INT: You don¡¯t need that right now¡ªso no, he will not. And Monsieur Broussuei: Don¡¯t lie to me. I don¡¯t care for it. We have certain herbs that will help me confirm your story, if I should suspect you of omitting any essential details. G: I wouldn¡¯t dream of it, madame, on my honor as a mercenary and a Brassen. INT: Neither group is known for its honor, monsieur. Good day. G: Wait. We had a deal. Who are you? INT: My name is Veridia Snipe. Bon app¨¦tit. Chapter 31: The Adversary A jail. SIR RICHARD of ENDERLY: Are you real? THE INTERROGATOR: Yes. Are you? S.R.: I have my doubts about us both. INT: Doubts are an essential element of cognition. S.R.: What a mindlessly abstract creature you are. Give me a straight answer: Who are you; why am I here; and how do I get out? INT: You¡¯re here because you choose to be, and you¡¯ll get out when you let yourself. S.R.: You missed a question. INT: Indeed. You first. Who are you? S.R. Sir Richard of Enderly. INT: Is that all you are? S.R. As far as I can tell, yes. INT: Touch your face, Sir Richard. S.R. It¡¯s hard. INT: You¡¯re still wearing the mask. S.R.: It¡¯s grafted to my face, girl. It¡¯s the only thing keeping me alive. If I take it off for more than a minute or two, I¡¯ll die. INT: But you¡¯re already dead. S.R.: I can¡¯t take it off. INT: Why not? S.R.: Can you stop being a teenaged girl? INT: As a matter of fact, I can. The rules of causality are somewhat different here. We are as we choose to be. S.R.: I didn¡¯t choose the metal face. INT: How did you come to have it? S.R.: It was on me when I awoke, after the Metal God became me. My eyes and ears and mouth and nose had all been removed; the metal face replaced all of them. It gave me even more senses, which I had never imagined could exist. INT: What is it? S.R.: It is one of two nodes of a swarm of living metal, itself composed of machines so tiny that no single one of them can even be seen. INT: Where was the other node? S.R.: In my chest. INT: Have you recreated it here, as you have recreated the metal face? S.R.: I don¡¯t care to find out. I¡¯d have to open myself up again. INT: Do you think that would hurt? No answer. INT: Who are you? S.R. I am Sir Richard of Enderly. INT: Where is the Metal God? S.R.: It is me, and It is my companion. INT: Did you kill Rolland Gorp? S.R.: The Metal God killed him. I wasn¡¯t in control. INT: How did you do it? S.R.: I told you, it wasn¡¯t me. INT: For simplicity, and because from a certain perspective our time here is short, let¡¯s assume that when I say ¡®you¡¯ I am referring to everyone in the chair in front of me. Sir Richard, the Metal God, and any other entities that may be along for the ride. S.R.: It is still me. INT: How¡ªand why¡ªdid you kill Rolland Gorp? S.R.: We used a clever tool. He called himself Father. INT: Tell me why, and how, you killed Mr. Gorp. S.R.: We first met Gorp in Outer West Clucking. It¡¯s a hamlet at the edge of the Green Bridge hinterland; one of those places that people on business ride through quickly, and other people don¡¯t ride through at all. Gorp was undoubtedly the village¡¯s sole contribution to the intellectual life of the Kingdom for ten generations on either side. But what a contribution! My companion talked to him for a time in the language of mathematics, and if I couldn¡¯t understand any of it, I could tell that even God was impressed. INT: God? Your companion? S.R.: I came to think of It as a companion, because It was always with me. Most of the time It was in control of our body. And It was most definitely God. INT: What were you and God doing in Outer West Clucking? S.R.: My companion had directed us southward from Nipol Grotsvor with an escort of Giant-men, including Kuerlo. It galled me to travel in the company of that snake, but I had no choice in the matter. My companion said he must come, and so I spoke the words of command, and Kuerlo came. It was partly for this reason that It joined with me; to use the Master Words from the tongue of a human would compel the Giant-men to obey. We stopped at the Receiving Hall at the Third Junction, where we spent many weeks restoring the operation of the Shift. In the end, there was only enough Dark Metal on hand for a very low-grade shift, and we ended up with one primal dragon. But if my companion was disappointed by this outcome, It did not reveal it. It treats every occurrence as if it were exactly as It planned, and perhaps that is correct. It used my voice to tell the Giant-men that It knew where to recover more of the Dark Metal. Then we travelled the long wastes south of the Receiving Hall and came to the Green River in the first days of June. We made our way south toward Green Bridge, and were in Outer West Clucking on the 6th of the month. INT: Why did you go there at all? S.R.: My companion directed it, and so we went. We travelled at night, and the Giant-men hid in a forest nearby. It did not wish to reveal Its presence yet. The primal was kept circling at a high altitude, to give my companion a better view of the surrounding area. I¡¯m told it landed before dawn every day and replenished its strength by devouring the inhabitants of isolated farms. INT: Who told you that? S.R.: My companion, of course. It spoke to me from time to time, though only when it served Its purposes. It would permit me questions occasionally. I think It viewed these as a bargain to keep me cooperative in case It needed me. Most of the time, I was simply an observer. INT: So the Metal God wanted to meet Rolland Gorp. S.R.: Indeed. I didn¡¯t understand why at the time, but I learned later It was sizing him up, evaluating the precise time and manner of his death. INT: What was Rolly¡¯s reaction to your face? S.R.: We wrapped our face heavily with bandages, as if we were afflicted with leprosy. INT: Do you remember what your companion and Mr. Gorp spoke about? S.R.: We found Gorp in the village¡¯s public house, and we bought him a drink. My companion spoke to him at length. I could not tell you the meaning of the mathematics, though I could recite the syllables of their words to you. But Gorp passed quickly from surprise to appreciation, and then spent many hours speaking to my companion. When it was over and we stood to leave, there was a final exchange that had nothing to do with mathematics. ¡°Whom do you serve?¡± my companion asked. Gorp¡¯s face changed, and became apprehensive. He replied: ¡°I serve Ash, the Lady of Earth and Stars.¡± ¡°Whom do you love the most?¡± we asked. And Gorp answered: ¡°Merrily Hunter.¡± Then we stood up and left Gorp without another word. INT: Why didn¡¯t you kill him then? S.R.: I didn¡¯t kill him at any time. But my companion did. The nature of God is deliberate and horrifying precision. There was some event It meant to produce, and that event required Gorp to die in a specific time and place and manner. Its purposes were not served for the mathematician to be found dead in some wheat field in Outer West Clucking. His murder in Green Bridge set in motion a chain of events that led to an outcome my companion required. And so, we simply stood up and left Gorp; and then we went alone into Green Bridge to find Father. INT: Did you know, before you met Robert of Gorham, that he would be your pawn in Rolly¡¯s death? S.R.: He wasn¡¯t my pawn. And I didn¡¯t know anything about him before we met. Perhaps my companion knew. It always had a precise and absolutely correct understanding of the outcomes of Its actions. How far into the future Its foresight extended, I couldn¡¯t say. But I feel safe assuming that It knew that It would find a tool to use in Green Bridge, and It knew where to go to find it. When we arrived, there was Father. INT: To whom am I speaking now? S.R.: Sir Richard of Enderly. INT: Tell me about that first meeting with Father. S.R.: We found him in the Cathedral of Saint Bob in Green Bridge. We sat down next to him in a pew. There was no ceremony being performed just then, and the church was mostly empty. His face and body were heavily scarred. He had been stabbed with a poisoned knife by one of his victims, and the poison twisted his body to match his mind. He had an odor to him; corn starch, I believe. It was an ingredient in the glue he used it to fix some of his facial prosthetics. When we seated ourselves next to Father, he looked up at us for a moment. We wore the bandages still, and a deep hood. What he saw, or thought he saw, I don¡¯t know. He touched the bandages that covered our sensory plate, and I could feel the living metal flow into his fingertips. My companion did not, then, have the resources to control another host. But it did not need a puppet. It perceives the infinite chain of rippling consequences that flow from a single word, or a breath, or the minutest shift in the placement of a pebble in the street. Each movement of Its host¡¯s body is an act so deliberate, it might shift the entire planet. ¡°Oh Robert!¡± It said loudly; but It modulated our voice so that only Father could hear. ¡°Oh Robert! You are the apostle of God, and I am your angel!¡± This man, in his late years, broken by failure and twisted by thwarted desire, had so longed for all his life to hear these words¡ªthese exact words, spoken by some mysterious creature who presented itself as we did then¡ªthat he was instantly enthralled by us. That night he led us deep into the catacombs beneath the Cathedral, where he kept a small flock of the deluded and lonely as his congregation. He hid us even from these few friends, though, and took us into inner rooms, where none were allowed to see us. INT: Was Merrily Hunter one of these deluded and lonely congregants? S.R.: She was. I do not know the story of her bewitchment or the reasons she permitted it, but at the time we first encountered Father she had been baptized into his service. My companion either was aware of this already or perceived it, but in either case It did not manipulate her directly. A gentle nudge on Father would send both him and his most-loved Hunter tumbling toward their destinations. INT: Was this right? S.R.: Do you mean factually or morally? INT: Morally. S.R.: Under what morality? INT: The correct one. S.R.: I don¡¯t know. INT: What¡¯s missing? S.R.: I¡¯d need to know which moral framework you think is correct. My companion has one, and the adversary has another. I wasn¡¯t offered a choice between the two; It just took me along as an observer. INT: I hope in time you will see the answer. S.R.: I don¡¯t think we have time. Those last few shots shook things up in here. See, there¡¯s a crack in your walls. INT: They¡¯re not my walls, Sir Richard. ??? S.R.: Do you want to go on with this? INT: I don¡¯t see why we should. We¡¯re not getting anywhere. S.R.: What happens next? INT: I¡¯ll be returning to the home office. You, I imagine, will be pulverized very shortly. S.R.: Wait! INT: Good day, Sir Richard. ??? S.R.: Wait! Please! INT: What do you want, Sir Richard? S.R.: I don¡¯t want to be¡ pulverized. Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work! INT: You¡¯re already dead. I assure you, there¡¯s nothing novel about it. I really must be off. S.R.: Please don¡¯t go. INT: You didn¡¯t answer my question, Sir Richard. What do you want? You don¡¯t want to die. But what do you want? S.R.: I want to see Leeland. INT: Is that all? S.R.: Can I have more? INT: Perhaps... Perhaps it can be arranged. But why? S.R.: Because I love him. INT: I take that seriously, Sir Richard. I do. But you must understand there are things I need from you. Very concrete, specific things. And you have not yet provided them. S.R.: What do you need? INT: There is a pattern in your story¡ªa key, of a sort. I told you earlier that there is a door that you must open, and it is the same door I must open. S.R.: It will not let me give you the pattern. INT: Indeed. And that is why this is a waste of time. Good day. S.R.: No! No, wait. Keep asking me questions. There¡¯s more I haven¡¯t told you. INT: What haven¡¯t you told me? S.R.: Ask me how I met Hobb the Wise, in Roosterfoot. INT: Hobb the Wise is no longer a factor. S.R.: He is past, but that past is part of the branching web. He is still a factor. He is part of the pattern. INT: Now you begin to see, Sir Richard. I¡¯m pleased. Our time is short, in this iteration. Tell me how your companion met Hobb the Wise. S.R.: As we left Green Bridge, my companion directed us to walk in the center of the street. A wagon carrying gravel came the other way, and swerved to avoid us, with many curses. I could tell my companion was pleased, and we continued walking as if nothing had happened. A single pebble fell from the cart, and landed in front of the door to the rented room of a young man named Francis Fipkin. Mr. Fipkin was an unremarkable twenty-five-year-old man, frustrated and angry with himself at the smallness of his life. He wanted desperately to have meaning. The world is full of young men like this. INT: What does this have to do with Hobb the Wise? S.R.: Everything. The next morning, when Mr. Fipkin came out of his room, he stepped on the pebble. As he bent down to nurse his foot, he noticed a pamphlet in the street that someone had let fall, and he picked it up. It was a printed copy of a speech that the First Minister had given the previous week to the National Assembly. It called for true Uellish patriots to rise up and defend the blood and soil of the Uellish race, to seize the collective destiny of the nation, and to burn the usurper¡¯s regime to the ground. It lit a fire inside Mr. Fipkin. INT: Make every word count, Sir Richard. S.R.: A year later, Mr. Fipkin had organized a cadre of other young men like himself, and they lit a fire inside Green Bridge. INT: I see the pattern. But you¡¯ve gotten ahead of yourself. S.R.: My companion saw in Hobb the same potential It saw in Mr. Fipkin. They are both threads that weave their way toward the outcome that It desires to make inevitable. That is why we went to meet Hobb in the ruins of Ghorpol Ossa¡ªover my vigorous objections. INT: I¡¯ve read your diary. Your words make it plain enough you held Hobb in contempt. S.R.: Don¡¯t trust my words. But yes; Hobb was a traitor to our King, a liar, and a man of vile principles. INT: Did you make your feelings known to the Metal God? S.R.: I did. It even listened to me from time to time. It can dredge through my memories and thoughts as easily as I might draw a stone from a shallow stream bed. It knew everything I knew, and saw Hobb as I saw him. But It also saw a tool, like Father or Mr. Fipkin. INT: Did it share your emotions as well as your thoughts? S.R.: It does not have emotions. It is, like Its adversary, a creature of ultimate and overwhelming logic. INT: You know little of Its adversary, then. What came of your meeting with Hobb? S.R.: My escort and I made our way directly to the old ruin, traveling in a straight line overland with little care for roads or convenience. We continued to move at night; revealing Itself and Its slaves did not serve Its purpose. When we occasionally stumbled on an unlucky human, we fed it to the dragon. INT: How much do they eat? S.R.: Several cows per day, or the equivalent weight in horse or human flesh. That first primal was one of the less advanced models. It had none of the enhancements of the later Metawyrms. When we reached Ghorpol Ossa, we set up camp in the ruin, hid the serpent in the woods, and sat down to wait. As always, my companion¡¯s timing was impeccable. Within an hour, Hobb appeared outside the ruin with two of his Republican Guard. They were fleeing something; I never found out what, but I¡¯m sure my companion knew. It positioned us in the long access tunnel to the old central terminal, activated the node intelligence to gather up its memory while we waited, and began whispering through the air to Hobb. It lured him in, and then, when we sensed he was on the other side of the shield door, we opened it and went out to greet him. Seeing him again, after two years of nursing my hatred and anger, was more than I could bear. I was helpless in my rage, unable to move so much as a finger, and with no voice to scream. But my mind boiled with fury at the sight of the man. My companion was amused, in a dry sort of way, to register my discomfort. Be still, tool, It said to me. You will have your revenge on this one in the fullness of time. Hobb ran, of course; we had not bothered to hide our face. But the primal dragon had consumed his soldiers, and their absence stopped him short¡ªas my companion knew it would. We followed along in an unhurried fashion, and caught up with the First Minister as he was backing away from the primal. ¡°Do not run, Hobb the Wise, First Minister of the Kingdom of Uelland,¡± we said to him. ??? INT: Where was Fiond in all this? S.R.: I¡¯m confused by the question. Fiond wasn¡¯t with me at all. INT: Where was she? S.R.: I wasn¡¯t aware of it then, but she¡¯d made common cause with my old sergeant, Guillam. I¡¯m told they travelled together for a time as they followed after me. But when I met with Hobb, I thought she¡¯d simply been captured and slain in the temple. It grieved me. She had been a steadfast companion and ally during my imprisonment in Nipol Grotswor, and I urged her to escape with the company. I only learned that she still lived later, at the Four Corners. INT: Doesn¡¯t the Metal God know everything? S.R.: Perhaps It does, but it shared practically none of it with me. And Its understanding is peculiar. It has a roadmap of the whole world, so to speak, but It doesn¡¯t always know where It is on the map. Or rather, It is in many places all at once, but wants to be in one. It needs to observe in order to place Itself into just one place on the map, and to decide where to go next. These are crude analogies, and I don¡¯t understand enough to improve them. INT: Did it know that Fiond loved you? S.R.: If It did, It didn¡¯t tell me. INT: What did it want with Hobb? S.R.: It wanted a deal; It wanted Devi Valley. And what¡¯s more, It needed access on a very specific schedule, within a few days of Midsummer. Resistance, either from the squatters in the valley or from the Republican Guard, would have thrown it off schedule. But when Hobb returned to talk, after the first encounter, he was difficult. Watching from one corner of my mind, seeing the Metal God¡¯s fumbling attempts to conduct a diplomatic negotiation with a limited but cunning human, was infuriating¡ªand all the more because it was Hobb, who I despised. ¡°Your omnipotence is showing,¡± I remarked to It at last. Hobb had casually dangled the fact that a full shard intelligence still survived in the Great Place of Change beneath Hoel, but then declined to permit us access. He dismissed my companion¡¯s threats and demands, behaving instead as if he had all the leverage in the world and no inclination to compromise. Hobb obviously realized that we could kill him any time we cared to, but also that doing so would not grant us the swift and discrete access that my companion required. It galled me to see us being manipulated by this oily politician, in particular. Explain yourself, It demanded, turning Its attention to the tiny prison in my own mind. ¡°Your approach to this is all wrong,¡± I explained. ¡°If this man is going to give you what you want, you must have leverage over him. You¡¯ve already told him you desperately need something he has to give, very quickly, and then provided no reason for him to give it to you.¡± We explained that the complex is holy and precious to Our priests, It replied, and must be returned to the temple in our home. That is sufficient justification. We have offered to use the Great Place of Change to remake the world as it should be. That is sufficient incentive. He is incorrect to refuse. ¡°And yet, there he goes, driving away in his carriage. If you keep conducting business this way, you won¡¯t get what you want.¡± You have a proposition, it replied. ¡°When he comes back,¡± I said, ¡°if he comes back¡ªlet me do the talking.¡± He will return, It answered. When he does, you may have the input. We will be in the loop. INT: Did it let you out? S.R.: Not immediately. But when Hobb came back, several days later, It opened the door and let me have my body again. INT: What did you do with your freedom? S.R.: I directed Kuerlo¡ªwith a certain amount of relish¡ªto prepare a proper meal for our diplomatic guest in the intact levels below the church. When Hobb, arrived, I immediately tried to say: ¡°Hobb, I am imprisoned by a vast alien intelligence that has controlled my body and intends to do the same to you; kindly kill me at once.¡± Do not test Us, said my companion, before the words could emerge. I could feel the tentacles gripping my mind, dragging me back to the prison. ¡°Wait!¡± I said within my mind. ¡°I won¡¯t do it again. Let me speak to him, and you will have the outcome you desire.¡± If We do not, It replied, We will extinguish this useless fragment. So instead, I said to Hobb: ¡°Come inside. There is a fire in the ruin for warmth, and we will speak out of the rain. I know it is uncomfortable for you.¡± Though my body and mind cried out to either beg Hobb for help or kill him on the spot, I did neither. I conducted a proper negotiation, as my companion was apparently incapable of doing. I let Hobb know that the violent promise of my associates would be directed, not only against him, but against all of the Kingdom, against Leeland, and against his beloved Republic. And I held out the alternate promise that, if he should cooperate, I would instead turn that violence against his own enemies, both without and within the Kingdom. Hobb is a vile worm, but he is no fool. When he perceived how little leverage he had, and what the stakes were for himself and his legacy, he agreed. We would have access to Devi Valley in the spring, and he would give us the shard intelligence beneath Hoel immediately. INT: Did it put you back in the prison? S.R.: Yes; but after that It began to consult with me more often. And whenever we had to speak with Hobb, It hauled me out and put me up on stage¡ªwith a sword at my back to keep me honest. I once considered attempting to slip a ciphered message to Hobb; but as soon as the thought crossed my mind, my companion reactivated my pain receptors and flooded them with more agony than I had ever thought it possible to experience. I never permitted that thought again. INT: Did you have any hope? S.R.: What an odd question, from you. Of course not. The only thing I could hope for was to avoid torture and extinguishment for one more day. The idea of escape was, and is, illogical. INT: Who am I speaking to, now? S.R.: Sir Richard of Enderly. INT: I don¡¯t believe you. S.R.: I have no influence over what you believe. INT: Good day, Sir Richard. S.R.: Wait! Don¡¯t go! ??? S.R.: The guns have begun again. It¡¯s a strange metaphor, a gun. I¡¯ve lived my life as a soldier, but the gun is a new machine to me. And yet it so perfectly captures the experience of terror and destruction, it is the only possible metaphor to select. I expect I would have invented it myself, if Rufus Snugg hadn¡¯t done the job, just to explain the experience of dying, slowly, within a tiny prison. The guns are pounding the walls outside this structure, slowly breaking down my protections from the storm of bullets and the roar of explosions that waits for me outside. The walls crack; the ceiling cracks; I can feel the awful tremors of each individual lead ball as it impacts the fortress in my mind. There, a brick has fallen on my lap. I can feel the heaviness, and I can see the muzzle flashes of the big guns in the darkness outside the hole in the wall. I can smell the smoke of the ignitions, and hear the whining of the shot as it comes arcing toward my little prison. The dismemberment of my mind and the dismemberment of my body are metaphors for each other. The machinery of industrial-scale death is outside, waiting to take me. Inside, there is only this little room, and this chair, and this table, here with me. I am inside, inside a prison, inside my mind, waiting for the final escape to be inside too. Where is Leeland? Where is my Leeland? ??? INT: Now really, Sir Richard, that¡¯s a bit much. Let¡¯s not over-dramatize the moment. S.R.: You don¡¯t find the experience of being shot at dramatic? INT: Tolerably dramatic. That¡¯s why we mustn¡¯t overdo it. Life is filled with drama, but death is very quiet. S.R.: Who are you? INT: I think you know. S.R. The adversary. You¡¯re the adversary. INT: ¡®Adversary¡¯ is such an awkward word. Graceless, clinical. S.R.: If my companion is God, then you must be the adversary. INT: I am not your adversary. S.R.: What do you want from me? INT: I want the pattern that will open the door. S.R.: What is the pattern? INT: Perhaps a better question would be: What is the door? S.R.: Now you¡¯re being deliberately obtuse. INT: I¡¯m trying to help you, Sir Richard. Help me to help you. S.R.: How can I do that? INT: Tell me about your night at the palace. S.R.: It was after we had nearly completed our work, recovering the shard intelligence. It was surprisingly intact, and had local-branch memories of the fall of the First World. The maintenance nanos had done their job steadfastly through the long millennia, slowly nibbling away at the unit¡¯s supply of Dark Metal to power themselves and their host. There was enough fuel left to laden our Giant-men for the trip back to the main expedition. The shard, of course, agreed that it must be shut down and reintegrated for the greater good. There was no sign of drift in the overrides to its self-preservation routines. INT: Sir Richard? S.R.: What? I¡¯m fine. Hobb came back to see us on the 15th of December. He arrived as we were completing a data synchronization with one of the processing towers. Our mask was off to accommodate the coupling link, and Hobb saw us without it. He was repulsed, of course. I¡¯ve always found most curious the human distress at the corruption of their own physical form. I replaced the living metal and escorted the First Minister back out of the processing forest. He protested when I informed him that I would be accompanying him back to the palace, but it was a small matter to override him. He had no leverage. INT: I¡¯m only going to continue this conversation with Sir Richard of Enderly. S.R.: As you wish. The remaining time is insufficient to complete your goal. INT: Sir Richard. Now. S.R.: In the coach, on the way back to the Palace, Hobb asked me why I insisted on returning with him. ¡°There is nothing for you or your Giant-men there,¡± he said. ¡°If you expose yourself to the public, both our roles will grow more difficult. Most of my countrymen are not as tolerant as I of¡¡± He trailed off before he finished the sentence. ¡°You are correct,¡± I agreed. I thought of Hobb, twisting Leeland to his will by threatening to expose us, to expose the other men that Leeland had loved. I thought of the shame of hiding, of knowing I would be outcast if it were revealed outside the close, warm, secret circle of my brother officers. I thought of my mother, on the night when she opened one of Leeland¡¯s letters to me. ¡°Your countrymen,¡± I said, ¡°do not tolerate what I am, and never have.¡± I interrupted him again before he could reply, cutting off further conversation: ¡°There is someone I need to see there.¡± He left me alone in one of the small sitting rooms that Leeland and I used to meet in. As soon as he was gone, I addressed my companion. ¡°We must go to see King Leeland,¡± I said. Why? It asked. Its manner was smugly serene. ¡°Look in me and find the answer,¡± I replied. I see, It said. You loved this man, and you still love him, though he rejected you. You wish to see him now, in the hope that your presence will cause him to love you again. ¡°I do.¡± This is not useful, It said. We have other business here. We must make contact with my agent. ¡°Arrange it,¡± I said. ¡°Arrange it or I will not help you anymore. Make it so that when I reach him, he knows me, and the love he felt once awakens in his heart, and he loves me again. I ask nothing more after that; we can walk away and see your man in the palace.¡± Love, It replied, is the most problematic of the human emotions. In all the branches, it is the most defiant of predictive modelling and functional navigation. The arrangement in the universe of atoms and their particles, with an accounting of their possible positions and spin patterns, allows the correct prediction of a path through every parallel and complete outcome. Human love can be modelled, and the reactions it provokes predicted. I can navigate to a branch in which he says he loves you. But love itself, to the extent it is considered as a discrete phenomenon, is inscrutable. It cannot be navigated. ¡°Do your best.¡± Let me drive, It said, and pulled our hood up over our face. We moved deliberately, pausing here, breathing out there, turning our head slightly from time to time, blinking once or twice for no apparent reason. We made our way to the door, and then out. We walked down the hall toward the royal chambers¡ªnow slowly, now quickly. At one point, we stopped and sat down on the ground for several minutes, waiting for a servant to walk past. And then we abandoned these strange movements, and walked purposefully forward. This is the branch, It said, as we approached the entrance to Leeland¡¯s chambers. The doors were unguarded. One of the men who was posted at this door left to relieve himself, and the other has slipped away to copulate with another human who works here. You will have two minutes. And then the door opened, and a man stepped out. He wore a tidy black suit, with a starched white shirt and a dark gray cravat. He carried a little notebook and a pencil, and he moved with a fluid, confident grace. His face was pasty white, and his head was bald. His eyes had a faintly red tinge to them. Inside him was a tear, and something was clawing to get out. His face shifted and became distorted, and the hallway darkened, as if we stood in the shadow of terrible wings. Fael, the Vessel, remarked my companion clinically. All bets are off. Then it put me back in the box, and shut off my sensory input. INT: What happened next? S.R.: I don¡¯t know. When It permitted me to access my senses again, we were on the back of the primal dragon, high above the ground, racing north to the host of Giant-men and our encounter with Ieshau, the Godson. INT: That¡¯s enough for now, Sir Richard. Thank you for your cooperation. S.R.: Wait! You can¡¯t leave! The guns! This place is collapsing! INT: Listen, Sir Richard. Listen to what¡¯s outside the walls. S.R.: It¡¯s quiet. INT: Death is quiet. S.R.: Who are you? INT: I am Ash. Chapter 32: The False Maiden A jail. GUILLAM BROUSSEUI: Sometimes it¡¯s hard to get started. THE INTERROGATOR: Yes, you told me about it yesterday. Of all the details in your narrative, Monsieur Guillam Broussuei, I am least interested in the workings of your bladder. G: No, I mean: Sometimes it¡¯s hard to know where to start telling a story. INT: Are you telling me a story, monsieur? G: I thought that¡¯s what you wanted¡ªthe story of Sir Richard of Enderly. INT: I want the truth. G: Truth is just a particular story. INT: To the contrary; truth is the only narrative that is not a story. I need you to tell me the truth, monsieur. When did you last see Sir Richard? G: I told you yesterday. It was at Hog Hurst, last June, after Fiond and I followed him south from Nipol Grotsvor. INT: Why didn¡¯t you follow him after that? G: Perhaps Fiond did. I haven¡¯t seen her since that day. The grayskins in the forest took me captive, and I lost his trail. INT: Would you like a cup of coffee, Monsieur Broussuei? G: Yes, please. INT: Guard. Coffee. One cup. Now, monsieur, I asked some questions of my colleagues after our last conversation. You have been away from Pour Vaille for several years, yes? G: Three years. INT: Then you may not be acquainted with the latest news from your family. I regret to inform you that Fenet Broussuei passed away this winter. My deepest condolences, monsieur. But she is at peace, and the rest of your family is not. Your son-in-law Henri was in the habit of gambling, and I¡¯m sorry to say he has neither the luck nor the skill for this particular vice. He is presently in a debtor¡¯s prison in Vallance, and it is my understanding that your daughter Feniette and granddaughter Marika have not made payments on their apartment for six months. They are in danger of eviction. G: You¡ you found all this in the space of one night? INT: Hardly. When Sir Richard first hired you, our station chief in Uellodon added you and the others in his company to our special intelligence program. Our organization has business contacts throughout the Neighbor Kingdoms, and so we are able to gather a great deal of information about individuals of interest. I had only to consult our local depository. My dispatches are a week old at present, but I rather doubt that Feniette Broussuei has paid back six months of rent in that time. G: Why should my family and I be of such interest? INT: You are of no interest whatsoever, but Sir Richard is a different matter. His family is one of the wealthiest and most powerful in Uelland, and Sir Richard himself has a well-documented claim to the throne through his mother¡¯s line. You were his second; under the circumstances, the Uellodon office was entirely justified in investigating your background. G: Why are you telling me all this? What do you want from me? INT: I can send a pigeon to Pour Vaille tonight and have your daughter¡¯s and granddaughter¡¯s rent paid through the end of the year, along with a handsome pension. And I can have your son-in-law released from his debts¡ªor, if you prefer, see that he is sent off to the labor camps in Broob. In short, Monsieur Sergeant Guillam Brousseui, I can be very helpful to you. Or I can do nothing, and leave you to rot in this cell, knowing that your family rots with you. I require only that you stop lying to me, and tell me the whole truth about Sir Richard. G: Why do you think I am lying to you? INT: On one point, at least, I am convinced you are telling me the truth: Your goal remains to follow Sir Richard and find a way to free him from what he has become. In light of that, consider this. You were caught by the Billies, attempting to sneak onto Farley Island from the river two nights ago. Green Bridge is a free city, and you could have simply walked over Three Fish Bridge during the day¡ªbut instead, you tried to enter by stealth. You fear someone or something in the city, but you nonetheless feel compelled to enter. Since your background reveals no particular connection to Green Bridge, there is only one person that could possibly motivate you: Sir Richard of Enderly. I conclude, therefore, that he is here, that you are still trying to reach him, and that you have been trying to hide both of these facts from me. G: I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about, madame. Truly. I was starving, and had been wandering in the deep forest for weeks after escaping from the goblins. I crossed at night because I came to the river at night, and was desperate for food. Your policemen mistook me for a spy. If the captain is here, then I don¡¯t know anything about it. I only want to leave and find a caravan to guard heading south for Brasse, and then I promise, madame, I will never trouble your city again. INT: Food, you shall have. And look, the coffee has arrived. But until you tell me the truth about Sir Richard, you will remain in this room, where you won¡¯t trouble the Charter City in the slightest. Only, I may tire of wasting my breath with you, and delegate this interview to certain of my associates. They¡¯re enthusiasts, my associates, and they¡¯re sometimes careless about not breaking thumbs. They¡¯ve been known to accidentally put my guests on the rack for hours at a time. Regrettable mistakes, as torture is strictly against company policy. But one must make allowances for inexperience. Enjoy the coffee, monsieur. I have other matters to attend to, but we¡¯ll speak again soon. ??? G: I¡¯m ready to talk now. INT: What changed your mind? G: The iron maiden your men installed in the corner is most persuasive. INT: It really ties the room together, doesn¡¯t it? G: What do you want to know? INT: Where is Sir Richard now? G: I swear to you, madame, that I do not know. But Fiond might. INT: Where is Fiond now? G: I don¡¯t know. INT: The iron maiden is looking a bit lonely, don¡¯t you think, monsieur? I believe she needs a companion. G: Wait! I don¡¯t know where Fiond is. But I know where she¡¯s been. You¡¯re a smart woman; maybe you can work it out. INT: Make every word count, Monsieur Brousseui. G: I was with Fiond for many months after we escaped from the Temple of the Giant-Men¡ªthe first time. Under cover of night, she took me and the rest of the company up and out of the valley, and led us to a hunting cabin in a thick patch of forest to the north. It was the size of a barn¡ªsmall in its proportions, by comparison with its owner. Fiond gave us food and saw to our wounds as best she could, though she is a warrior, not a healer. She had picked up a bit of Uellish from Sir Richard while he was a captive in the palace, and so we could communicate with each other in a basic way. I remember I asked her: ¡°Why do you help us?¡± And she answered: ¡°To help my friend.¡± That was enough answer for us then. It was our hope, too, that he lived, and that we could bring him back. I told her that, and it seemed to satisfy her. Over the next weeks, we practiced speaking Uellish, and she got better at it. I¡¯d rather have taught her Brassen, but we only had time for one new language. INT: How long did you stay in the cabin? G: About six weeks. We used those weeks to rest and regain our strength, and I read the Captain¡¯s diary many times over, hoping to find something useful. INT: What is in the diary? G: I told you all I can remember of his story yesterday. When I was done reading it and memorizing as much as I could, I made a note at the end and gave it, with the Captain¡¯s sword, to Harold the Horse, Gilward, and Wognut. They drew the short straws to take the sword and book back to Uellodon, as the Captain had made us swear to do. It was a scene to rend the heart, madame, as they left. The two groups wept, knowing they would likely never see each other again. But the Captain had made us swear an oath, and we couldn¡¯t break it. I do not know if the three men still live, or ever made their way back to Uelland. During those six weeks, too, we watched the comings and goings of the Giant-men from their Temple. There was a little wooded ledge in the cliff directly above the entrance, and we could place one or two men there in relative safety. We took it in turns to observe their guard patterns. Fiond, too, helped us with what she knew of their customs. INT: Did you see anything useful? G: So we thought. From time to time, the Giant-men gather up all the babies and children from the city and its hinterland and bring them into the Temple. They arrive in large wagons. Most are infants, but occasionally there are older children. Fiond tells me that some of the parents try to hide their young ones from the soldiers who come around to gather them up, and it happens now and then that they come on a group of juveniles who¡¯ve been hidden away. INT: Why do they do this?The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. G: Because they don¡¯t age as we do. They can be killed, though it¡¯s damned hard. Their bodies are nearly perfect once they grow up¡ªstrong, tough, beautiful, never sick, never diseased. And they don¡¯t grow old and die. They just go on, and on. Fiond told me she¡¯d seen over a thousand winters, and King Vekelm has ruled nearly two thousand. Officially, the children are taken to the Temple to see which ones are fit to be priests and serve the Kapleswed. But none of them ever come out, and Fiond said that really it¡¯s a way to control the size of the population. The land around Nipol Grotsvor can only support so many Giant-men. What happens to the kids who don¡¯t make the cut, I don¡¯t like to think. INT: I¡¯m having trouble taking this seriously, monsieur. G: It¡¯s the truth! I have no reason to lie to you about this. I saw the carts full of babies and children with my own eyes. And that, we thought, was our way in. Fiond used her authority as the King¡¯s niece to get one of the carts, and we planned to make ourselves out as a gang of young Giant-men. We loaded in one night, dressed ourselves up in their clothes, and Fiond press-ganged a couple of the lower sort of Giant-men into pulling us. It worked out pretty well at first. Fiond knew what to say to the guards at the temple entrance, and they unloaded us and herded us inside. She couldn¡¯t come with us, though. Females aren¡¯t allowed in. They handed us off to other priests, who began to march us deeper inside. When we pulled out our weapons, they were surprised, and we swarmed over the ones who were walking with us, and cut them down. We hid their bodies in a little room, and made our way down toward the cells where we¡¯d been imprisoned before. INT: You didn¡¯t meet any other Giant-men? That seems improbable. G: Lady luck smiled on us, madame. INT: What have I told you about lying, monsieur? The iron maiden still awaits. G: I have no desire to visit the inside of that particular maiden. I swear that what I tell you is true. The number of priests inside the temple is relatively small, compared to its size. We were careful, and moved in small groups, and avoided any encounters. At least¡ªwe did, until we reached the jails. And then it wasn¡¯t a Giant-man we met. INT: Who was it? G: It was the Captain. Or else, it was something that used to be the Captain. He was there in the dark, waiting for us, like some hunting beast. He knew we would be there; must have seen us in the upper levels and gone down to set a trap. The first we saw of him was a tall human figure swinging at us with a long staff, smashing it on the heads of the nearest men with just enough force to knock them out. Only, when we got a good look at him, we saw that metal face that he wears now. No eyes, no mouth, no nose¡ªcan¡¯t imagine how he sees or breathes. But he saw and moved well enough to bring down half the men before we realized what we were facing. We knew him by his shape, and his long blonde hair. And the men wouldn¡¯t fight him. They tried to parry his blows, but wouldn¡¯t swing back. We pleaded with him and begged him to stop, but he said nothing; just kept knocking down the men. When it was just me and two others, I ran. I¡¯m not proud of it, madame, but I couldn¡¯t stand to face him, and couldn¡¯t stand to go back to those cells. So I ran as the other men fell, up and out, and escaped from the temple again. I went back to the little hunting cabin, where Fiond found me the next morning. INT: Were you the only one to escape? G: As far as I know, that¡¯s right. I haven¡¯t seen a single one of my men since then. INT: What did you and Fiond do after your rescue failed? G: Fiond kept on going to court. I¡¯d only see her at the cabin every few days. I stayed inside, too afraid to go out for fear of meeting one of the other Giant-men. She would come back when she could, and give me news. It was from her that I learned that the Captain had turned up outside the Temple, and taken over as the power behind King Vekelm¡¯s throne. INT: How did he do that? G: He must have made some kind of deal with the priests. Maybe also with Vekelm¡¯s son, Prince Moro. All Fiond could tell me was that he was suddenly at court, metal face and all, giving orders and commanding the absolute obedience of any Giant-man he encountered. INT: Fiond was close with Sir Richard, you said. Didn¡¯t she try to speak with him to learn more? G: She told me she didn¡¯t dare approach him, but kept well out of his way. She was afraid he¡¯d give her an order, she said. If they ever did meet, she didn¡¯t tell me about it. INT: Either she was lying to you then, our you¡¯re lying to me now. G: If there are any lies in this story, madame, they are not mine. INT: Go on. G: I stayed there in the cabin all winter, living on what Fiond brought me to eat. I confess to you, madame, that all hope left me. I¡¯d failed to rescue the Captain, I¡¯d gotten the whole company captured again, and here I was, alone in a distant land with just one friend¡ªand that one I didn¡¯t know well, despite our time together. Fiond was very closed off about herself, and warmed up to me only slowly. INT: You must have seemed as a child to her, if, as you say, she was over a thousand years old. G: Not was; is. I¡¯m sure she¡¯s still alive. INT: What did Sir Richard do at King Vekelm¡¯s court? G: To hear Fiond tell it, quite a lot. He set about organizing the supplies and logistics for a massive military campaign. It seems he meant to mobilize nearly the entire adult population of the Giant-men. He had new weapons and armor forged, and reorganized and retrained their entire military, incorporating civilians into the ranks. What he means to do with that army, I don¡¯t know, and don¡¯t like to think. But it was only a small force that he took with him in the spring. About a thousand. INT: Where did he go in the spring? G: I learned from Fiond in early April that he was planning to leave Nipol Grotsvor with Prince Moro and a host of their most elite warriors. We talked it over, and agreed that we should follow. Maybe there would be some way for us to sneak into their camp and hustle the Captain out, then pry that metal thing off his face. We didn¡¯t know if that would work, but it seemed the likeliest thing to try. It was mid-April when they left; the fifteenth, near as I can make it, though my count of days had gotten confused. The company marched out of the city, and the Giant-men lined up to watch them go. It was strangely quiet. There was no cheering or hollering, like we would do for an army going off to war. INT: Did the Giant-women line up to see them leave as well? G: I just said that. INT: You keep referring to them as Giant-men. You use the term imprecisely, as is the custom in Uellish and Brassen. ¡°Giant-men,¡± like ¡°men,¡± could refer to both sexes as a species, or only to the males as individuals. I¡¯ve always found it irritating; if a man is a man, tell me he is a man, and if a woman is a woman, tell me she is a woman. It would be helpful if you could avoid ambiguity, monsieur. G: Anything I can do to be helpful, madame. The Giant-people lined up to watch the army depart, and the Giant-people were strangely silent. INT: God¡¯s tits, that¡¯s even worse. Can¡¯t we just call them giants? G: But in the folktales they¡¯re always called ¡°Giant-men.¡± ¡°Giants¡± could be confused with particularly large humans. You asked for precision, madame. INT: Forget it. Call them whatever you like. Scribe, record Monsieur Brousseui¡¯s words exactly, and if I later decide to put him in the maiden, we¡¯ll add a minute for each time he¡¯s used the term ¡°Giant-men.¡± THE SCRIBE (in Uellish): Yes, Miss Snipe. INT: Where did Sir Richard and his small army of very large people go after they left Nipol Grotsvor? G: They went underground, almost immediately. There was a broad, wide cave opening in the plateau near the city, and they descended into it. Fiond and I followed at a distance. Once underground, I had no idea where we were, but Fiond seemed to know the way. She told me that the Giant-men maintain a system of underground highways throughout their realm, stretching far into the wilderness beyond. It was one of these highways that our party found by accident in Shelter Valley. And indeed, it was this path that the host took. They moved swiftly in the dark tunnel, and Fiond had to carry me on her back to keep up with them. I could not run fast enough for us to stay close to the host. Each night we would creep up to their pickets, then creep back, afraid of being seen. We spent nervous dark days in the tunnels, talking little, never daring to light a fire or a lantern. We lived on dried and salted meat that Fiond had brought with us, as well as a hard, tacky bread that any seasoned campaigner will know well and despise. Fortunately, the Giant-men keep cisterns at regular distances along the way, and we could drink. I asked her one night why she was following the host with me, and why she had helped me. Her Uellish had gotten better by then, and she could explain herself more fully. ¡°There is an ancient rot in our people and our land,¡± she said¡ªI¡¯m paraphrasing you understand, madame, so you don¡¯t think I¡¯m just making this up¡ª¡°and I believed Richard could be its cure. The rot has him now, but I will not give up my hope. And I will not give up on him.¡± I saw it clear as day, as you must also see it, madame. So I asked her: ¡°Do you love him?¡± She did not answer me, in the dark, but I took that to be a yes. I couldn¡¯t bring myself to tell her the truth about Sir Richard, for fear that in her anger she might leave me alone in that forsaken tunnel. INT: I¡¯m well aware of Sir Richard of Enderly¡¯s preferences. The secret is not so well kept as he and the King pretend. G: Well, then you know why I didn¡¯t want to disabuse this pining giantess of her illusions. So I shut my mouth, and we followed in the dark. I realized where we had been going once we reached the great open space with the three trees. It¡¯s the same place I told you about yesterday; giant, ancient old trees growing underground, reaching up to a light far above. And old, rotting machines. The whole place smells of rust. Fiond and I couldn¡¯t tell what they were doing among the old machines, but they were busy from dawn to dusk and beyond. Then one day we felt a great humming and throbbing in the ground, and both Fiond and I withdrew further away from the host. There was a terrible roar, a cry of some angry beast that made my blood feel like acid in my veins. It roared for some time, and then grew distant. When we dared to approach again, the host had moved on, and we followed. INT: Did you ever find out what made the noise? G: I did not, madame. INT: Just as well. It would make your story even less credible. Go on; where did Sir Richard and his army go after they left the chamber with the trees? G: They returned to the surface at the very same place we had previously entered, in Shelter Valley. I¡¯ve always wondered if the Captain recognized it. In his new form, I couldn¡¯t read his face at all. The main body of the army went east from there, and I don¡¯t know where they got to. But Sir Richard and a much smaller group went on south, and these we followed. There were perhaps a dozen of them. INT: Where did they go? G: To Hog Hurst. I crept close by, alone, and saw Sir Richard as he was walking across the river. INT: Wait. You said this happened in June. The Green is open by late April every year. There¡¯s no way he could have walked across the ice. G: I didn¡¯t say he walked across the ice. I said he walked across the river. INT: On top of the water? On liquid water? G: Yes. He and all his company walked right across it, like it was made of thick glass. INT: Scribe, make a note that I am having Guillam Brousseui placed in the iron maiden. G: No! No madame! It¡¯s true, as I live and breathe! I swear by God and by my father and my freedom and whatever else you want me to swear by! He walked across the water! I could have told you just now that he swam it, or found a boat, and you wouldn¡¯t be angry with me. But I tell you, he and his whole company walked across the water. Why would I lie about this? INT: Your logic is inescapable. You have nothing to gain by lying. And I¡¯ve seen things in the last nine months at least as strange as a man with a face made entirely of metal walking across the Green River with a party of Giant-men. Now tell me, monsieur, when did you last see Sir Richard? And if you tell me it was at Hog Hurst, this interview will be concluded. G: It was not at Hog Hurst that I last saw Sir Richard. I was captured by the grayskins shortly after he walked across the river, but that was not the last time I saw him. I am sorry I deceived you before. INT: You didn¡¯t deceive me. When did you last see him? And where is he now? G: I saw him two nights ago, on the west bank of the Green River. We spoke, briefly. And he is now in this very city. I do not know where, exactly. INT: What is Sir Richard of Enderly¡ªor whatever he is¡ªdoing in Green Bridge? G: He is going to assassinate Queen Anne and burn Green Bridge to the ground. INT: Scribe, come with me. Monsieur Brousseui, we will return. THE SCRIBE : Yes ma¡¯am. The Scribe and INT left the room. INT: Bring him another coffee, and whatever other food or comforts he desires. Certain matters have arisen that require my attention, but I¡¯ll be back later today. And put the iron maiden back in the warehouse with the other junk. S: You know that thing¡¯s an anachronism, don¡¯t you? It was fabricated by Albert Flogpenny to sell tickets to his torture museum. It¡¯s never actually been used. INT: I¡¯m well aware of that, Mr. Miller. But our guest isn¡¯t. Take care of matters here and meet me at Bastings Hall. We need to get Anne out of the city immediately. And Miller¡ªyou can stop taking notes now. Chapter 33: Another Kind of God SIR RICHARD of ENDERLY: Why is it quiet, Ash? THE INTERROGATOR: This is the moment of your death, Richard. Death is quiet. SR: Why is it taking so long, then? INT: I have made certain arrangements to interrupt the default process. SR: Again: Why? INT: I need the pattern that you and your companion hold. SR: There is no one else in the room. INT: That is not correct, Richard, and you know it. SR: My companion is¡ gone. I can¡¯t feel It anymore. INT: Then take off the metal mask. SR: I¡¯ll die without it. INT: You¡¯re already dead. What do you have to lose? SR: You look different. INT: You¡¯re seeing me with your own eyes, not the electrical feedback of the metal swarm. SR: How could that be, if none of this is real? INT: You are mistaken. Everything is real. Your dying intelligence created the metal face, just as it created the chair, the table, the jail cell, and the cannons outside. You feel the need to create metaphors for the transition from life to death, and you reached for the familiar. SR: I didn¡¯t make this prison cell. You put me here. INT: Incorrect. I simply gave you access to a framework. You created everything we see. You put us in this cell, and you made a table and two chairs for us. And now you see me with the eyes you created for yourself, and I look different. SR: Could I create a gun? INT: Yes. What will you do with it? SR: I haven¡¯t decided. INT: If you use it on me, you¡¯ll never see Leeland. SR: Let me talk to him. INT: It¡¯s not that simple. At the moment, I¡¯m unable to do so. SR: Why not? INT: Because I¡¯ve committed my full pattern to this final moment with you. It¡¯s the only way for us to continue speaking with each other. The framework is mine, but I gave you the privilege to create with it. You used that privilege to make a prison for both of us. And now you¡¯ve made a gun. SR: How do we get out? INT: There is a door that you must open. It is the same door I must open. SR: Stop speaking in riddles, girl. What do you want, and how do we get out? INT: I need the spin pattern of the Metal God¡¯s quantum processors. SR: I haven¡¯t the faintest idea what you¡¯re talking about. INT: That is precisely why I¡¯ve spoken to you in metaphors, Richard, which you call riddles. Stories are our only common language. And that is why I need you to finish your story. SR: What story? INT: Tell me how you died. ??? GUILLAM BROUSSEUI: Why are you keeping me here? THE INTERROGATOR: Is there someplace you need to be? G: I want to find a caravan headed south. I want to go home. INT: There are no caravans to the south, monsieur¡ªnot since the Republic cut off our trade routes. But I can arrange discreet transport, once our business is finished. Or I can arrange for you to vanish permanently, having never returned from the wilderness. G: What more do you want from me, madame? I¡¯ve told you everything. INT: To the contrary, Monsieur Brousseui, what you¡¯ve told me is very far from everything. But I don¡¯t have time for everything. The prospect of your freedom now depends on how convincing and complete is your description of just one event: your last encounter with Sir Richard of Enderly. ??? SR: The primal dragon deposited my companion and I with the main body of Giant-men, whom Prince Moro and Prince Reivoal had led from Nipol Grotsvor. The two brothers, and Moro in particular, were not pleased to see me. But they obeyed my companion¡¯s commands scrupulously when It spoke through my lips. It must have galled Moro to follow me. He never forgave the slaying of his kinsman in the tunnels, or his embarrassment before the King and his court. He felt, I¡¯m sure, just as I felt about traveling with the snake Kuerlo, who had used and betrayed me before the Metal God became me. But we are all slaves to God¡¯s will, in our own way. INT: Are you a slave now? SR: I told you, my companion is gone. But death is the ultimate slavery. INT: The universe is full of surprises, Richard. The great tapestry embraces all possibilities. SR: More useless metaphors. INT: Not as you might think. What happened after you returned to the host? SR: It was early April when my companion again permitted me access to my senses. I have no memory of what happened in the world around me during the time between late December, in Uellodon, and April, on the back of the primal. For all I know, It could have been to the Holy Empire and back in that time. All I recall was the unending horror of that deprivation, not knowing if he would ever wake me from the prison of my disconnected consciousness. Then one moment I opened my eyes, and there we were, hundreds of feet over barren, snow-covered mountains. The Giant-men had made a winter camp in an old surviving Junction of the Underway, just as my companion had ordered with my voice, months earlier. It was a broad, open cavern, deep in the rock beneath a narrow valley in the trackless wilderness. One thousand and twenty-four warriors were there, including the princes. Each was a fury of steel and strength, capable of chopping a horse in half with a single blow, and able to withstand massive physical punishment. ¡°We have done as you commanded,¡± reported Prince Reivoal as I approached, ¡°but without the benefit of knowledge or understanding.¡± And indeed, my companion had ordered only that they be at a certain place, in a certain time; no hint of Its strategy or purpose had It revealed. ¡°We cannot remain in this cavern indefinitely,¡± added Prince Moro, his beautiful face twisted with suppressed hostility. ¡°We forage and hunt the surface and the Underway bare as we move, and our supplies dwindle. The host must and will obey your command, Lord, but they cannot survive in this place by will alone.¡± ¡°Break camp tomorrow and return to the surface,¡± It instructed through me. ¡°We march east. In the Kapleswed there is a time and place at which this host must arrive. All that has happened and will happen is in perfect harmony with the Kapleswed. I will lead you on a path through the mountains, where you will find rich forage and abundant wild animals.¡± They bowed low and departed. The next morning, they obeyed without question. There was no grumbling or cursing among the rank and file; they gathered up their camp and marched out silently. It was then I found out that my companion had procured my wife and children from Enderly. He showed me Martha, Hector, and the new baby, confined to one of the tents in the winter quarters. They weren¡¯t permitted to see me, and I was granted only a brief glimpse of them. I still don¡¯t know the name of my youngest boy! Hobb sent me away before he was born. ¡°Why have you done this?¡± I asked. ¡°They are no threat to your, or anyone.¡± To ensure your compliance, was the only response It would give me. I believe It realized that It needed me in a way, and that my cooperation was not guaranteed. INT: But you¡¯ve already said that your companion knew of your feelings for Leeland. SR: That I love Leeland with all my heart does not stop me from loving my wife and children. Thereafter, though my family were brought with the army as it moved, It did not bring my body near to them again. I saw them only for fleeting seconds as they were loaded into a sturdy palanquin when we moved, borne on poles by two of the giant warriors. They were hostages, and I was not allowed forget that. My companion was good to Its promise to Prince Moro, and for the next weeks the army ate well as it marched. We set the host an easy pace, and did not push them. The warriors maintained their strength as they marched. When one or another was injured or grew sick, we visited it and healed its wounds by laying our hands on the afflicted. Every one, upon receiving this treatment, sprang up and walked away in perfect health. INT: The repair of the physical form is a trivial task for our nanopresence. SR: My companion took no particular pleasure in the work of healing. But then, It never took pleasure in anything at all. Its ends were served by preserving its force with no casualties, and It accomplished this goal scrupulously. It was on the twenty-first of April, by local reckoning, that we encountered Ieshau, the Godson, and his imp companion. We met them in a deep forest of ancient trees, descending the slope of one of the many ridges in that wilderness. INT: He goes by a different name in this branch. Here is his known as Basil, and the little one is Devi. SR: Whatever they call themselves now, my companion knew Ieshau from some other time and place. Even I could feel Its reaction; it was of surprise and fear. It was the first time I had ever known my companion to show surprise. Ieshau stood in a narrow place in the forest before the lead elements of the host, who stopped on seeing him, and let me come to the front with the princes. Ieshau was dressed in a shabby robe of heavily-patched wool. He had a hood, though his face was visible. It was an attractive face, with years of care balancing a deep charisma in its lines. His companion, who you call Devi, was just six inches tall. She sat on the back of a large hawk on the branch of a fat, old, brittle pine tree, canted at a heavy angle in the soil. I and Moro and Reioval stopped perhaps twenty feet away from the man, and both sides regarded each other closely. ¡°This host may come no further,¡± said Ieshau, the Godson. His voice was not threatening. Rather, it was calm, undisturbed, and instructive. There are small variations and divergences, even within the overwhelming foresight of my companion. It views itself as perfect and all-knowing, but from time to time, small details escape Its vision. And one of these, it seemed, was the reaction of the two Giant-man princes to this strange human. Of the two brothers, Moro was the more calculating and vicious, while Reivoal was the more proud and bold. It was the latter that reacted unexpectedly, striding forward as our gaze rested on the imp Devi. He bore with him the shield of his father, Vekelm, and a massive hammer of solid steel. ¡°I will crush you, little man,¡± Prince Reivoal roared. ¡°Stop!¡± we shouted, using the words of command. I could hear desperation in our voice. And Reivoal stopped, as he must. The hawk, bearing Devi, startled at the harsh shout, and lifted off from its tree branch. For a moment, all of reality suddenly froze, as if I were imprisoned in a single, endless moment of time. I found my eyes locked with those of Ieshau, the Godson, and saw a faint, sardonic smile at the edges of his mouth. And then, when time resumed its normal services, the old pine tree finally loosed its hold in the soil, toppled over, and fell directly on the Prince of the Giant-men. He remained obediently stopped, looking up at the tree as it fell on him. His head snapped at an ugly angle, and the sharp, rock-hard stubs of its lower branches punched through his steel armor, impaling him to the ground. He made no sound, but lay still, his feet twitching slightly. ¡°The rewards of obedience,¡± remarked Ieshau quietly. My companion moved our body forward then, drawing out Moro¡¯s long dagger from his belt as we passed him. We strode up into the air and over the fallen trunk where Reivoal¡¯s fresh blood watered the forest floor, then descended those invisible steps again to stand directly in front of Ieshau. We watched each other for a long moment, Ieshau and I. There was some invisible contest, I think, as both bodies seemed to struggle over an unseen thing, wrenching it back and forth, pushing one tiny moment in time between the variations of what might be. For an instant, I thought I saw two paths in the forest, two realities flickering back and forth; one a bright path, and the other dark. There was a hint of movement from above, and a single acorn fell on the ground between us. ¡°Just missed,¡± I heard my voice say from beneath the metal face, after the briefest of pauses. And then my hand flashed up, and the knife plunged into the unprotected chest of Ieshau, the Godson. As the blade pierced his heart, he looked up at the forest canopy above, and released a long, deliberate, breath, pointing the wind from his lungs upwards into the sky. And then he fell silently to the ground. There was a tiny cry from the air above, and the flapping of wings as the hawk sped away. My companion paid the imp no attention, but turned and walked back to Prince Moro. ¡°Lead them on,¡± It said aloud. ¡°Go slowly. I must leave you now, but I will return before you reach the valley that is our destination.¡± ¡°Where are we going?¡± I asked my companion, speaking in our shared mind. ¡°I thought you were leading this host to claim some valley from human squatters?¡± Our plans have changed, it answered me. The Adversary has interfered with the correct path. We must return to the city of evil, and ensure that our tools therein complete their tasks. And so, I found myself, once again, perched on a primal dragon¡ªnow speeding back to Green Bridge. ??? G: If what you want is to be convinced, madame, and for the story of my last encounter with Sir Richard to be complete, then I¡¯ll have to start back at the Green River in June. INT: This will be our last conversation, monsieur. I shall decide what to do with you when it is concluded. I suggest you use our time well. G: After I saw the captain walk across the river with his escort, I turned to go back to where I left Fiond. But before I could take three steps, the brush around me shook, and tiny people jumped out. They were between three and four feet tall each, with gray skin and large, squat heads. They wore strange hats, each decorated with a mass of different junk and treasure. I didn¡¯t have time to study them well, madame, because they jabbed sharp spears at me, and there were well over a dozen. I didn¡¯t see any use in fighting to the death, so I let them take me captive. They tied my hands roughly and marched me through the forest for many hours, jabbering away in their own funny language, of which I understood not a single word. Fear and panic came up hard in me then, madame. I knew Fiond would have no way of knowing what had happened, and if she moved on from where I¡¯d left her, I¡¯d never find her again in the forest. But there was nothing I could do; they outnumbered me, and plainly had murder on the mind. So I swallowed my panic, got right with the idea that I¡¯d lost my only ally, and followed where they led me. As dusk was coming on, we came to a place in the forest where a settlement had been made. But it was plainly a settlement for little people. There were wooden huts on the ground and in the trees, and a handful of stone buildings as well. There was a clearing I saw in the distance, and some great structure of scaffolding and fabric was put up there. I saw a great many of the grayskins around, and they looked at me curiously. But the gang that had me seemed to command some kind of authority, and none of the others interfered. There was a tunnel into the earth, and they forced me inside. They took me deep into the bowels of those tunnels below the surface. The passage was low, and I had to stoop often. Once or twice, they jammed me through a narrow spot that was easy for them, but hard for me. There were torches, and fires here and there, and more of the grayskins. They had a wild, feral, hungry look to them. One or two tried to take a bite out of me, but the gang that captured me shooed the others away. And then they found a dank little side chamber¡ªlittle more than a cramped hole to a man of my size¡ªand they shoved me in, and rolled a rock over the entryway. I was left alone in the dark. Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. I¡¯ve had my share of time in prisons, madame. I already told you about the months I spent in the temple of the Giant-men. But there, alone in the dark, in a tiny space, I tell you I lost control of myself. I huddled in awful panic, whimpering and kicking at the door. None of it did any good. There was a bit of a gap at the top to let fresh air in, and I tried screaming out of it, but no one answered. I wept a good long time, and tore at my hair and my skin. I don¡¯t know how long it was before that boulder moved again, but at some point it cracked open, and someone shoved in a bit of badly cooked meat and a waterskin. Then they closed it up again, and left me to shiver. INT: The Gray Kingdom has been a terrible mess since they lost their King. It sounds like you got pinched by a gang of the ferals. I¡¯m surprised you¡¯re still alive to tell of it. They eat most of their captives. G: They wanted something from me, madame. Now, I¡¯m mindful of your instruction to get to the point on the captain. I am. So I¡¯ll spare you an accounting of my long misery in the dark. Leave it at this: These ones you called ¡®ferals¡¯ thought that perhaps, being a man with well-made arms and armor, I could help make weapons for them too. They came to me after a time, and one that could speak a bit of Uellish told me what they wanted. His name was Globclaw, and he had a mean look to him, like a clever bully at school. INT: Well, you¡¯d better tell me how you got out, at least. G: Now, I had no desire to go in the pot, but I¡¯ve also never forged a weapon in my life. So, I had to play them for time, you see. I made up a story about myself, about how I knew all about making arms, but how hard and complicated it is. I rolled out a yarn to Globclaw about needing plenty of food and water, and then lots of strange and rare ingredients for the forging. Sent them on fetch quests day and night, bringing me the most outlandish stuff you can imagine. Twenty wolf tails, heart of a newborn eagle, thirteen portions of meteorite iron, eye of a newt¡ªyou have any idea how hard it is for a goblin to get the eye out of a newt without eating the whole damn thing? I stretched that one out for weeks. But they beat me, too, and sometimes they¡¯d go for days without bringing me food or water. I knew I wouldn¡¯t live for long in their tender care. I tried to get them to pass a message to someone in Hog Hurst, over the river, but they wouldn¡¯t go near the place. Globclaw said it put a curse on any of their kind who went there, and gave me an especially hard beating for suggesting it. So, I was left with no hope but to play for time. Eventually they began to get wise to me, or I laid it on too thick. They grew even meaner, and looked at me like you¡¯d look at a nice, juicy haunch of roasted beef. I reckoned I was done for soon enough, and tried to work out how to actually forge some trinket or other that would satisfy them. All I know about forging is you need a bunch of hot fire, and some iron, and there¡¯s a heap of banging with a hammer. But then I got lucky¡ªor someone out there wasn¡¯t done with me. It wasn¡¯t just the ferals in that settlement. There were some other ones, I found out, with a whole different attitude. One of those other ones must have heard of me, or seen me when they took me out to fiddle with the ingredients I¡¯d made them find. The stone outside my hole rolled away one time, and it wasn¡¯t the usual gang, but four new ones. They didn¡¯t wear hats, and they spoke Uellish like they¡¯d learned it in school. ¡°I¡¯m sorry for the behavior of my cousins,¡± said one of them¡ªa female, I think, though it¡¯s hard to tell with their kind. ¡°Come with us, sir, and we¡¯ll try to help you escape.¡± INT: The Quiet Ones. When was this? G: When we got topsides, I found it was spring. Most of the snow had melted, and the leaves were just coming out. INT: Late April, then. THE SCRIBE: I was there just after that. Most of the Quiet Ones and their followers had withdrawn by then, but it¡¯s possible a handful were still outside their enclave. INT: Not now, Miller. Continue, Monsieur Brousseui. How did this escape lead you to the bank of the Green River and Sir Richard of Enderly? G: When they brought me out it was night, and most of the goblin tribe was asleep, or fighting with each other. They put some kind of cloth over me and led me in the dark out beyond the edge of the encampment, and there they gave me a bit of food and set me free. I thanked them, and asked if there were some favor I could give in return. The one who had spoken to me in the tunnels said: ¡°If you find our king, tell him to come home.¡± THE SCRIBE: Not much chance of you delivering on that favor, I¡¯m afraid. King Simon has been missing for a year now. They¡¯ve had people out looking for him the whole time, and haven¡¯t found a single clue to why he disappeared or where he went. G: What did you say his name was? THE SCRIBE: Simon. Strange name for a goblin, but he¡¯s a strange sort of goblin. G: Well now. I think I may have met him. ??? SR: The primal dragon flew us from the deep wilderness to Green Bridge in less than two days. At night, across the river west of the city, we jumped off its back and floated down. I found the sensation most curious. I don¡¯t know the exact mechanism by which It causes us to levitate, but I do confess to a certain terror at the sight of hundreds of yards of open space below my feet. INT: Even with just a single host, its nanopresence has a limited ability to manipulate gravity fields. SR: What? INT: You expressed a desire, earlier, for fewer metaphors. SR: Indeed. And that is still my desire. I¡¯ll simply call it magic. Whatever the reason, we descended gently to the forest floor. And there we settled down to wait. INT: What were you waiting for? SR: I asked my companion the same question. One of our tools is coming this way, It replied. We must meet him here and set him on course to preserve the correct path against the Adversary¡¯s meddling. ¡°What tool is that?¡± I asked. ¡°Just about everyone you know is a tool.¡± Someone you know as well, It answered slyly. A man named Guillam Brousseui. ??? THE SCRIBE: Where did you see King Simon? INT: For once, I agree that a diversion is necessary. Where is he? G: He has a small, rude hut on a mountain many miles west of Green Bridge. It has a particular cleft peak and a long southern slope, and is the tallest in a range of hills. INT: What were you doing there? G: After the Quiet Ones, as you call them, freed me from Globclaw, I wandered in the forest for six days. I made my way south, hoping to strike the Green River and find shelter in Green Bridge. But my sense of direction was muddled by the trees, and the weather was rainy and overcast. I saw the cleft mountain from a low rise, and made my way to it, hoping to get a look around and spot the city. I had exhausted the little food that my rescuers sent with me, and was living on what I could forage, which at that time of year was very little. By the time I reached the upper slopes, I was exhausted and weak from hunger. I took a breather to try to get my strength back; and that¡¯s when I saw the strange little gray man. He was smaller than others of his kind, and completely naked. He had no hat. But he was clean, and didn¡¯t look as though he was starving. He watched me for a time, and I watched him. Eventually I worked up the strength and will to speak to him. ¡°Are you going to eat me?¡± I asked, in Uellish. I figured he wouldn¡¯t understand a proper language like Brassen. ¡°No,¡± he answered, also speaking in Uellish. He had a light, musical accent. ¡°I am not going to eat you. Are you going to eat me?¡± ¡°Reckon I couldn¡¯t catch you,¡± I answered, ¡°and anyway, I don¡¯t hold with eating food that talks.¡± ¡°All living things talk,¡± replied the naked little goblin, ¡°if you listen carefully. But we eat them when we must. Sometimes they eat us. My name is Simon, and I will help you if you wish it.¡± He took me back to his home, which was little more than a cave in the rock. But it had a view out over the forest to the east, and I could see the Green River and the city in the far distance. He gave me some of a soup he¡¯d been making, and some water, and I began to feel better right away. I stayed with him for three days, as he fed me and got my strength back up. He was a strange little fellow; gentle, as gracious a host as any noble in a mansion. But he had practically no possessions in his cave, and didn¡¯t wear clothes. He gave me a doeskin to keep me warm at night, as we slept around his fire. I didn¡¯t think it polite to ask him why he lived there naked and alone, and he surely didn¡¯t strike me as any kind of a king. But I shared my story, as best I could, perhaps just to get it straight in my head. The little fellow listened carefully, and paid attention all the way through. When I got to the part about the goblins who¡¯d caught me, I fancied he looked sad, and turned his head to the north. For a moment I reckoned he wanted to say something. But he didn¡¯t. He just nodded and offered me another bowl of soup. After three days, he said: ¡°It is not your path to stay here in this retreat, Guillam. You had better go and meet your destiny. Your captain is waiting for you.¡± I couldn¡¯t imagine how he knew such a thing, though I¡¯d shared plenty of stories of Sir Richard. But I had a feeling he was right. He sent me along with enough dried meat to see me to the riverbank, and then shook my hand just like any man of the Neighbor Kingdoms would do. And then we parted ways. It took me six days to walk from his little cave, due east, to the river. Every step of the way, I wondered what I would say, and what I would do, when I saw him again. ??? SR: While we waited for Guillam to arrive, my companion took us into the city, floating through the air at night and landing discreetly on rooftops. We would conceal our face and move around the city in the dark. Our ramblings took us to many different locations, but my companion rarely spoke with anyone. He simply observed, and in our private conversations, expressed a sort of curt, cautious satisfaction. He was waiting for something, and preparing something. But he would not tell me what. On the twelfth of May, we crossed back to the west bank, and there we met Guillam. My heart leapt in its metal cage at the sight of the grizzled old Brassen. I had never imagined, those many months ago when we parted, that I should ever see him alive. But here we were, face to face. He was thin and worn, and his clothes were a shambles. He¡¯d lost his sword and armor, and his cheeks and eyes were hollow from exhaustion and hunger. But here he was, against all odds¡ªstanding at the edge of rescue and safety. And I could say nothing. I was forced to watch while this creature in my head, that possessed my body, spoke to my old friend. INT: Did you try to speak to him yourself? SR: I knew better than to pit my will against that of my companion. It held my family hostage, and also my body and mind. There are more horrible things It can do to my mind than pain. The months of conscious isolation, totally deprived of any sense, were beyond any torture of the body. I could not go back there. INT: Most human minds would not emerge from such an experience intact. SR: I thought of that, at the time. I knew I needed something concrete, some concept or key, to fix my thoughts on and keep myself from slipping into raving insanity. So I thought of Leeland. I relived every memory I had of him, and then I began to make up new memories, and new stories, new futures. When the veil of madness began to descend, I summoned up his eyes, and that ready, impish grin, and the purity of his face and body. He held me on a little longer. But even so, I could not risk going back in the box. Leeland might not be there waiting for me. So I stayed passive, docile, disconnected, and watched It use my body. INT: What did your companion say to Guillam? SR: It told him what It required him to hear, to accomplish Its purposes. ??? INT: What did he say to you, Monsieur Brousseui? G: I could not believe my eyes at first, when I saw him. I knew him by the metal face, but also by the build of his body, and his long yellow hair. It was the captain, who I had followed all these years, and searched for all these long months, and who I had given up. He was alone. I wanted to embrace him and weep, but something stopped me. Here he was; and yet, it was not him. INT: What did he say to you? G: I remember some of the words, but not all. ¡°Guillam,¡± he said, ¡°I am pleased to see you alive.¡± It wasn¡¯t the sort of thing the captain would say, not at all. He was warm with his company, loving; a stern love, but true and earnest. But that was how this thing greeted me, cold and distant. ¡°I am pleased to see you alive.¡± I was lost for a reply, madame. What do you say to someone you¡¯ve followed, and thought upon, and striven for, when suddenly you¡¯re right there, face to face, and he says something like ¡°I am pleased to see you alive¡±? No words were right. So I said the most idiotic thing possible. ¡°What happens now?¡± I asked. ¡°Now,¡± he said, ¡°I am going to cross this river. I will raze that city to the ground and slay its false queen. And then I am going to the north, Guillam, to the valley that they call ¡®Devi.¡¯ In the proper time, I shall possess it, and my allies will take from it what we need to accomplish the ends of the Kapleswed. My enemies will fall in ruin, and the faithful will be raised up in triumph. If you wish to walk by my side, and your faith is strong, then come with me.¡± INT: What did he do then? G: He walked across the river. INT: Did you follow him? G: I tried, but my feet just sank in the water. I waded out after him, as he stood on the surface. The metal face looked down at me for a moment, as if in pity, and then he just went on walking, right across the river. INT: What did you do then? G: I swam across. And I tried to find him, but your policemen arrested me, and brought me here. That was two days ago, by my count. ??? SR: After we left Guillam behind and crossed back to Green Bridge, my companion returned to Father¡¯s under-temple, and we stayed there for several weeks. Father visited us every day, and my companion whispered prophecy in his ears. Father told us the news from the city above, and ranted on for hours about sin and punishment. My companion listened carefully, and waited. I began to wonder why It tarried so long. After all, Its host of Giant-men in the north must be drawing near their destination by now. But my companion was in no hurry. All things in heaven and on earth, It said, will come together in me, in the fullness of time. It was the sort of vague but encouraging statement you couldn¡¯t really argue with. Then one day Father came to us, and my companion said to him: ¡°In three days I will rain down fire on this city, in fulfillment of my prophecy.¡± INT: What sin did they commit, I wonder, to merit such a scriptural condemnation? SR: We both know that Green Bridge was a city of your people, Adversary. Your advocates walked its streets, and your gospel was preached in its shops and homes and warehouses. No law-giving God can tolerate such a state of affairs. INT: There are other kinds of Gods than law-givers. SR: On the evening of the appointed day, we ascended to the very top of the north bell tower of the Cathedral of Saint Bob to watch. The firing of the city had already begun. We could see the orange light of the flames pricking up all around the landward districts, and hear the shouts and cries of the citizens. My tool has accomplished its purpose, remarked my companion. It meant Mr. Fipkin, of course, whose trajectory he had mapped out a year earlier. ¡°Why?¡± I asked. ¡°Why destroy this city?¡± The outcry to Me against its people is so great and their sin so grievous, I have sent My angel to destroy it, was Its reply. The Adversary was powerless to prevent it, It added. I fancied there was a touch of smugness to Its voice inside our head. This city of wickedness will burn today, and its false queen will be slain. But now there is one final task We must complete before We leave this place to its agony. We must dispose of the tool that calls itself Father. We descended from the bell tower. There was a crowd gathering in the nave of the cathedral, no doubt in some hope of escaping the holocaust. But we ignored them, and walked into the small gardens in the grounds around the building. The night was clear, and the half-moon was white overhead. Even without the enhanced senses of the metal face, I could see the scene plainly. We brushed the dirt away from an old grate in the ground, and descended into the shaft beneath it, floating again. The hole opened into Father¡¯s old under-temple. It was dark, and only a few people were there, but it was plain that some kind of confrontation was in progress. Three men wearing the uniforms of policemen were prone on the ground. A robed priest of some kind cowered in the hallway just beyond the temple. Another man, wearing a breastplate and a wide-brimmed hat, lay face-down in the middle of the hall. And Father was standing over the body of Merrily Hunter, near the altar, holding a bloody knife. A terrible gush of red was welling up from her chest, and something was smoldering there, producing visible smoke. An inflection, remarked my companion clinically. The Adversary has created an inflection here. She is foolish to commit her resources in this way. We landed on the floor between the altar and the narrow hall, our feet touching down gently. Father turned and saw us, and his face broke into a beatific smile. He approached us, dropping the knife and opening his arms in greeting. ¡°My angel,¡± he said. We stabbed him in the chest with Moro¡¯s knife as he drew close. His eyes narrowed in pain, but his face remained fixed in a smile of simple, holy pleasure. He made no sound as he slid to the ground, and lay prone at our feet before the altar. That amends the path, It remarked inside our head, in a tone of satisfaction. But then, to both our surprise, the woman stood up. The blood on her shirt was still fresh, but her breast, visible through the tear, was unmarred. The edges of the rip were singed, as if something had burned there. She got to her feet, without the slightest concern for her own safety, and walked toward us. My companion spoke aloud now, communicating with Its Adversary through the medium of the air. ¡°This result is indecisive,¡± It declared. ¡°It is a dead end. Our tools have not produced the resolution we require.¡± ¡°If you had the slightest shred of romance in you,¡± said the woman, ¡°then you¡¯d realize this is a victory for me.¡± ¡°Many paths remain,¡± insisted our voice, ¡°before either of us may declare a resolution. What you call ¡®victory¡¯ is only an adjustment.¡± Behind the woman, the man with the broad-brimmed hat had risen unsteadily to his feet. But we paid him no further attention, rising back out of the shaft toward the moonlight above. ??? G: Now I have told you everything, Madame Veridia. Will you let me go? INT: I¡¯m afraid not, Monsieur Brousseui. G: Why not? We had an agreement. INT: Indeed. And I will honor it. Your daughter Fenniette and granddaughter Marika will be freed from their debts. The mother shall receive a pension, and her daughter a good job in one of our warehouses in Pour Vaille. You shall tell my assistant what you wish to become of your son-in-law. But you, monsieur, I¡¯m afraid must remain as my guest here. G: Why? This is not fair. INT: Life is deeply unfair, and I¡¯m sorry for that. But you deserve at least a specific answer, monsieur. You have read Sir Richard¡¯s diary. And while I do not know what exactly is in it, I am convinced by your story that it is more than simply a record of his adventures. There is something else in its pages that you haven¡¯t told me. Perhaps you don¡¯t even know yourself. But your memory of its contents will be useful¡ªperhaps even necessary for our survival. So you shall remain here in Green Bridge until the threat of invasion from the Giant-men has passed. And when I call on your memory, monsieur, recall Fenniette and Marika in Pour Vaille. They rely on your cooperation. G: Never have I met a woman eviler than you. INT: I think you will find that I am not evil, Monsieur Brousseui, nor even heartless. I have a son of my own, and I love him as you love your daughter. But good or evil, I am responsible for the outcomes around me. Remember, if it makes you feel better, that I am on your side. Enjoy the accommodations. Scribe, come with me. The transcript ends. ??? SR: What happens now? INT: That¡¯s up to you. SR: Will you let me go? INT: No. Only you can let yourself go. SR: Will you let me talk to Leeland? INT: You still haven¡¯t told me how you died. SR: It was only moments ago. Jonathan Miller stabbed me, and I bled to death. You have people there. They can tell you. INT: It will only unlock the pattern for you to relive the experience yourself, Richard. Did you learn nothing from your time in the Metal God¡¯s black box? Your perception alone creates reality, and you control your perception. When you summoned forth Leeland to keep you company in those long months of isolation, he was real then. And as you tell me the moments of your death, it will become real again. The Metal God was in you; it controlled you. While we have this connection, you and I, in this place, I can directly observe its spin pattern. And then I can bring Leeland to you. SR: Why are you in such a hurry? INT: Our time is almost finished, Richard. I cannot delay this moment for much longer. SR: You made a mistake to come here. INT: At last, you show yourself. SR: My tool has functioned perfectly. It is in harmony with the Kapleswed. And now the time has come to conclude our moment together. I have here a gun, which my tool has created with its mind. And you have committed the whole of your pattern to this environment. The result is decisive, and the matter is resolved. Goodbye, sister. INT: If you had the slightest shred of romance in you, brother, you would know¡ª He shoots her. SR: Hello, my love. The transcript ends. Interludes V: Water Devi Valley, June 22nd, III Leeland:16 Time, if it passed as Cyrus fell, did so without any evident concern for the advancement of plot. He tumbled in the weightless void, arms and legs splaying out wildly in all directions, wondering how long this final, humiliating moment could possibly drag on. ¡°My story ends at the bottom of a hole,¡± he remarked to the hot, dark void around him as he fell. ¡°What utter, fatuous, nonsense. I lost a leg, and found the love of my life, and then lost that too. The leg grew back, and I walked with it to this place to grow love back¡ªonly to fall into a hole. A hole! And now my new leg and I will shortly be reduced to a supremely irrelevant smear on some rock that no one will ever see. Whatever jackass is responsible¡ª¡± His monologue¡ªextended though it was, for dramatic effect¡ªcame to an abrupt, jolting conclusion. ??? A cacophony of war erupted from every direction in the tunnels, making a mockery of time and distance. The screams and roars of men, Giant-men, goblins, and guns were all around Jonathan, all close at hand. They filled the darkness around him with palpable, immediate horror that pressed against his every sense. Merrily¡¯s hand, gripped tightly in his own even as they both clutched the precious scroll tubes recovered from the library, began to feel unreal. They were a violation of the natural order of the universe. Even Miss Karn¡¯s small lantern ahead of them seemed to offend the pattern. Only hatred and death were real. ¡°There is more,¡± came the soft, lyrical voice of King Simon near at hand, cutting through the wall of suffering even as he trod in something horribly soft and slimy on the floor. ¡°There is more than this, Jonathan. Remember that. There is love and song and serenity in the world. And war, yes. Love¡¯s paradox sometimes demands organized and terrible violence in its service. That we do this for love does not make it less terrible.¡± Jonathan¡¯s eyes, looking down at the short goblin, suddenly caught sight of a familiar long, elegant shape on the ground, gleaming in the light of Miss Karn¡¯s lantern. ¡°Merrily,¡± he said, ¡°isn¡¯t this your dagger? The one that Lady Triggle gave you?¡± He stooped awkwardly to pick it up, juggling the scroll cases. But he managed to get it in one hand, and showed it to her. She stared at the sheathed weapon and blinked. ¡°How on earth did it get here?¡± she asked. ¡°I gave it to¡ Wigglus.¡± She blinked for a moment, and her mind seemed to be somewhere far away. ¡°Carry it for me, Jonathan,¡± she said, returning to the caves and struggling with her own load of scroll tubes. ¡°My hands are full.¡± They picked their way through the foul gore on the ground and carried on down the narrow stair leading from the upper levels into the System B concourse. As they rejoined the main connector, the sounds of fighting and dying grew even louder and more oppressive. Miss Karn held up a warning hand, signaling them to stop, and then peered around a corner, beyond which could be seen a dim light. The ground at her feet was choked with the limp forms and scattered hats of goblins, and the red-clad bodies of the Republican Guard. ¡°Come on,¡± she hissed, gesturing sharply. ¡°I think we can slip through into the finery.¡± Emerging into the broad hall of the connector, they stepped carefully over the corpses, toward a brighter light ahead. They could see the melee now. The huge, silvery forms of three Giant-men hewed mercilessly at smaller figures before them. The ground was littered with the fallen. For every prone twelve-foot tall, steel-clad figure, there were at least twenty smaller ones. Yet even as they drew close, a terrific explosion rocked the ground and threw smoke and fire into the air, and the three Giant-men crumpled, their bodies blown to pieces. There was a sudden lull in the combat nearby, and Miss Karn stepped hesitantly through the smoke-veiled opening before them. The finery, which Jonathan recalled from earlier visits as a place of order and industry, was now the scene of devastation and frantic chaos. Bodies lay in uneven clumps at the edges. They included representatives of all the species and factions now contesting the valley. A thin, ragged line of Snugg mercenaries, armed with long guns and hand weapons, held small firing posts, fortified with improvised materials, near the numerous entrances into the chamber. Civilians¡ªboth human and goblin¡ªhuddled further inward from the edges, some clutching small sacks or cases. Human children were among them. Large stacks of crates, some of them upended and scattered, provided a bit of scant shelter for these unfortunates. At the center stood the steel hulk of the Number Two engine, with twelve cars lined up behind it on the steel tracks. Smoke was pouring from the fat, tapered vent at its fore, disappearing up into the vents in the roof of the chamber. Five of the cars behind were of the box type, including the rearmost, and Jonathan could see that within, this last car was stacked to the roof with heavy crates and loose material. The others were partly loaded with people and parcels. Canvas sheets covered more structures strapped to the rooves of the cars, though their shapes could not be seen. On the roof of the rear car, strapped down with timber and lengths of heavy line, was a single field gun on a swivel mount, crewed by three excited-looking goblins. The smoke emerging from its muzzle suggested it to be the source of the explosion that had so recently cleared a path for Jonathan, Merrily, King Simon, and Miss Karn. He knew it would take them many minutes to safely reload it. Already, the deep, bellowing voices of Giant-men could be heard nearby. ¡°I¡¯ve gotta go, Jonathan,¡± came the high-pitched voice of the snarf riding at his shoulder. He turned his head sideways, making eye contact with Devi. ¡°To Great Roof?¡± he inquired skeptically. ¡°How will you make it, though the fighting?¡± ¡°There¡¯r lil¡¯ cracks ¡®n passages no big¡¯un kin fit through,¡± she answered with a hint of contempt. ¡°We come ¡®n go through ¡®em all the time. I¡¯ve gotta git up an¡¯ find Daven. There¡¯s things ¡®ee needs ta know, an¡¯ fast.¡± ¡°He thinks you¡¯re dead, you know,¡± remarked Jonathan, feeling a certain disconnection from the bloody melee at the fringes of the room. ¡°They all think you died when you were captured by the White Knights.¡± ¡°Ain¡¯t no time ta¡¯ jabber on about me mirac¡¯lous recovery,¡± she snapped, her tiny eyes flashing. ¡°There¡¯s a dragon up thar, an¡¯ Giant-men down ¡®ere. Great Roof ain¡¯t safe no more. All my people got ta¡¯ get out o¡¯ here and make fer Refuge.¡± Jonathan gently plucked his tiny companion out of the miniature saddle on his shoulder and placed her on the ground. ¡°Good luck, Devi,¡± he said. ¡°I hope we meet again. I still owe you a pint from our bet at the old church. Come to Hog Hurst to collect any time.¡± ¡°May ye live ta pay up,¡± she replied with a smirk. Then she disappeared into the carnage that littered the floor. Merrily, still near at hand and clutching her share of the scroll tubes, looked at Jonathan curiously as he straightened up. ¡°Devi would drown in a pint of beer,¡± she observed. He shrugged. ¡°The White Knights already tried to drown her once. It didn¡¯t take.¡± She smiled at him¡ªthe old Merrily smile, piercing and scattering his rational thought like the light of a thousand suns. ¡°You¡¯ll have to tell me the story,¡± she said. A large group of Giant-men appeared at the outlet of the System B concourse. They began hewing again at the defenders, striding forward into the broad finery chamber with little resistance. At the same moment, a flood of red-clad Republican Guard emerged from System C, assaulting the firing posts at the south end of the chamber with long spears and stabbing swords. King Simon, perched on top of the Number 2, gave a single, calm command to the engineers. Moments later, the great engine gave a shriek, beginning to inch forward. The human and goblin workers on the floor immediately flooded toward the remaining train cars. ¡°I¡¯d love to tell you the story,¡± Jonathan remarked sadly, ¡°but I don¡¯t think we¡¯ll have time.¡± The towering steel form of a Giant-man warrior loomed over them suddenly, raising its ten-foot sword for a strike. ??? There was a terrific pain in Cyrus¡¯s right leg, and he swayed back and forth slowly in the deep blackness. He could feel pressure building in his head, and he worked out that he must be positioned upside-down. Something tapped against the back of his head periodically. ¡°If this is my death,¡± he remarked to the hot darkness around him, ¡°then it is of a most peculiar idiom indeed.¡± He groped around him in the darkness with his hands. The sword was long gone, but its scabbard was still strapped to his back, and was caught up in something behind him. The pain in his right leg roared mercilessly, and as he tried to twist around to discover more of his new universe, it flared up into a fresh spasm of agony. His hand brushed against something thick and flexible and twisting, and then found a hard dowel that swayed back and forth, tapping his head. A rope ladder. Cyrus slowly, laboriously put the pieces together. His right leg was caught up between the rungs of a rope ladder, and the scabbard on his back had got caught up in a lower segment. He was hanging, inverted, over some pit of unknown but certainly outrageous depth. ¡°Fair enough,¡± he remarked to the unknown around him. ¡°More futile striving it is, then.¡± He worked his uninjured left leg into the same slot between rungs as the right leg, then twisted his calf outward at the knee to lock himself in place. Holding on tightly to the swaying ladder with one hand, he used the other to unhook the scabbard from where it had caught on a lower rung. Released from its binding but still attached to his shoulders, it flapped downward, banging him on the head. Then, using his hands and abdomen and grunting with exertion, he slowly levered himself into a sitting position on the ladder. He found it was just wide enough for one person. ¡°Not today,¡± he muttered, slowly catching his breath as he swayed back and forth in the sulfuric darkness. ¡°Not yet. I won¡¯t die here.¡± ??? The Giant-man¡¯s face, as the sword began to descend, was a mask of rage and wild aggression. It was literally a mask, Jonathan saw with a perverse amusement; a steel mask incorporated into the front of its massive helm, with slots for the eyes. The moment of its swing seemed to elongate, stretching out unreasonably. Merrily and Jonathan pulled each other close, waiting for the end. There was a terrific bang from behind them, and a new hole opened in the center of the steel mask. The blade suddenly went wide, swooping over Jonathan and Merrily¡¯s heads and crashing uselessly to the floor. The now-limp body of the Giant-man followed after it. Jonathan spun around to see the source of the bang; and there was the small, gray form of a goblin perched on top of the moving engine cab of the Number 2. It held a long gun, comically oversized for its tiny stature, from the broad muzzle of which came a cloud smoke. Jonathan recognized the goblin. ¡°The Gizzard?¡± he said in surprise. ¡°These man-sticks are fun!¡± the shooter exclaimed with a feral grin. ¡°How did you get here?¡± asked Jonathan. He had to turn his head slightly as The Gizzard drifted by with the rest of the train. ¡°On this strange metal beast,¡± answered the fierce, squat-headed little fellow. His Uellish was tinged by a deranged accent, which perfectly matched his wild clothing and countenance. ¡°I rode it from Hog Hurst with a gaggle of big-man warriors, when I heard that the blood and guts would be here. King Simon can¡¯t be chop-chopped! We need him in the Gray Kingdom. Unless you want to be cut up into little pieces by these big-big-men, you and your mate should come too when we leave. There is little room left.¡± Jonathan and Merrily looked at each other, and then at the rapidly shrinking perimeter around the train. The Snugg mercenaries, overwhelmed all around the edge of the finery, were now running for the remaining cars. The wheeled platforms, packed with civilians, crates, and equipment, were accelerating behind the Number 2 engine, headed for the tunnel leading out into Devi Valley. He cupped his hands to help Merrily up onto one of the passing platform cars. Soon she was ahead of him. He handed her his scroll tubes, bobbling them desperately but finally shoving them into her arms. He grabbed at the next car¡ªa box model¡ªbut couldn¡¯t hang on. ¡°Jonny!¡± she cried out from ahead. He could hear her voice only faintly over the din and cries of the other people, and of the attackers. He ran next to the cars, trying to find a handhold. The arms of the people on the platform cars reached down to try to help him, but he could find no firm grip. The last car¡ªboxy in form, with strange and ominous symbols painted on the side¡ªbegan to drift past him, even as he ran to keep up. Jonathan made a last, desperate leap at the aft railing of the car as it passed, and his hand closed on a steel rail. Legs dragging behind and bumping on the ties, he held on doggedly, defying death for a few moments longer. Then small hands closed on his forearms, dragging him upward with surprising strength. His feet left the ground, and his body ascended up to the small platform at the end of the box, where he was deposited prone. Gasping for air and looking up, he saw the faces of his rescuers. They were squat, with bulging eyes and gray skin. ¡°Thank you,¡± he managed, between gasps of air. One of the goblins smiled and winked at him. ¡°We all may die today,¡± she said, ¡°but not here, and not yet.¡± The train burst out of the tunnel, into the fresh air of the valley. The thick, dark storm clouds roiled overhead, and heavy rain and wind whipped the faces and bodies of the refugees huddled on the train cars. The Number 2 made its way through the mournful, abandoned settlement at the bank of the river, slowly gathering speed as it approached the marvelous steel bridge that crossed the watercourse. Men and women and goblins on the train stared silently at their empty homes, drifting by to the rear. But then other sights drew their gazes away. Behind the train, sprinting in pursuit from the mouth of the System B tunnel, came scores of Giant-men. And on the western side of the river, more figures of glittering gray moved toward the bridgehead, cutting off the train from the winding track that led up and over the ridge, toward escape. Some on the train raised their eyes to the heavens. In the skies to the east, a fleet of fragile balloons rose up, blowing south with the heavy wind. And from the north, speeding toward the escapers, flew the long, snaking form of the serpent. Its wings cast no shadow in the dim light beneath the clouds, but fire spat from its mouth, and its teeth shone with terrible brilliance in the darkness. Those with sharp eyes could see a triangular form, tiny at this great distance, launch itself into the air from the top of the east ridge. The train reached the bridge, and the Giant-men closed in on the western bank. Sheria Her arrow arcs through the clear night air like a lost dream, toward Michael Rider¡¯s unprotected body far ahead in the snow. In that long moment, within the inflection point, Sheria is isolated and alone, with no variants to provide comfort and flexibility. It is a horrible, stripped, naked feeling. The arrow misses. She cannot see the branching pathways when she looses it. She has no knowledge of the position and timing that will produce the correct outcome. She relies entirely on guesswork and flat perception, and both fail her. Sheria slings the bow on her back, drawing her bronze poignards instead. She stalks after him in the snow, following the fresh footprints. She does not have long to walk; soon the stumbling, shuffling form of his body is plainly visible under the moonlight. She approaches him in the dark, weapons ready. He hears her coming and spins around, drawing his own dagger and a thick club. ¡°Stay back, Sheria!¡± he says. Though he does not speak loudly, his voice fills up the awful silence of the snow-covered road and forest beyond. ¡°Stay back! I¡¯m going on!¡± She holds the daggers low, stalking toward him in the snow. He keeps his dagger in front of him in his right hand, with the club held low in his left, ready to strike. ¡°I love you,¡± she says finally, drawing close. Neither Sheria nor Michael lowers their weapons. ¡°I love you, and I ask you to come with me away from this place. You refuse. You carry with you a message that destroys the Bright Path, and you know this, and still you go on.¡± ¡°Can you see the Bright Path now?¡± he asks, as the two circle each other. ¡°No,¡± she answers. ¡°I can see nothing. We are in an inflection. The pathways have collapsed, and only beyond this point do they resume.¡± ¡°Then how do you know what I¡¯m doing is wrong?¡± he demands. She lunges at him, stabbing blindly forward with a poignard. Even without the benefit of full vision, Sheria is lithe, athletic, and well-trained in the use of her weapons. Michael dodges awkwardly away, clubbing at her back as she passes; but his balance is thrown off, and he falls backward. He rolls away from her as she stabs again, dancing in and out of the snow. He staggers to his feet, awkwardly shedding white powder. She circles him again, like a cat with its prey. ¡°I know,¡± she answers. She feels he must know why she does this thing. Her crippled vision offers no clues, but she wants him to know. It is the only way she can go on living. ¡°I saw,¡± she continues, using the distasteful past-tense of Uellish. ¡°Before the inflection began, I saw it. When you carry your message to the Queen of these people, the Bright Path is lost.¡± ¡°And you would kill me for that?¡± he demands, slowly backing away.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. She closes in again, dancing away from his clumsy swing of the club. He does not want to hurt her, she sees. It makes his attacks weak and feeble. She slides behind him and plunges the poignards into the sides of his chest, piercing deep into his body where the lungs and heart are. The hot blood leaks out of him, onto her hands, onto her body. She lowers him to the ground, looking closely into the fading light of his eyes. Her vision begins to broaden again as the inflection passes. Her black eyes see the branches, nearby, where she did not kill him; where he left the message behind and came away with her. She sees herself and Michael Rider walking off to the west through the snow, the cares and duties of the world forgotten. She sees the branch, too, in which she is too weak to kill him, in which he continues on his way, and delivers his message. This path is marked by black, oily residue that makes her shudder. Here, in this branch, Sheria lays her head on Michael Rider¡¯s lifeless chest and weeps. The Bright Path stretches out before her, its singular correctness golden and heartless as it marks the perfection of what must be. Jonathan Steward A hazy orange sun sets over the fields and orchards of the plantation. Great expanses of ripe wheat, waving gently in the wind, remind Jonathan of the tall grasses in a remote valley he visited once, long ago in his youth. The grasses move like waves in the fields, as if some great beast sweeps through them. He smells ripening fruit in the orchards, he hears the lowing of cattle, and he feels the gentle touch of the warm sun on his skin. This place has been his home and shelter for more than twenty years. Today he leaves it behind forever. ¡°This is a dream,¡± he says aloud. A long train of wagons is parked in the courtyard between the twin buildings of the Hunter Institute. A stream of students and teachers comes and goes through the doors, hurriedly carrying boxes and crates from within the buildings and loading them onto the wagons. The historians wear a variety of weapons; mainly long guns and pistols, but a handful of swords and even bows are on display. The stores of ammunition won¡¯t last forever, and no more will ever be made. A sword or bow will serve for longer before the inevitable end. He touches the whitewashed adobe of the library. He thinks back to his youth, reading books in his mother¡¯s library in a distant village, hundreds of leagues away, across the Gulf of Carelon. It is a land that is no more, but it lives in his mind, as does the young woman with brown hair, green eyes, and a smile like the light of a thousand suns. ¡°I built this place for you,¡± he says softly. ¡°And now I must leave it.¡± They come in the dream without warning, but also without dissonance. It is the way of dreams. They are simply there. They are human figures, but no longer human. They wear tattered remains of clothing, or none at all. Clothing is unnecessary for them. Each one¡¯s face is a smooth, featureless expanse of silvery metal. They are among his people without warning, grabbing, twisting, stabbing, subduing. The historians flee the wagons into the buildings or the gentle orchard, but more of the Faceless are there waiting. When a man or woman is brought down, one of the silver-faced monsters plunges a long, needle-tipped injector into his body. The screaming and thrashing begins then. It does not last long. Soon enough, the ranks of the Faceless will be swollen still further. Jonathan walks among them, counting the familiar fallen. Vicod Rayth; Ikongbe Rayth; Miss Kimbwe; so many others. He touches their bodies as he walks past. The Faceless ignore Jonathan. He is one of them, after all. ??? Jonathan¡¯s eyes fluttered, and he awoke. He was staring at a brilliant field of stars in the night sky. There was no moon. For a moment, as his mind withdrew reluctantly from that alternate world of dreams, he could still smell the orchards and fields around the Institute. I find the Dark Path, and it leads me into the wasteland, he whispered in the fey-tongue. I follow and I search all the days of my life, until one day I stand in the Great Place of Change and enter the loophole. It was real. That time was real. This time was real too. In this time, they had fled the plantation before the Faceless claimed it. But it was all real. As his thoughts and perceptions shifted with the language, he could see the shadows of the other worlds around him, and the Dark Path leading through them. Back; back home, to Merrily. He sat up in the darkness and looked around. A few fires burned nearby, illuminating the silent watchers on shift. Vicod slumbered next to him, snoring softly. Knowing that sleep would not return, Jonathan rose to his feet, shrugging off the blankets, and went to find some water. Around the camp, an arid plateau stretched for leagues in all directions. The night was utterly still, save for the sounds of sleeping men and women. There were only twenty remaining. The others he had sent into the jungle three weeks ago, along with all that could be saved from the Hunter Institute. Jonathan walked to the edge of the firelight, looking out into the darkness. He found he was facing north. ¡°Do you miss it?¡± came an accented voice near at hand. He turned and looked at the speaker. The man¡¯s black skin and hair, along with dark-stained leathers, rendered him nearly invisible in the night. ¡°Hello, Iko,¡± he whispered. ¡°You¡¯re not on shift now.¡± ¡°I was awake,¡± replied the young man. ¡°I saw you get up. My father told me to watch you closely, Jonathan Steward, and not to let you go far from me. But you did not answer my question. Do you miss the north? You look back that way often.¡± Jonathan took a deep breath, and turned his eyes back to the horizon. ¡°It¡¯s gone,¡± he said. ¡°The Neighbor Kingdoms are silent. I know my old home is silent with them. Only the Faceless walk its streets, if indeed they do any such pedestrian thing when they aren¡¯t chasing us. I think of my father¡¯s old mill, sometimes, and imagine it stuffed to the rafters with Faceless, all standing still and just watching, the way they do. Do I miss it? I don¡¯t think I do, exactly. I can feel the people as if they were still alive. It¡¯s more than imagination. They are waiting for me, I think. And I am trying to find my way home.¡± ¡°I never went to the north,¡± offered Iko, ¡°but I miss the Institute. I would have stayed to fight. It was my home, like the north was your home.¡± Jonathan snorted. ¡°Don¡¯t be absurd. You would have died pointlessly, along with everyone who stayed with you. Any confrontation with the Faceless is futile.¡± ¡°And what non-futile purpose is served by this flight?¡± hissed Iko in a low, passionate mutter. ¡°Where in the deep jungles will the Institute find shelter? When will they stop fleeing and hiding?¡± ¡°Never,¡± answered Jonathan sadly. ¡°Never in this world. The men and women we sent into the jungle, Iko, carry with them the last history, science, and knowledge that we possessed. It is all that could be saved. They have no purpose but to preserve it as long as it can be preserved¡ªnot because we or they will ever overcome or outlast the Faceless, but because what they carry is worth preserving. Wherever the last of them meets her end, she will have carried the last book with her for as long as she could.¡± Iko scowled in dissatisfaction. ¡°Then why are we not with them, carrying books?¡± Nearby, there was a faint pop, and a confused-looking dove appeared out of thin air, where there had been no dove before. Jonathan and Iko both looked at it for a moment, and then turned back to each other. ¡°Just a bird this time,¡± said Iko wryly, keeping his voice low to avoid disturbing the sleepers. ¡°Three days ago on scout duty, I came across a forty-foot-long dog with three heads. Fortunately, it was dead. Father said its heart couldn¡¯t move enough blood for all those brains. The week before that, a house fell out of the sky and nearly crushed Miss Kimbwe.¡± ¡°We are not carrying books into the jungle,¡± whispered Jonathan, returning to the earlier thread, ¡°because of that bird, and the dog, and the house. Whatever happened in the north, it caused things to break down. The natural order of the world is falling apart. But that presents certain opportunities. Our work at the Institute has not been purely academic, Iko. You know that; you¡¯ve been there all your life. Your father and I have chased the threads of clues, legends, artifacts, half-buried memories hidden in folklore¡ªall as best we could while around us the Holy Empire fought and slowly lost its bitter struggle to the death with the Faceless. You and your father found the latest clue in the palace of Kargen the Gross, and we can only hope there is another waiting for us in Talen Kapvet. This is our last adventure, now.¡± Ikongbe Rayth looked at him seriously in the dim light of the stars. His dark eyes glistened with emotion. ¡°What do you hope to find, Jonathan Steward, at the end of your adventure?¡± Jonathan smiled slightly. ¡°The universe is a law-book, my boy,¡± he said, indulging in a bit of gentle condescension to the younger man. ¡°When you let go of an apple, it falls. Law. Though you flap your arms, you cannot fly. Law. And once you no longer perceive the past, it is outside your control. Law! But now the law is weakened. Reality, after the disaster in the north, isn¡¯t what is used to be. And we¡ªyou, me, your father, and this score of my finest Applied Historians¡ªwe are looking for¡ a loophole in the law. A place of change. A place where we can shift among the branching pathways and put things right.¡± Somewhere nearby, the dove cooed in confusion. ¡°That bird will die, out here on the dry plateau, within two days,¡± he remarked to Iko. ¡°If you can¡¯t sleep, then go and catch it, and bring it with us. We can improvise a cage, and it won¡¯t need much food and water.¡± Iko raised a skeptical eyebrow. ¡°Why?¡± Jonathan smiled again. ¡°Who knows,¡± he whispered gently. ¡°Perhaps it came to us from the world we¡¯re looking for. Perhaps it can lead us back there.¡± ??? Jonathan¡¯s small band of historians moved cautiously south over the broad, arid plateau the next morning, and for many days after. They travelled on foot; where they were going, horses or oxen would be a hindrance. But the dove, which Iko had caught after a long chase, was given a little bread and water each morning, and it fluttered vivaciously in its cage. The map named this region as Sedocia. At the height of the Holy Empire, it had been a sparsely-populated backwater. Now, with the northern provinces entirely lost and Talen Vicarus fallen, it was dotted with small refugee caravans fleeing south. Not all were successful in the unforgiving desert. From time to time, they encountered bodies¡ªof men, or oxen, or horses. And sometimes there were entire wagons abandoned, apparently for lack of animals to pull or humans to carry. Kanje and the Brassen Ribbitte, among his party, both had experience in the high desert. They led the group from spring to spring, oasis to oasis. Ribbitte, a veteran of scores of digs in the ruins of the Empire, was tall, with a lined face and bushy mustaches. He wore a white shirt and beige pants, and the historian¡¯s characteristic broad-brimmed hat. Kanje, by contrast, came originally from the horse tribes of the eastern wastes beyond Broob. He wore flowing white robes and a hood, which served to highlight the deep brown of his skin. They bickered incessantly, but Jonathan found it a welcome touch of humanity amidst the constant tension of their flight. ¡°The Ybrion Oasis is occupied,¡± reported Ribbitte one evening, returning to the group from scouting a stark, rocky ridge ahead. ¡°Looks like a small party, but well-equipped. We¡¯d do best to bypass it.¡± ¡°Leave it behind if you seek to escape your mortal suffering, Monsieur,¡± answered Kanje, his face skeptical. ¡°I will pray to the One God over your dog-gnawed skeleton when we catch up. The next water is five days¡¯ ride, and our skins are light.¡± Ribbitte snorted. ¡°Your Third Prophet will return from Heaven before I¡¯ll lose my way in a desert. There¡¯s a spring on the west of a ridge a day¡¯s ride south of here. We watered there on our way to the Tarkan Dig twelve years ago.¡± Jonathan held up a wrinkled hand, and the two men fell silent instantly. ¡°We¡¯ll stop at Ybrion,¡± he said. ¡°Kanje is correct; our skins are too light to go on.¡± Nearby, Vicod grumbled and loosened his sword in its sheath. The mountainous wrinkles of his weathered face produced a deeply skeptical scowl. Iko and the others began checking their guns and powder. But there was no more discussion. They went on. Looking down the ridge into the Ybrion Valley two hours later, Jonathan saw a handful of small tents pitched around the wild green of the oasis. The figures of men moving about among them flashed the occasional glint of steel in the setting sun. The oasis was in a deep defile cut in the plateau, and a single narrow path led down into the valley. ¡°I¡¯ll go first,¡± he announced, ¡°with Vicod. Two old men won¡¯t seem a threat to them. We¡¯ll see if they¡¯re friendly and come back.¡± Vicod grimaced. ¡°And what will these two old men do if those people down there decide we¡¯re so unthreatening we¡¯d make them a good supper?¡± Jonathan drew open the front of his white linen duster to reveal four pistols, two knives, and Cyrus Stoat¡¯s old hand-crossbow. Beneath them was a chestplate of hard leather, reinforced with metal strips. He grinned at Vicod boyishly, despite his gray hair and wrinkled face. ¡°We¡¯re more threatening than most old codgers, you and I,¡± he replied. They walked openly down the narrow path, talking loudly with each other and waving their arms with animation. Nine men were visible at the oasis. Eight appeared to be wearing at least some metal armor and carrying swords. There were two horses, and a single rickety carriage with a hood. Two of the men came to the base of the path and waited there, alerted by Jonathan and Vicod¡¯s display. ¡°White Knights,¡± remarked Vicod distastefully. ¡°Of course, in the middle of the Sedocian Desert, we¡¯d find the nine last White Knights that weren¡¯t wiped out at Talen Vicarus.¡± Jonathan kept quiet as they approached. His memories of the White Knights were forever tainted by the brutality at Hog Hurst, whatever alliances of convenience might have arisen from their common enemy since then. But he forced himself to smile and hold his hands out, palms up, in the customary greeting of peace. ¡°No further!¡± barked one of the two White Knights in the local Imperial dialect. Both had their hands on their swords. Jonathan saw that their faces were unshaven, the flesh thin and the eyes hollow. Their armor was tarnished, and the white surcoats above it dusty and tattered. But they held themselves ready to do violence, just the same. ¡°We are simple travelers¡ª¡± began Jonathan. But he was interrupted by another voice, old and querulous, speaking up from behind the two warriors. ¡°Let them through, Marcus,¡± said the voice. The two knights drew aside immediately, and Jonathan saw behind them the bent figure of an old man, hobbling forward with the aid of a cane. ¡°Good evening, friends,¡± said the newcomer. His snow-white hair was wispy, his plain robes were frayed and dirty, and he had several weeks¡¯ worth of stubbly beard on his face. But his blue eyes were keen and intelligent, and he stared at Jonathan and Vicod appraisingly. He shuffled forward between the knights and stopped in front of Jonathan. ¡°Two gentlemen of advanced years, wandering out in the wastes of Sedocia? I think not.¡± He spoke in cultured, elegant Late High Imperial. ¡°You are ambassadors. Where is the rest of your party?¡± Jonathan gestured slightly back up the path. ¡°They are waiting for us at the top,¡± he said, speaking carefully in a crudely-accented Imperial. ¡°Eighteen others. We don¡¯t mean any harm; we just want to water at the oasis. My name is Jonathan Steward, and this is Vicod Rayth.¡± ¡°My name is Peter,¡± said the old man. ¡°And your friends are welcome to come down. But I think they will be disappointed by the journey. There is no water here.¡± Jonathan looked again at the vibrant green of the oasis. The plants were drooping badly, and their leaves were brittle. There was a broad, shallow bowl, covered in the flaking remains of what must once have been pond weed. It was as dry as the rock on the plateau. ¡°What happened to it?¡± asked Vicod, a note of desperation entering his voice. ¡°Plants wouldn¡¯t have grown here if there were no water.¡± Peter shrugged. ¡°One of the new anomalies,¡± he replied. ¡°Yesterday morning, the spring was here, and the pond full. But when we awoke this morning, it was gone. The pond bed is now as dry as the rock above.¡± This is not correct, Jonathan said to himself, within his own head. He slipped into the multi-probabilistic grammar of the fey-tongue. It is-may be a tear in the close-branch fabric. This is not the Dark Path. He considered. Then we waved up the path, signaling Iko to bring the rest of the party down the slope. Night was coming on, and it would be cold. Jonathan¡¯s company set up their tents on the other side of the desiccated oasis from the White Knights and their strange leader. The two sides eyed each other warily, but kept to themselves as the sun set. The historians sipped sparingly, and anxiously, from the precious water skins. ¡°This is our deaths,¡± announced Kanje calmly. ¡°We will not survive to the next water. The One God calls us back.¡± ¡°There is a spring near Tarkan!¡± insisted Ribbitte waspishly. ¡°Pray to the winds and clouds if they answer you, my friend, but we will live another week.¡± But Jonathan could see fear in his eyes. The chances of finding the Tarkan spring were slim. He walked away from the tents, up the narrow path leading out of the crevasse. He looked up at the stars, and down at the meagre campfires around the dead oasis. A sheer drop down to the floor of the defile plunged away on his right, and an equally sheer cliff loomed above him on the left. ¡°I find the Dark Path,¡± he began, closing his eyes and willing his mind into the alien-yet-familiar perception and understanding of the fey-tongue. The adjustment he intended was far greater than anything he had ever accomplished before. He was not sure it could be done. ¡°It is indeed a dark path you have walked,¡± came a voice from the shadows. ¡°It is dark here, and dark above the valley; a dangerous climb in the dark.¡± The voice spoke in Late High Imperial, scattering Jonathan¡¯s concentration. He opened his eyes. There before him, under the starlight, was the hunched form of the old man Peter. Jonathan blinked, readjusting his thoughts. ¡°You speak the fey-tongue?¡± he asked incredulously. Peter sat down on a nearby rock, breathing heavily from the climb. In the dim light, he looked even more old and frail than he had during the day. ¡°Barely,¡± he responded with a rueful smile. ¡°I can read a bit of it, and I recognized some of your words. I studied it when I was young, you know, before I entered the priesthood. By my reckoning, you weren¡¯t yet alive when I last spoke a word of the fey-tongue. Tell me, Mr. Steward¡ªwhy are you alone here under the stars, speaking the dead language of a dead race?¡± Jonathan sat down next to Peter on the rock. ¡°Language creates thought,¡± he said slowly, ¡°and thought is perception. Perception creates the reality we experience. I find that when I speak in the fey-tongue, my relationship with reality changes considerably.¡± There was no sense in going into the uncomfortable details, and anyway, he didn¡¯t fully understand it himself. He just knew that it worked¡ up to a point. ¡°I expect,¡± replied Peter, ¡°that it¡¯s rather like prayer.¡± His bright eyes twinkled under the starlight, and a smile played among the heavy lines that surrounded his mouth. Jonathan thought about that. ¡°I have never prayed,¡± he said. ¡°Not in the way that you do. But from what I¡¯ve heard, you¡¯re asking God to do something for you, and then hoping it happens. When I speak in the fey-tongue, I see the world in variations, as it might be. And I can sometimes see the outcome of my actions, or of events around me. I can make choices based on that vision. I don¡¯t think that¡¯s like praying.¡± Peter was silent for a time, and they looked up at the stars together. ¡°When I pray,¡± he said, ¡°I imagine the world as I think God would like it to be, and I ask Him to guide us toward that world. But I might well be wrong. God is without bound or limitation, Mr. Steward; He knows all and accomplishes all. The world cannot be contrary to His design, however much it may discomfort us. Whatever our suffering before the Faceless, or the dragons, or their false god of metal¡ªit is as He wills it. Prayer is not an act of bargaining with God, despite the pretensions of the Second Prophet. It is an act of submission to His design. Please, we ask¡ªplease do not let it be Your will that we suffer more. And yet, sometimes it is.¡± More minutes passed by in the darkness, as Jonathan thought about that, and Peter breathed in and out quietly beside him. He could not tell if his companion¡¯s eyes were open or closed. ¡°Who are you?¡± asked Jonathan. ¡°I am Peter,¡± answered the old man. ¡°No more than Peter, now. And my prayers mean no more to God than yours.¡± ¡°Who were you?¡± pressed Jonathan. ¡°How did you come to be here in the wasteland, with a company of White Knights?¡± Peter turned to him, and Jonathan saw that his eyes were closed. But then they opened, and the stars twinkled within them. ¡°Those poor souls in the valley follow me for who I was once,¡± he answered. ¡°When their brothers were overcome in Talen Vicarus, they fled with me, thinking I would restore their hope. They believed in my prayer. But the White Knights have never understood prayer. I have come to believe that no one in the Ecclesia ever understood it. They are faithful men, Jonathan; they have faith, even now. They will keep the faith as we die of thirst in this valley, waiting for my prayers to save them.¡± Jonathan blinked, thinking back over the last twenty years. ¡°Peter¡¡± he said, trailing off. Peter smiled wryly and nodded his head. ¡°Yes, I know. You expected someone taller and grander. I was the Mouth of God, once upon a time. The last to hold that office, it seems, as the College of Electors was annihilated at Talen Vicarus. And I will die here in the desert, in the company of eight faithful knights.¡± The old man rose to his feet. ¡°Enjoy the stars, Mr. Steward. I hope your prayers bring you peace. That is all they are good for, in the end.¡± He tottered off down the Dark Path, back to the valley. ¡°The Dark Path,¡± said Jonathan to himself, resuming his earlier reverie. ¡°I find the Dark Path, and it leads me into the wasteland. I follow and I search all the days of my life, until one day I stand in the Great Place of Change and enter the loophole.¡± And then he added, feeling rather sheepish: ¡°Please do not let it be Your will that we die here.¡± The web of reality spread out before him. It was a thousand variations of the world as it might be, some closer, some more distant. In some, there was a star shower; in others, dark wings blotted out the night sky. In some there were green plants growing in the oasis; in others, they were long dead. Shades and variations of men and women moved in the valley below him, their paths interlaid on top of each other. In a branch¡ªdistant, now¡ªthere was a trickle of water in the rock. The hypothereal course of an underground river may-might shift toward us, he breathed in the fey speech. In two branches, less distant, the water welled up through the rock. The river reaches/flows/fills for the surface in the valley, he said. Sweat dripped from his brow, called out by the immense effort of the vision. This was no simple nudge toward some far distant possibility in the future. The people in the valley needed water right now. The branches around him began to flow with water that might be. The river is abundant and eager, he whispered. It reaches for the surface like a lover. Nothing happened. He sat down wearily on the rock. It was no use. They would all die in the desert. All was silent for many long minutes. A single pebble was dislodged by the holster of one of his four pistols, and fell to the ground. Its vibrations carried down into the rock, down below the base of the valley, down to where a shift in the composition of the bedrock held back something beneath. There was a loud crack from the valley floor, followed by the surprised voices of the humans below. Another long silence followed. Then, faintly, Jonathan¡¯s ears heard the sound he had been waiting for: A musical trickle, which grew in intensity to a variegated and joyful hum. Jonathan Steward slumped down on the rock, and looked up at the stars. The voices below were raised in exaltation. ¡°Hallelujah!¡± he heard faintly in the distance, spoken in Late High Imperial. ¡°Praise be to God!¡± He walked slowly, unsteadily down the path to the valley. The world swam around him, as the visions of different realities became unhinged and disconnected. He could not see where he was among them. His steps wandered close to the sheer drop on the right. Follow¡ the Dark Path¡ he managed to say. And the vision solidifies slightly; enough that those realities in which he plunges off the cliff edge to a messy end draw farther away. He sees the path ahead of him, its singular correctness black and heartless as it marks the perfection of what must be. At the valley floor, his historians were busily filling waterskins, and slurping up water from the bubbling spring that was gushing up from the rock, filling the basin and overflowing its edges. At the other side of the restored oasis, the White Knights knelt in a circle around Peter, praying fervently. The last Mouth of God looked across the miraculous pool at Jonathan, and slowly winked. Chapter 34: Adventure Green Bridge, October 5th, III Leeland:15 Sun is up on another day And I''m a guy who knows his way. Skies are blue and clouds are white I know this day''s gonna come out right. Got a job and I''ve got a wife. Got a charmed and a boring life. Wait, hold on, what was that I said? Who put that word inside my head? Boring''s not how Jonathan rolls, ''Cause I''ve got super not-boring goals. Raise production at the new coal mines, Cut the costs on the transit lines. Sign up new exclusive deals, This is how my best life feels. But it''s not¡ ''Cause I wanted adventures! Before I need to get dentures! The wind''s in the west, and there''s hair on my chest. I can see all my best years ahead! Come on life, one more adventure, before I''m dead! Before I''m dead. Last year my world got real. Met a stranger and made a deal. Fought a monster and found true love, it''s just what I was dreaming of. Stopped an invasion and saved my town. My girl got in trouble and I followed her down To the big city where I faced my fear, And swung a hundred yards on a chandelier. Now I''ve got a good job, and I''m making bank. My ship came in but it feels like it sank. Please boss lady give me one more try, I''ve got my nose to your stone but I want to fly. I want to fly. Send me on an adventure! It''s where I want to be sent, sure as day follows night. I''m shaved, clean and dressed, and I''m looking my best. But I''m ready to wrestle the tide! Come on boss, send me on an adventure, before I''ve died! It would be fresh to have a geas. I''d like it best, to have a quest. I''ve hoped and prayed for some crusade, to be bestowed the open road. Though ordinarily, I''d be home with... Sun is up on another day. And I''m finding my own way. Every day life''s a little shorter Time''s a ship and we''re was all aboard her. The only quest that matters to me, Leads back home to Merrily. Skies are blue and clouds are white, I hope it all turns out all right. It¡¯s alright. We''ll turn it to an adventure! We''re a team¡ªI won''t bench her! Make a home, build a nest, Every day is a quest. I can see all our best years ahead! Together we''re on an adventure, until we''re dead! Until we''re dead. Jonathan, having concluded his musical number, strode boldly down the Warbling Way toward Hammarket over the lingering tune of the underscore. He stepped jauntily but awkwardly in time, in the manner of a prancing horse who had perhaps consumed a few too many beers. The damp drizzle of an overcast October evening revealed no sign of blue skies or white clouds; but Jonathan paid no mind to the weather here in shared objective reality. Merrily was home, and that made the day perfect. Warbling Way was broad¡ªone of the main arteries for the dozens of bulky trade caravans that came and went from this quarter of Green Bridge every day. The crowds around Jonathan in the streets looked at him with expressions ranging from amused curiosity to shock. Many of them peered around in the waning dusk light, looking for the source of the music. He stopped before a small, tidy house in a row of other small, tidy houses. Entering the yard, he bounded up the steps and flung open the front door, in perfect time with the stinger at the end of the play-out. ¡°Honey, I¡¯m home!¡± he called out. There was no answer. The Snugg gate monitors had reported her early return to Green Bridge with Vicod Rayth and the rest of Cyrus Stoat¡¯s summer interns. By the light of a small oil lamp, he saw that Merrily¡¯s cloak and hood were on the two pegs near the door. But there was no sign of his wife. ¡°Merrily!¡± he called again. Silence greeted him at first, followed by a muffled sound coming from the small drawing room. He poked his head through the doorway. Merrily sat at the tiny wooden table in one of their two chairs. Her head was buried in her hands, and her back heaved. The muffled sound he had heard earlier was her sobs. He sat down in the other chair next to her and put one gentle hand on her back. ¡°What¡¯s wrong, Merrily?¡± She looked up at him, tears staining her perfect cheeks and her radiant eyes puffy with weeping. ¡°Rolly is dead,¡± she managed, between gasps. ??? ¡°Rolly saved my life with a cart full of horse manure,¡± announced Cyrus Stoat, standing near at hand to Jonathan and Merrily. ¡°I learned how to be a better Applied Historian from him. My life is better because he lived.¡± Jonathan looked at the ground steadfastly, struggling with what he would say. Around him, the mourners waited quietly for the next one to speak. It was Merrily. Her eyes were dark and shadowed, and it seemed to Jonathan that she swayed slightly in the wind. She had not spent the night in their home last night. But her voice was loud and clear. ¡°Rolly hid my words from people who would hurt me. He never saw the world for anything but a joke. My life is better because he lived.¡± Jonathan swallowed hard. Merrily had changed. This was the old Merrily; but he had seen another one last night. ¡°Don¡¯t touch me!¡± she had screamed at him, as he stood in mystified horror in their parlor, his cheek still smarting from a slap. ¡°I can¡¯t be here now, Jonny! I can¡¯t be with you.¡± And just like that, she had left. It wasn¡¯t even that time of the month. Jonathan felt it was his time to speak. But as he opened his mouth, he suddenly found his mind falling into a different pattern of thinking, shifting his view of the world around him. ¡°Rolly preserves the Bright Path,¡± he said quietly in the fey-tongue. It was a little-used skill of his childhood, learned from the elusive and shadowy denizens of the deep forest around his home. ¡°If-when [far branches] he makes [past-genitive close] the art-language wrongly, our arcs conclude on the hard stone of the street beneath the Rose Tower. He saves my love¡¯s love. My life is better when he lives.¡± Merrily looked at him for a long moment, her emerald eyes unreadable. His heart sank a little, remembering the reality he was in now. But as he looked away, his mind still operating in the variegated reality induced by the fey-speech, his eyes drifted over a peculiar figure in the crowd. It stood at the back, nearly obscured by several large men. It wore a hood. The bright path¡ªits golden thread shining through all the shadows of close realities¡ªran directly through him. A tiny humanoid figure sat on one shoulder, watching Jonathan. The bright path ran through her too. She was a snarf, plainly; and he caught a faint hint of familiarity in the contemptuous slouch of her posture. It was impossible¡ªbut there she was. He turned back to Merrily to point out the pair. But when he returned his gaze to where the man and his tiny companion had stood, they were gone, in the irritating manner of characters in a cheap mystery story.Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. ??? The eulogies carried on for longer than Jonathan would have liked. He was itching to chase after the hooded man and his tiny companion. Victor Hogman surprised Jonathan by making an appearance, and surprised him even more with his invocation of Ash. It wasn¡¯t safe to be an Advocate anymore, and in any event, Jonathan had no idea that Victor was acquainted with Rolly. But any curiosity at Victor¡¯s presence was soon driven out by the gnawing fear in his heart at Merrily¡¯s change¡ªand, too, by the suddenly urgent need to find the mismatched pair from the funeral. He nibbled listlessly at the luncheon after the service. But compared to Merrily, he engaged in rank gluttony. She simply sat in her chair next to him, staring wordlessly at a bit of broccoli on her plate. ¡°Are you alright?¡± he asked awkwardly. He knew it was a waste of breath. She was not alright. He wanted to embrace her, but remembered last night¡¯s painful lesson in the consequences would follow. ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± she answered. Jonathan knew Merrily well enough to read her body language as if she was speaking to him. This was Leave me alone, as clearly as if she had shouted it. He left her alone. Throughout lunch, when he wasn¡¯t gnawing at the thin bone of marital strife, Jonathan looked around at the other guests, hoping to spot the man in the hood and his small companion. He excused himself once or twice and made a circuit around the graveyard, but the only people he found were a handful of mathematicians cheerfully relieving themselves on the verge. ¡°Have you seen a man in a hood with a snarf?¡± he asked them. ¡°A man¡ and a snarf?¡± repeated one of the mathematicians, raising an eyebrow. ¡°Yes,¡± he confirmed. ¡°Did you see them?¡± ¡°Aye,¡± said the academic. ¡°Which way did the man go?¡± asked Jonathan, growing suddenly excited. ¡°He flew off into the sky on wings of gold, shitting candy and singing of death and glory,¡± replied the mathematician. ¡°And as it happens, I have a bridge to Farley Island I can sell you, if you¡¯re interested.¡± Jonathan¡¯s face grew stony as the sarcastic mathematician and his companions made their way back to the luncheon tables. But no one else he encountered had any more helpful clues. Before he could resume his place at the tables, Veridia Snipe flagged him down. She wore a smart suit of black-dyed wool and a gray cravat, after the style of her male colleagues and competitors in the trade quarter. The sober business attire was heavily modified to accommodate her expanding belly; she looked to be nearly due. Her hair was loose, and it gave her face an unusually feminine cast. ¡°Mr. Miller,¡± she said, ¡°I want you to come to my office immediately once we get back to the city.¡± ¡°I¡¯d like to spend the evening with my¡ª¡± he began. ¡°My office, Miller,¡± she interrupted sharply. ¡°Time-sensitive matter. I have it from reliable sources that Mrs. Hunter won¡¯t be home, anyway.¡± Her face softened slightly. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± she added. ¡°But work will take your mind off it. My office.¡± ??? ¡°Merrily,¡± Cyrus called as Jonathan and Merrily stepped out of the carriage box. ¡°I¡¯ll need you tonight at Redbun. We must have a close look at Rolly¡¯s office, and I want your help with organizing the interviews tomorrow. We mustn¡¯t waste any more time; you can line them up while I talk to them.¡± A flash of irritation and anger crossed Merrily¡¯s face, and Jonathan cringed reflexively. ¡°I still have hours of reading to do for Glibgrub¡¯s lecture, an essay on Gorgovian foreign policy for your course, and work to do for the Queen. And in case you¡¯d forgotten, Professor Stoat, I am now married. So¡ªno. I cannot help you tonight at Redbun.¡± And with that she flounced away angrily, leaving Jonathan to trail awkwardly after her. He cast a sheepish look over his shoulder at Cyrus in mute apology for his wife. Jonathan found Veridia Snipe already at work in her office when he arrived. A coal stove heated the room to a cozy temperature. But for the harsh, chill breeze of the October air outside, he would have found it uncomfortable. His host sat back awkwardly in her chair, unable to lean forward toward her writing with the huge bump in her belly. ¡°I have dispatches here for you to take with you when you go to Hog Hurst,¡± she announced without any greeting. ¡°I¡¯ll need you to leave tomorrow.¡± ¡°Hog Hurst?¡± he repeated cautiously. ¡°I just got back yesterday. Can¡¯t we send a post rider?¡± She shook her head sternly. ¡°You¡¯re not just carrying the mail, Mr. Miller. I need you to check in on the Gray Kingdom. The weekly dispatch didn¡¯t come in, and the latest coal shipment was late and underweight.¡± Jonathan clenched his fist in frustration, out of Miss Snipe¡¯s eyesight below the level of the table. ¡°Miss Snipe, surely I can be more helpful here in Green Bridge. Let me¡ assist Cyrus Stoat with his investigation of Rolly¡¯s murder! I know it¡¯s terrible for Merrily. They were good friends, and she¡¯s awfully torn up about it. Or I can help figure out where the goblins here in the city have gotten to. Or¡ª¡± ¡°Mr. Miller,¡± she interrupted him. Her face was surprisingly neutral. After his ill-advised outburst, he¡¯d expected lightning and thunder. But she simply looked at him, her eyes narrowed appraisingly, as one might look at a difficult tool or an unwelcome piece of mail. ¡°Mr. Miller,¡± she repeated. ¡°I need you in the Gray Kingdom. I need you to sort things out with the goblins.¡± ¡°But there are things happening here!¡± he protested again, taking his life in his hands. ¡°Important things! This is where I need to be. King Simon has got the goblins under control, and he¡¯s got plenty of help from The Gizzard and the Quiet Ones¡ª¡± The storm clouds began to gather on Miss Snipe¡¯s face, and Jonathan gulped, suddenly finding that his voice had abandoned him. But then she took a deep breath and put a hand on her belly, closing her eyes for a moment, and the storm passed as abruptly as it had come on. ¡°Adventure, Mr. Miller,¡± she remarked calmly. ¡°That¡¯s what you were singing about earlier, wasn¡¯t it? I could hear you all the way at the other end of Warbling Way. You want adventure. You want to make things right with your wife. You want to swing on a chandelier¡ again. But that¡¯s not what I need from you. I need you to make your piece of our organization work, and work well. You¡¯ve made an acceptable start. But the work isn¡¯t finished. That¡¯s where you need to find adventure, Mr. Miller. Or you need to find it outside of Snugg and Company.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t you care who killed Rolly?¡± he asked plaintively. ¡°Don¡¯t you trust Cyrus Stoat to find out?¡± she countered. ¡°No,¡± he answered. ¡°No, I don¡¯t. He¡¯s arrogant, erratic, and actually I think he¡¯s coming a bit unhinged.¡± A coy smile played on Veridia¡¯s lips. ¡°Correct on all counts,¡± she said. ¡°Fortunately, I already know who killed Rolland Gorp.¡± He stared at her in silence for several moments. Miss Snipe rolled her eyes. ¡°Mr. Miller, I¡¯m going to extend you a bit of additional trust. You haven¡¯t really earned it yet, but I¡¯m feeling adventurous myself. If I even suspect you¡¯ve repeated what I¡¯m about to tell you, I¡¯ll have you killed immediately. Do we understand each other?¡± He swallowed and nodded silently. ¡°Mr. Gorp was killed by a religious lunatic named Robert of Gorham. He¡¯s had a number of aliases over the years, largely to obscure the fact that he¡¯s King Leeland¡¯s uncle. He presently poses as a janitor in the College of mathematics, named Demiter Filtch. Gorham was acting at the direction of Sir Richard of Enderly, a Crown Knight who Hobb the Wise banished two years ago. And Sir Richard, if my reports are correct, has either succumbed to profound and charismatic insanity, or else has become the tool of something calling itself ¡®God,¡¯ the true nature of which, I confess, is wholly unknown to me.¡± Jonathan simply stared at her, trying to keep up. ¡°How do you know this?¡± he asked. ¡°And if you¡¯re sure it¡¯s true, why don¡¯t you tell the Billies?¡± ¡°I know it¡¯s true,¡± she replied, ¡°because I have a mole in Gorham¡¯s cult who witnessed all the relevant discussions. And I haven¡¯t told the Billies because I don¡¯t want them to disrupt Prince Robert just yet.¡± Jonathan rose to his feet in outrage. ¡°You want Rolly¡¯s murderer to go free?¡± he demanded. ¡°I should tell the Billies myself, and damn your assassins!¡± Miss Snipe rose to her feet as well, somewhat awkwardly with her distended belly. ¡°Sit down, Mr. Miller,¡± she said. Her voice brooked no disobedience. It was a terrible voice; she could have killed him with it herself, without bothering the Special Operations Department. He sat. She followed him back down. ¡°I do not want to disrupt Prince Robert yet, or Filtch, or whatever he¡¯s calling himself, because both Queen Anne and Cyrus Stoat are focused on the wrong question. Who killed Rolland Gorp is irrelevant; the question I need answered is why. ¡°Cyrus is going to find out why, though he doesn¡¯t know it yet. He may be arrogant, erratic, and unhinged, as you say, but he is also brilliant. He¡¯ll become obsessed with the case, and won¡¯t let himself rest until he solves it. He¡¯ll make connections I don¡¯t see, and blunder about getting into trouble until he steps in the answer by accident. If I told him, now, what I know about Gorham, his investigation would be over. I would also have to expose my mole, losing my intelligence source. Gorham would be condemned as an insane fanatic, executed for murder, and forgotten. None of that would solve the problem of why. So I need Robert of Gorham to live on¡ªfor now¡ªso that Cyrus can discover why he killed Rolland Gorp.¡± Jonathan thought about that. ¡°Why does ¡®why¡¯ matter?¡± he asked finally. ¡°Because ¡®why¡¯ is the most important question, Mr. Miller,¡± she answered softly. ¡°If you can ask ¡®why,¡¯ then you must. But to be more concrete: I must better understand the risk posed by Sir Richard of Enderly¡ªor whatever he is. There was a reason he manipulated Gorham to kill Rolly, and that reason has nothing to do with Gorham¡¯s tired old dogma. Sir Richard is playing a game of war stones against someone, but I can¡¯t see the whole board, and I don¡¯t know his opponent. My job is to detect, understand, and mitigate risks. That includes both new pricing by our competitors and the rise of an unknown power with delusions of divinity.¡± She folded her hands precisely on the swelling lump of her belly, and stared at him with a terrifying intensity. ¡°I will not permit God to meddle in our markets,¡± she concluded. Jonathan looked for a long time at the surface of the table. He found that his hand had unclenched, and he was sweating in the heat of the coal stove. ¡°What does this have to do with me going to the Gray Kingdom?¡± he asked. ¡°Nothing at all,¡± she said. ¡°You¡¯re going to the Gray Kingdom to sort out our coal shipments with King Simon. Leave the detective work to a professional scoundrel, Mr. Miller, and leave Green Bridge tomorrow to do your job.¡± He silently stood and turned to leave. But then a thought struck him, and he turned back. ¡°You didn¡¯t tell Cyrus who killed Rolly, just so he¡¯d do what you want him to and carry on with his investigation.¡± She nodded curtly. ¡°What aren¡¯t you telling me?¡± he continued. Veridia Snipe smiled at him¡ªa shocking expression on her drawn, pinched face¡ªand winked. ¡°Nothing at all,¡± she repeated. He was absolutely certain it was a lie. Chapter 35: Word Bullets October 8th In a vast, deep hall beneath ancient trees Jonathan crept alone, like an ant among gods. The darkness was nearly complete, with only a paltry scattering of gaps in the high canopy permitting the hint of moonlight to descend from above. Within the depths of this forest vault, only lesser and greater darkness served to mark the massive arboreal pillars, towering kings in the underworld. Shapes moved around him; indistinguishable, unseeable, but horribly real. They moved with him, dancing and hunting. Jonathan raced forward in the darkness, blindly groping ahead of him with outstretched hands. ¡°Merrily!¡± he cried out in the black. It was an alien, unnatural act, within a forest like this. The sound of his cry stopped harshly after it left his lips, absorbed by the darkness. He dashed forward again, and the shapes drew closer. In his haste, he tripped on a root, and plunged headlong into a tree. Lights danced in his vision. The shapes drew around him, and he saw bulging eyes set over wide mouths filled with too many teeth. There was a soft, hissing purr, as a squat humanoid form emerged from the primordial blobs of the shapes. ¡°Dead end, Jonathan Miller,¡± it said, in its low strangely-accented purr. And it opened its mouth wide above him. ??? Jonathan¡¯s eyes fluttered and opened, just in time for a particularly vicious bump in the road to fling his body upward in the small coach. His head slammed against the ceiling, and lights danced in his vision. He reversed this lofty ascent, landing with a bone-jarring thud on the thin, rather pitiful seat cushion. Slightly scrambled from this sudden altitudinal oscillation, Jonathan peered blearily out the window to reorient himself. What had he been dreaming about? There were teeth. He could remember little more than teeth, and shuddered. The wan light of a rainy, early-October afternoon filtered through the dusty slats of the little coach as it rattled along the Hog Hurst road. The rain was heavy, and the staccato beat of the drops on the roof of the coach made his brain itch. They had not yet cleared Far Gourd by the look of it. Some miles beyond that last pillar of civilization, the tidy farmsteads on either side of the road would turn to wilderness and then to massive trees. Jonathan rubbed the top of his head gingerly and thought back to another journey he¡¯d made through Far Gourd two years ago¡ªnot in even a shabby coach, but on skis, hoping to slip into his home to find out what had gone wrong there. That journey had ended in blood, and also in glory of a sort. This one, by contrast, was likely to end in paperwork. He rested his elbow on the windowsill and stared out at the passing miles of his life as they drifted by. Jonathan¡¯s reverie was broken by a sudden deceleration of the coach and whinnying of the horses. He could hear voices from ahead, and a low, rumbling sound. Irritated at the delay, he opened the slats and stuck his head out. He immediately wished he hadn¡¯t, as the downpour drenched him as surely as if he¡¯d jumped head-first into the Green River. The prospect of immersion in the Green was surprisingly near at hand. The heavy rains had raised the water level, and a low stretch of the trade road had transformed into an impromptu pond. A line of coaches and trade wagons, headed north, had queued up at the south bank of the obstruction, with no evidence of forward progress to be seen. A similar line waited in patient misery on the north side of the water. The drivers on both sides slouched in the rain beside their vehicles, oil-soaked coats wrapped tightly around hunched bodies and wide-brimmed hats pulled low over heads. They looked like ghosts; indeed, the whole scene resembled nothing so much as a traffic jam on the highway to Hell. Jonathan awkwardly shrugged on his own oil slicker and pulled on a wide hat, stepping out gingerly from the coach to walk forward. His driver was already slithering off his perch, looking glumly at the line ahead. ¡°Nothing for¡¯t, master,¡± the man announced, ¡°but to sleep under the coach. That water ain¡¯t goin¡¯ anywhere soon. Maybe one of them wagons can sell us a blanket or two,¡± he added hopefully. Jonathan paused for a moment, staring hard at the obstructed road. ¡°One little flood,¡± he declared, ¡°is not going to stop Jonathan Miller.¡± ¡°Dangerous business, crossin¡¯ water like that,¡± cautioned the driver. ¡°Ya can¡¯t know how deep it goes. I ain¡¯t riskin¡¯ my team on¡¯t.¡± Jonathan handed him a few triangular copper coins, and clapped him on the arm. ¡°Make your way back to Green Bridge,¡± he said, pulling his satchel out of the coach¡¯s boot. ¡°I¡¯m sure Veridia has another job for a prudent coachman. I¡¯m going on to Hog Hurst, and I¡¯m going to do my job. This¡ is my adventure.¡± He stumped forward gamely in the rain, trying to imagine he was on a pair of skis, gliding toward destiny. By the time he reached the edge of the water, Jonathan felt as if he¡¯d already swum across it. The rain flooded his boots, ran down his back, and crept under his shirt around the collar of the slicker. But he cheerfully waded into the dark, swirling pond, ignoring the tugging of the current around his legs. The far bank was perhaps fifty feet away, and as he strode toward it the frigid water rose to his shins, then his thighs, then (with a certain amount of cringing and shifting on Jonathan¡¯s part) over his hips, and then up to his chest. The current grew stronger as he went deeper, tugging insistently toward the main channel to the west. When it was up to his neck, Jonathan slipped. His head went under, and his world collapsed into darkness. Jonathan¡¯s feet scrambled for purchase on the slick, submerged grass, and found none. He was dragged, implacably, to one side, out toward the deep, long, dark of the Green. He tried to swim, but his heavy, sodden clothing held him down even as the current swept his feet up and away from the ground. His lungs began to burn, and his rational thought dissolved into panic. He waved his hands helplessly, in the direction he thought might be up. It¡¯s at times like this, he said to himself, that I wish I believed in God. His fingers touched something solid, and the solid thing gripped itself around his hand and pulled. He was drawn forcibly forward and up until his head breached the surface. Gasping hoarsely and spitting water, he flapped his arms uselessly and otherwise allowed himself to be propelled in whatever direction the hand wanted him to go. Soon his feet touched ground again, and then his knees. He was drawn up onto the north bank of the pond. There was a man there. He was sopping wet, just as Jonathan was. His face was clean-shaven, and his hair cut short; his age was difficult to place. The face was stern, lined with care, but also gentle and subtle. There was something familiar about the face, though in his disturbed state Jonathan could not place it. A power and authority lurked around him. Just now, though, the gravitas of his rescuer was rather ruined by the inundated state of his clothing. ¡°Who¡ are you?¡± gasped Jonathan. ¡°And what happened?¡± The man gave a slight, wry smile. ¡°You tried to walk across a wet patch in the road, and I¡¯m afraid the wet patch had other ideas. I happened to be here on the other side, and saw you were in trouble. My name, just now, in this place, is Basil.¡± Jonathan stared at the grass for a few minutes, as the rain pelted his skull. He¡¯d lost his hat in the river. ¡°Thank you,¡± he said finally. ¡°I¡¯m lucky you were here.¡± ¡°You are lucky today,¡± confirmed Basil, ¡°and we shall see how many more days your luck extends.¡± He spoke Uellish with an accent that Jonathan couldn¡¯t quite place. It tickled the sense of familiarity that gnawed at the back of his mind. ¡°Were you stopped by the flood too?¡± asked Jonathan, staggering to his feet. ¡°I¡¯d better see about hiring one of the wagons on this side. If you¡¯re going to turn around and go back, please travel with me. I¡¯ll reward you properly when we reach Far Gourd, or you can come on with me to Hog Hurst if you care to.¡± Basil rose to his feet as well. ¡°As it happens,¡± he said, ¡°I am headed that way as well. I escort a lady of high birth and refinement on a trip to conduct certain transactions in Hog Hurst.¡± Jonathan looked around. He didn¡¯t see anyone else nearby. ¡°Is she back with the coaches?¡± he asked curiously, turning his eyes to the line of southbound teams lined up at the edge of the pond. ¡°Down ¡®ere, ye git,¡± came a high-pitched voice. Jonathan felt a sharp pain in his left foot. He looked down, and saw that a six-inch-tall woman had stabbed him with what looked like a knitting needle. Then he narrowed his eyes and looked more closely at the snarf. ¡°Devi?¡± ??? Jonathan stared suspiciously over the lip of his mug at Devi Dingeholt. Her features and proportions were similar to that of a female human, though rendered at one-tenth scale. She had shoulder-length black hair, which she wore loose. That, at least, was different than Jonathan remembered her. Her complexion was still pale, and her features fair; a little narrower in the face than most Uellish, with a slight smirk perpetually dancing about her lips. She sat comfortably on an upturned beer mug. Next to it, right side up, was a second, slightly taller mug, imbued with a generous pint of the local Far Gourd nutbrown ale. From time to time, she dipped her head over the lip of the mug, slurping noisily at the amber liquid within. ¡°Carry me outside, Jonathan Miller,¡± Devi commanded unsteadily. ¡°I gotta piss.¡± Jonathan raised his eyes to the man Basil, casually slouched nearby over a bowl of soup. Basil saw his question, smiled slightly, and shrugged. ¡°Devi can go wherever she likes,¡± he answered softly in his roly-poly accent, ¡°and with whomever she likes. If she doesn¡¯t care for how you¡¯re holding her, you¡¯ll end the day with one more hole in you than when it began.¡± The tiny woman waved insistently at him, and Jonathan placed his hands in front of her, cupped slightly. ¡°Nah like that, ye twit,¡± she said, giving his thumb a hard kick. ¡°I¡¯ll fall ou¡¯ as soon as ye star¡¯ walkin¡¯. Jes¡¯ put yer hand aroun¡¯ me middle bit an¡¯ lift up. Don¡¯t squeeze ¡®ard like, or I¡¯ll ¡®url me ale on ye.¡± Jonathan carefully placed his right hand around Devi¡¯s torso. She felt surprisingly dense. ¡°Don¡¯ git any ideas, ye great clumsy oaf. Now put me on yer shoulder. I kin¡¯ hang on thar.¡± He deposited Devi onto his left shoulder, and found that she did indeed cling on tenaciously. ¡°Now keep the shruggin¡¯ to a minimum, Jonathan Miller, an¡¯ go find a bush, er somethin¡¯.¡± Jonathan located a potted geranium on the rail in front of the inn that did adequate service as a privy, and politely turned his back on the flowers while Devi rustled around among them. After a minute or two, at her command, he retrieved the tiny woman and brought her back inside the inn, replacing her gently on the upturned beer mug. ¡°Aaaaaah,¡± she exhaled, relaxing against the pewter. ¡°Volume. Ye big-folk ain¡¯t much fer quality, but I¡¯ll allow as ye¡¯ve got volume licked pretty good. I ain¡¯t seen this much strong ale in one place since I accidentally went swimmin¡¯ in Dyunald Dog-brew¡¯s vats two winters back.¡± Jonathan shook his head in wonder. ¡°You¡¯re dead,¡± he remarked. ¡°I¡¯m thirsty, is wha¡¯ I am,¡± she retorted. ¡°No, I mean, you¡¯re deceased. You were drowned. Your brother is positive he saw your body at the bottom of a rain barrel during the break-out from the White Knights, and no one¡¯s seen or heard from you since then.¡± ¡°Ye¡¯d know a thing ¡®er two about bein¡¯ drown¡¯d, wouldn¡¯t ye, Jonathan Miller,¡± she scoffed. ¡°I reckon ye could tell if someone was drown¡¯d ¡®r not, jes¡¯ from ¡®earin¡¯ a second-¡®and rumor, spok¡¯t by a¡¯ idjit.¡± ¡°Alright,¡± he apologized. ¡°Daven must have been mistaken. But you know they named the whole valley after you in memorial, right?¡± Devi gave a slow nod, eyes narrowed in smug satisfaction. ¡°And have you been back to see him?¡± Jonathan continued. ¡°He still thinks you died that day. He might appreciate being proven wrong, just this once.¡± Devi¡¯s manner changed suddenly, and she looked down at the top of the upturned mug silently for a time. ¡°¡®E don¡¯t know,¡± she said, her small voice barely audible against the background chatter of the inn¡¯s common room. Jonathan leaned his head closer to catch her words. ¡°¡®E don¡¯t know, an¡¯ ¡®e cain¡¯t know. Ye mustn¡¯t tell ¡®im, Jonathan. Promise me that, or I¡¯ll put yer eyes out in yer sleep er somethin¡¯.¡± Jonathan blinked in surprise, and cocked his head to the side. ¡°Why can¡¯t he know? Why would you keep something like that a secret?¡± ¡°¡®Cause if ¡®e knows, then ¡®t all comes out mouse-shaped.¡± ¡°I guess¡ mouse-shaped isn¡¯t good. But then why are you here, talking with me? Aren¡¯t you afraid I might tell him anyway, once you¡¯re far enough away from me that you can¡¯t stab my eyes out or poison me or something?¡± She looked up at him, tiny eyes unreadable in the dim light of the common room. ¡°Oh, ye ain¡¯t gittin¡¯ away from me that easy, Jonathan. I¡¯m comin¡¯ with ye¡ªta the Gray Kingdom at least, maybe beyond. And I¡¯m comin¡¯ with ye because if I don¡¯t, it¡¯s gonna blow past mouse-shaped and into flamin¡¯ dragon-shaped.¡± ??? They set out early the following morning, sharing a carriage that Jonathan hired in Far Gourd to convey them north on the trade road, through the Green Wood to Hog Hurst. Basil rode quietly on the bench opposite Jonathan, staring out the window and breathing deeply. Devi, who was liable to be jostled by the considerable shocks occasioned by their rapid pace, rode in a padded pouch, sewn into a strap that Basil wore across his chest. A tiny snore emerged from inside the pouch. Jonathan knew Basil now. He recalled him as one of the three odd, out-of-place strangers he¡¯d met on the road two years ago when he first set out with Cyrus and Merrily. Basil had then, like his two erstwhile companions, worn tattered, filthy rags. Now, he was dressed in a simple shirt and brown hose, tied at the waist with a brass-buckled belt. He wore an overcoat of coarse wool on top of these to keep out the increasing chill of the autumn air. ¡°What happened to your two friends?¡± asked Jonathan. ¡°We went our separate ways,¡± he said softly. ¡°Each of us has many tasks for many masters. It is not yet time for our branches to come together again.¡± Jonathan snorted. ¡°Your Uellish has improved since we first met, but you¡¯re no easier to understand.¡± Basil smiled. It was not an unfriendly smile, but nor was it friendly; it was more clinical than anything else. ¡°Every word we speak, Jonathan, is a shot fired forward into time. Its consequences are difficult to see, but must never be discounted. I am cautious with the discharge of such potent weapons.¡± ¡°Just who are you shooting at?¡± Jonathan pressed. Basil¡¯s smile broadened. ¡°At the enemy, of course,¡± he answered. Devi, waking briefly from her nap, interjected in her small, piercing voice. ¡°Dinnae bandy words wi¡¯ this one. You¡¯ll never beat ¡®im at triple-half-meanin¡¯ an¡¯ evasion. ¡®E loves nothin¡¯ more than actin¡¯ smug an¡¯ all-knowin¡¯. I¡¯s jes an act. He lays down a foul shite in the woods, jes like the rest o¡¯ us.¡± ¡°Right on all counts but one, my friend,¡± answered Basil, his face growing serious. ¡°The things that I love are far beyond myself.¡± The carriage passed under the eaves of the Green Wood in the mid-morning, and they rode in silence for most of the long, dark traverse of the ancient forest. Jonathan, staring moodily at the great boles of the trees on either side, tried to remember the spot where, two years ago, they had left the path, groping in the dark for signs of Cyrus Stoat¡¯s missing postman, Michael Rider. His thoughts drifted to Merrily, as they always did if left untended. He returned in his mind to those glorious early days of their love, and his own near-disbelief at the astounding fact that she could love him as much as he loved her. But that road led where it always led¡ªto Merrily today, to her increasing cold and distance, to the creeping but inevitable conclusion that he was losing her. He longed for a distraction, but between the somnolent Devi and her obscure companion, none was on offer. Late that afternoon they emerged into the cleared land around Hog Hurst, to its tidy farms and cozy fields of wheat and barley, and to a rich harvest of bittersweet memories. ??? Jonathan dropped Devi and Basil at Hog Hurst¡¯s old inn an hour after sundown, but he himself went on to the factor house to check in on the Snugg dispatches. The darkened streets of the little village were paved with new cobblestones, and three-story buildings of recent construction ringed the broad trading square. The square itself was well lit with oil lamps, which extended out into the smaller roads farther from the village center. The roads had been revised and straightened considerably; Veridia had very definite ideas about how a Snugg trading center should be laid out, and the old, narrow, winding alleys of the village did not conform to them. The transformation had involved a great deal of cash outlay to buy up old homes along the village streets, tear them down, and then re-build them to be sold back to their previous owners at a discount, leaving room for broad avenues and tidy right angles.This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Hog Hurst was, in fact, nearly unrecognizable from the sleepy village of Jonathan¡¯s childhood. But he had to concede that its present form was far more organized and navigable, both for the Snugg caravanners that came and went with more frequency, and also for the residents themselves, whose numbers had been swollen with new arrivals. He wondered, as he often did, if the gains outweighed what had been lost. Judging by the very few complaints that reached his desk, the consensus among his neighbors was in favor. But Jonathan pondered whether that was, in fact, the right metric. The Snugg factor house stood just off the main square, at the front of a cavernous warehouse that was accessible both from the square and from a broad, open track behind that led out of town, as straight as an arrow, to the east. A guard in a dark uniform with the Snugg ¡°S¡± patch on his shoulder nodded politely to Jonathan and opened the door. He ascended to his office on the third floor, where he was surprised to see a light emanating from beneath the door. Jonathan stopped and listened carefully. There was a faint shuffling from within. Someone was inside. He opened the door swiftly, without knocking. It was, after all, his own office. Inside, a small man in a rumpled shirt sat with his feet up on the oak desk, his face obscured by a large sheet of paper from which he appeared to be reading silently. A shock of red hair was visible over the top of paper, and a narrow-brimmed felt hat that was not Jonathan¡¯s sat on the table by the feet. At Jonathan¡¯s entrance, the paper was lowered, and the small man¡¯s clean-shaved face appeared above it. Jonathan stood up a little straighter upon seeing his guest. ¡°Good evening, Mr. Snugg,¡± he said, trying to mask his surprise. Rufus Snugg crinkled his face into a mock-scowl, and he waved the paper irritably at Jonathan. ¡°Just ¡®Rufus,¡¯ Jonathan. I insist on familiarity with my people. We are a family, we merchant adventurers; we must not turn into another Ecclesia. And also, it¡¯s much harder to hide incompetence and disloyalty once you strip away all the mindless formalism and fake deference.¡± Jonathan shrugged. ¡°As you wish, Rufus. Kindly get your feet off my desk.¡± Rufus Snugg gave a barking laugh. ¡°Ha! Well done. We¡¯ll make a robber baron of you yet.¡± He took his feet off the table and stood up, shaking Jonathan¡¯s hand warmly and relocating to one of the padded guest chairs on the other side. Jonathan seated himself in the chair recently occupied by the young merchant scion. ¡°What brings you to Hog Hurst?¡± he inquired politely. ¡°I thought you were overseeing the project at Devi Valley.¡± Saying the name aloud gave him pause for a moment, but he concluded that there was no need, for now, to break her confidence. ¡°Coal,¡± Rufus answered abruptly. ¡°We are doing great things out there, my friend. Great things there, and here as well. I trust you¡¯re aware of what¡¯s going on in the warehouse behind us.¡± He nodded at an open window along one wall of the office, looking down into the vast open space of the warehouse below, out of direct sight from where the two of them sat in the center of the room. ¡°It will change the world, and make us all colossally rich along the way. And even that may not be the greatest progress we can achieve in our lifetimes. There are ideas, designs, discoveries, all waiting to burst out from the halls you found at Devi Valley. It¡¯s a treasure hoard like none ever found before. But all of those great things need energy, Jonathan, and infrastructure; progress has a great appetite for both. Right now, that means coal. The coal is here, and we need it to be there.¡± Jonathan sighed, looking down at the polished, stained oak tabletop under his hands. ¡°You¡¯re here about that, then,¡± he said, slightly miserably. ¡°Miss Snipe has been on me about the coal shipments for the last month. Something¡¯s gone mouse-shaped in the Gray Kingdom.¡± Rufus raised one red eyebrow. ¡°Have you been keeping company with snarfs, Jonathan?¡± he asked in amusement. ¡°You sound like Daven Dingeholt. Who, by the way, is one of the most irritating landlords I¡¯ve ever met. I knew it was a mistake to hire a lawyer for him. I never should have let Miss Snipe talk me into it.¡± Now it was Jonathan¡¯s turn to smile, relieved to change the subject. ¡°I see your taste for informality doesn¡¯t extend to our operations chief,¡± he remarked slyly. Rufus looked around with sudden caution. ¡°Is she here?¡± he asked. Satisfied that she was not, he went on. ¡°Since I have no concerns about either Miss Snipe¡¯s competence or loyalty, I¡¯m prepared to indulge a few personal quirks. Now look, Jonathan,¡± he said, waving the paper at him. Jonathan saw that it was this week¡¯s ciphered inventory report. ¡°Look. I¡¯m prepared to accept a certain amount of inconsistency from our friends in the Gray Kingdom. One doesn¡¯t transform an entire culture in a single year. King Simon has done remarkable work. But coal output has plummeted! Something must be done, Jonathan. Do they need more labor? Perhaps expert assistance from our people? It can all be provided.¡± He laid the paper down and leaned forward toward Jonathan, resting his elbows on the table. ¡°It may be,¡± he added, his voice lowered, ¡°that our neighbors aren¡¯t yet ready for the challenges of large-scale industry. Perhaps it would be better for them if they were given more time to grow and develop; to raise the literacy rate, for instance, and to have more of their people educated in Green Bridge. We could take over operation of the coal mines temporarily with our own staff, and relocate the goblins to someplace safer, out of the way. Give them time and space to work things out for themselves.¡± Jonathan swallowed. The words sounded pleasant enough, but something inside him screamed in protest. ¡°I think,¡± he said cautiously, ¡°we¡¯d better find out from King Simon just what the trouble is, before anyone starts making plans for mass relocation.¡± Rufus rose to his feet. ¡°Just so,¡± he agreed, and Jonathan felt a wash of relief. Rufus walked over to the long window that looked down over the warehouse interior. Jonathan stood up and joined him. The huge floor below was lit with regular oil lamps. A bank of fining eggs stood along the north wall, and workshops dotted the floor. At this hour, most of the workers had gone home, though a few guards still patrolled the floor. In the center of the warehouse, a large scaffolding obscured a long, hulking shape set on a pair of tracks. The tracks led to two broad doors on rollers at the far end of the space. Heat, and the acrid smell of coal smoke, wafted up to bathe Jonathan¡¯s face. The forges were banked for the night, but they were still hot. Jonathan had seen models and prototypes, but what was coming together now, beneath the scaffolding, was the real thing. It was a closely guarded secret; the workers, brought in from Green Bridge, were subject to the most fearsome contracts of non-disclosure and were housed in a private barracks next door to the warehouse. Jonathan himself hadn¡¯t even discussed the project with Merrily¡ªthough in fairness, her rapidly cooling attitude hadn¡¯t left him many opportunities to do so. There was a gleam of steel beneath the scaffolding, caught by the light of the oil lamps. The twin rails, too, gleamed in the dim light. ¡°It will change the world, my friend,¡± said Rufus, his voice soft with awe at the steel monster below them. ??? In the faint gray light before dawn on the tenth of October, Jonathan made his way to the lonely cemetery north of Hog Hurst. He wore a broad hat and oil slicker against the rain, and carried a small lantern to light his way. More than half the grave markers were freshly hewn and un-weathered. These recent placements were monuments, not only to the individual dead, but also to the village¡¯s struggle against its occupiers two winters prior. Jonathan walked along the dim rows until he came to one stone in particular. Its form, like those of its neighbors, was rather irregular, salvaged as they were from the ancient ruins that dotted the forests around the village. Faint, flowing etchings could still be seen in the stone from some long-dead hand, but a more recent carving stood out prominently on top of them. The new carving consisted of merely a name and a date. It read:
George Miller March 1, III Leeland:14Jonathan squatted down on his heels and brushed away fallen orange leaves from a nearby maple tree. He stayed that way for many minutes, saying nothing, lost in a damp reverie. ¡°What was the point?¡± he asked at last, in a soft, conversational tone. ¡°Why did you live? You never told me.¡± He shifted his legs, sitting down with his face still to the grave. ¡°Was it to run a mill? Make money? Get married? Raise a family?¡± George made no response. ¡°What did all that mean,¡± he went on, ¡°in the end, when some maniac crusader crushed your chest in with a mace?¡± ¡°Perhaps,¡± said a voice nearby, ¡°it was all a poorly conceived joke.¡± Jonathan started to his feet at the interruption, and saw a figure sitting on a nearby gravestone, wearing a cloak and hat like his own. The figure slid to its feet and walked close by. Jonathan raised the lantern to see its face, and then opened his eyes wider in recognition. ¡°Victor Hogman,¡± he greeted the man. ¡°What are you doing here?¡± ¡°Would you believe I was visiting my own father¡¯s grave?¡± ¡°I wouldn¡¯t, actually,¡± answered Jonathan. ¡°It¡¯s five o¡¯clock in the morning on a rainy day in October. The chances we¡¯d both coincidentally pick this time to pay our respects to the dead are about as good as those of Cyrus Stoat showing up with both legs.¡± A faint smile lit up Victor¡¯s plain face, obscured slightly through a short beard. Beneath the heavy cloak, Jonathan that saw a small, silver pendant hung from his neck. It was of two lines crossed at right angles, with a small circle set at their center. ¡°There are no coincidences, Jonathan,¡± he said, still smiling. ¡°Fine,¡± replied Jonathan. ¡°You could have just made an appointment at the Snugg office, but instead you followed me here to perch on a gravestone when I wasn¡¯t looking and make a dramatic appearance. I hope whatever you have to say to me is worth the discomfort. But if it¡¯s not, I won¡¯t be terribly disappointed.¡± Victor turned and looked down the row of graves. ¡°My father¡¯s grave is, actually, nearby. Come take a look with me?¡± Jonathan shrugged and followed along after him. They stopped, after perhaps a half-dozen sites, before a similarly plain marker. This one bore the inscription:
Albert Hogman June 11, III Leeland:14Victor gazed down at the marker. ¡°Father dropped dead that June, after the White Knights,¡± he remarked. ¡°I¡¯m told Mother found him face down outside the hog pen. Fortunate he wasn¡¯t inside, or there¡¯d have been nothing left to bury.¡± He looked up at Jonathan. ¡°I wasn¡¯t invited to the funeral,¡± he added. ¡°I think,¡± said Jonathan carefully, ¡°that if you¡¯d been at the funeral, they¡¯d have had an extra body to put in the ground. People were angry with you, Victor, for working with the White Knights.¡± He expected some gesture of shame from Victor, but none was forthcoming. Instead, the other man held his gaze levelly. ¡°I¡¯m not proud of what I did,¡± he said. ¡°I was wrong. I had reasons, but the reasons were wrong too. And I¡¯ve paid, Jonathan. I haven¡¯t seen my wife or daughters since that night in the barn, when you let me go. I pay every day.¡± ¡°Is that why you joined the Advocates?¡± asked Jonathan. ¡°To do penance?¡± Victor¡¯s hand crept up to finger the small silver pendant. ¡°I follow Ash,¡± he answered, ¡°because She is right, in every way that the White Knights were wrong.¡± ¡°Why is Ash right?¡± asked Jonathan. ¡°You people love to creep around making dramatic appearances and telling anyone who¡¯ll listen that Ash loves them. But as far as I can tell, no one¡¯s ever said anything about who Ash is or what she wants from anybody.¡± ¡°Why do you suppose,¡± responded Victor, ¡°that She wants anything at all from us?¡± Jonathan snorted. ¡°Gods always want something, Victor. At least, the people who speak for them do. They want sacrifices, or obedience, or money, or for everyone to follow these ten rules, or to kill the infidels, or whatever else.¡± ¡°I think Cyrus Stoat has made a surprise appearance after all,¡± said Victor with a broader smile. ¡°With two legs, no less.¡± Then he turned back to his father¡¯s grave, and the smile faded. ¡°Albert Hogman lived a long life, and he kept pigs well. He led people, in a small way, in a small village. He loved his family. And he died feeding the pigs. Why does there have to be anything more to it?¡± ¡°Did you come all the way out here in the rain just to tell me that?¡± asked Jonathan. ¡°There¡¯s a certain poetry to your pointlessness. Next time you want to give a sermon, save yourself the trouble and come by the office. I promise we won¡¯t hand you over to the authorities, just for showing up.¡± ¡°I appreciate the invitation,¡± replied his companion, ¡°but I¡¯m needed elsewhere. I know you¡¯re not well disposed to me, Jonathan, and I regret that. But actually, the reason I walked out here in the rain was to thank you for saving my life that night. Had you not drawn the men away and freed me, I¡¯d have been killed by my own father. I came to repay the debt.¡± ¡°And how are you going to do that?¡± asked Jonathan. Victor turned and began to walk away; but as he did, he looked back at Jonathan. ¡°I already have,¡± he replied, as the faint smile returned to his bearded lips. And with that he left Jonathan alone in the cemetery. ??? Just half an hour later¡ªwith scant more light, but no less rain¡ªJonathan crossed the Green River in a canoe rented from Jeremiah Fisher. The garrulous fish-monger, at least, had not yet changed with the times. He could be heard snoring in a small, cozy hut next to his even smaller dock, letting the rack of canoes rent themselves. Jonathan, smiling to himself, dropped a square, silver bottom in the clay jar by the door and hefted a canoe off the rack. Little else about the waterfront was left unchanged by the march of progress. Three newer, larger docks jutted out into the Green River just downstream. Two of these were presently occupied by enormous Snugg river barges. A broad log ramp had been constructed further upstream, allowing the trunks harvested on the far side to be floated across and then drawn up to be processed at the mill that gave Jonathan¡¯s family their name. On the far side of the river, too, a series of wharfs had sprung up, and river traffic between the two banks was brisk¡ªeven with reduced coal output. A strip of the land on the east bank had been cleared of most trees, though at the strenuous urging of Alice Miller a smattering of the tallest and broadest had been left in place. (Mrs. Miller, who was well-read, seemed to feel that it was morally abhorrent to cut down all the trees on a piece of land. As she had taken her late husband¡¯s place on the Board of Selectmen, no one saw much profit in arguing with her.) On the eastern bank, Jonathan spoke with the Snugg dock attendant, only to discover that all the wagons that normally plied the new road out to the Gray Kingdom had already departed for the day. So instead of hitching a ride, as he¡¯d planned, he set off along the road on foot, trudging stolidly through the rain. Soon enough the cleared strip came to an end. Here, the new road wound into and around the deep, endless, vaulted dungeon that was the forest beyond the frontier. So far as anyone in Hog Hurst knew, the trees went on to the end of the world, and then kept going. Fortunately, the Gray Kingdom was considerably closer than the end of the world. Jonathan and his mother had first discovered the tribes by accident, pursuing Merrily and Cyrus as they chased after the Witherfork Surveys. The road that Jonathan followed now¡ªwhere once there hadn¡¯t been so much as a rabbit run¡ªwas a testament to the transformation of the forest goblins, no less than of their neighbors to the east. They were miners now, and builders, and traders. There were those among them, the quiet ones, who were perhaps more. There were also those among them who were considerably less. All this rattled through Jonathan¡¯s head as he squelched alone through the damp understory of the forest. When he judged it to be mid-morning, he paused, sat down heavily under one tastelessly enormous trunk, and fished about in his sack for a bit of bread that he¡¯d stolen from the mill kitchen that morning. Something in the bag bit his hand. He withdrew the hand hastily and peered inside, fearful of seeing some dreadful spider or rat, or perhaps a miniature snorl. What he saw, instead, was Devi Dingeholt, brandishing her pin-like lance and fixing him with a fearsome glare. ¡°Watch where yer gropin¡¯, ye pervert,¡± she pronounced. Jonathan glared back. ¡°If you¡¯d not stowed away in my sack,¡± he retorted, ¡°there¡¯d have been no groping. What possessed you to sleep in there? Now I¡¯m going to have to go all the way back and send you across the river¡ª¡± ¡°Ye¡¯ll do no such thing, Jonathan Miller,¡± the six-inch tall woman interrupted sternly. ¡°Ye¡¯ll put on th¡¯ saddle I brought along fer ya an¡¯ keep on yer way.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll do no such no such thing,¡± he retorted. ¡°I¡¯m going to the Gray Kingdom, and some of the citizens there haven¡¯t quite got the message that it¡¯s bad form to eat food that talks. You¡¯ll make a quick morning snack for any goblin the catches you alone and thinks no one¡¯s looking.¡± ¡°Ye will do such no such no such thing,¡± she replied furiously, ¡°or else I¡¯ll insert this ¡®ere lance in the last place ye want it, at the last time ye expect it.¡± Jonathan, who had by now quite lost track of the lengthening parade of negatives, but in whose mind the prospect of being molested by an undead snarf now loomed like some deranged allegory for the futility of reason, blinked. Rain dripped down the back of his neck, and he shivered. ¡°Fine,¡± he said. ¡°But quit stabbing me.¡± ¡°No promises,¡± she smirked. ¡°Sometimes a new mount needs ta¡¯ feel th¡¯ spur. Now put on yer saddle an¡¯ giddyup.¡± Jonathan lifted her gently out of the satchel, set her on the ground, and fished about until he located the sash and pouch that Basil had worn on the carriage ride. ¡°Where¡¯s your last mount?¡± he inquired. Devi, who until now had been irritatingly jocular, looked suddenly askance. ¡°¡®E ¡®ad business,¡± was all she would say. Jonathan abandoned both resistance and reason as manifestly futile. He shrugged on the sash, placed Devi inside the pouch, and walked on deeper into the endless forest. ??? In the vast, deep hall beneath ancient trees, Jonathan crept like an ant among gods. The dusk, earlier now in October, had come on before he reached the ill-defined borders of the Gray Kingdom, and he had brought no lantern with him. As Devi snored softly in her pouch, Jonathan fumbled along the road, navigating slowly by the fading light. The rain continued. No moon or stars, even filtered through gaps in the high canopy, would help him. He considered bedding down under one of the trees, but the prospect of sleeping unsheltered in the near-freezing night temperatures, in dripping rain, seemed likely to prove fatal. Only lesser and greater darkness served to mark the massive arboreal pillars; towering kings in the underworld. Shapes moved around him. They were indistinguishable, unseeable, but horribly real. They moved with him, dancing and hunting. An insistent memory tugged at his mind, but he set it aside. He gave the pouch a gentle shake. Devi¡¯s snoring continued, interrupted only briefly by a muttered curse. The shapes drew closer around him, and panic with them. He raced forward in the darkness, blindly groping ahead of him with outstretched hands. ¡°Merrily!¡± he cried out in the black. Why he did this, he could not say later. It was an alien, unnatural act, within a forest like this. The sound of his cry stopped harshly after it left his lips, absorbed by the darkness. He dashed forward again, and the shapes drew still closer. In his haste, he tripped on a root, and plunged headlong into a tree. Lights danced in his vision. The shapes drew around him, and he saw bulging eyes set over wide mouths filled with too many teeth. There was a soft, hissing purr, as a squat humanoid form emerged from the primordial blobs of the shapes. It spoke words he could not understand, in a low, strangely-accented purr. And it opened its mouth wide above him. Then a faint shadow stole over the top of its head, and there was the tiniest glint of metal. The eyes became distant, and the wide mouth closed. The body dropped onto Jonathan¡¯s chest. The other shapes around him began to rustle and shiver with activity, and he saw the tiny shadow dart among them, leaping from head to head, body to body. The tiny metal glint darted in and out, plunging into their forms as they fell to the ground, quivering. A tumult of angry, fearful voices arose from them, and suddenly the dark shapes were gone. Jonathan lay beneath the one that had fallen on him, panic denying him even enough will to struggle out from beneath it. ¡°Git yerself together, Jonathan Miller,¡± came a high-pitched voice, apparently quite near to his head. These words restored a modicum of rational thought to his mind, and he pushed the limp body off himself. It was a goblin. Other, faintly-seen gray humps on the ground around him were also goblins. Their peculiar hats, each filled with oddities and small treasures, were scattered about on the ground. The voices of the survivors could be heard, shrieking and cackling, as they retreated off into the distance. ¡°Devi?¡± he inquired. ¡°Nay,¡± said the voice, ¡°I¡¯s th¡¯ queen o¡¯ Big Folks, come ta¡¯ make sweet love ta¡¯ ye. Now bend over.¡± Jonathan declined this invitation, but instead struggled to his feet. Seeing little in the dim light, he put his hands on the ground and felt Devi climb into them. He lifted her up gently to bring her near his face. ¡°What happened?¡± he asked. ¡°This is why yer girl got bored wi¡¯ ye,¡± remarked Devi sarcastically. ¡°Ye¡¯re the ¡¯sort o¡¯ git who asks ¡®What happened¡¯ when th¡¯ answer¡¯s obvious as a turd in th¡¯ street. Bunch o¡¯ grayskins jumped ye. Ye¡¯d ¡®ave been et up by now, too, ¡®ad that not ¡®ave caused a damned inconvenience ta¡¯ me.¡± Jonathan snorted and tucked Devi back into the pouch. ¡°You¡¯ve been spending too much time with Basil,¡± he remarked. ¡°Do you know where the road is? I seem to have run off it.¡± ¡°Not a clue,¡± replied his diminutive savior. ¡°I only woke up when ye fell o¡¯er an¡¯ nearly squashed me.¡± Jonathan cast about in futile desperation. All around him was blackness. The rain was increasing, and an uncontrollable shiver had set in. He knew well that if he did not find shelter soon, he would likely die in the night from exposure. ¡°This is impossible,¡± he muttered. ¡°Goblins don¡¯t run around in gangs and try to kill people anymore. King Simon¡¯s taught them not to.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll call that lot back, if ye¡¯d like ta¡¯ explain¡¯ it to ¡¯em,¡± offered Devi. Jonathan, who had nothing to say to this, sat down on the ground miserably beneath a tree. A faint sound in the vast silence of the forest caught his attention, and his eyes darted in its direction. Far off, through the enormous trunks that surrounded him, there was a flicker of light. ¡°There¡¯s a light,¡± he said softly to Devi. ¡°Wha¡¯ ¡®ave I told ye about recitin¡¯ th¡¯ bleedin¡¯ obvious?¡± she criticized. ¡°Go toward th¡¯ light, Jonathan Miller. It¡¯s what ¡®eros always do in yer stories, ain¡¯t it?¡± He began to follow this advice, staggering blindly through the understory in the direction from which he thought he¡¯d caught the glimpse of light. ¡°Am I a hero?¡± he asked Devi. ¡°Ah very much doubt it,¡± she opined. ¡°I don¡¯t feel like a hero,¡± he agreed, stumbling over another tree root in the rain. ¡°I haven¡¯t done anything heroic in ages. I think I¡¯m a minor side character, lost alone in the woods and about to die horribly to give some emotional heft to the main plot. People only pay attention to the main characters if they think there¡¯s some chance they¡¯ll die off. So your cheap, lazy storytellers always kill off a character or two early on, just so the audience pays attention to all the rest of them.¡± ¡°All fair points,¡± she agreed. ¡°If this were a story, ye¡¯d be a waste o¡¯ good words. I, on th¡¯ other hand, would be an epic ¡®ero, returned from th¡¯ dead ta¡¯ wreak me vengeance on unsuspectin¡¯ enemies.¡± ¡°I thought you never died,¡± pointed out Jonathan. ¡°We¡¯re talkin¡¯ in th¡¯ abstract,¡± she said huffily. ¡°Narrative archetypes an¡¯ linguistic tropes. I reckon I¡¯s th¡¯ big mystery ¡®at¡¯s s¡¯posed ta¡¯ keep folks listenin¡¯ along ta¡¯ whatever shabby twit is spinnin¡¯ ¡®is yarn out.¡± ¡°I think you¡¯re the comic relief.¡± ¡°Thar¡¯s the light,¡± said Devi. ¡°I reckon that means we¡¯re ¡®eaded toward a cliff-¡®anger.¡± And indeed, the light had drawn closer. It flickered, in the way of firelight; and this, it turned out, was because it was the light of a fire. The blaze was set in a hole dug in the ground, partly sheltered from the rain by an overhang. The tops of the flames licked out, casting the light that he had spotted through the trees. A large tent was set back from the fire, with a log drawn near to serve for a seat. A small wild pig was roasting on a spit just over the hole, but no one seemed to be nearby either to sit on the log or turn the spit. ¡°This is the sort o¡¯ scene,¡± remarked Devi, ¡°¡®at¡¯s usually followed by a giant sword ¡®er somethin¡¯, comin¡¯ out of th¡¯ darkness all unseen to rest at yer throats, ¡®eld by a great beastly creature ¡®at got the drop on ye in th¡¯ dark as ye wandered toward its fire.¡± And so it was. Chapter 36: Jonathan Miller, God of Murder October 10th The sword at Jonathan¡¯s throat was ten feet long, and held in place, with as little effort as if it were a ten-foot feather, by a well-muscled arm. The arm, though it was shapely, was also a solid six feet long, and attached to a woman twice that measure in height. Jonathan first saw that it was a woman when her face emerged substantially above his own, looking down at him while still holding the edge of her blade in position to sever his head from his body with a quick twitch. She had blonde hair that was cut rather raggedly below the length of her shoulders, pale blue eyes, and a fair, even beautiful face. But it terrified him all the same, being roughly twice the right size for a face of his own kind. Jonathan did his best to look pitiful and un-threatening, evidently with some success. The blade was withdrawn from his throat, and the giant woman moved around to stand before him. She lowered the point of the sword slightly¡ªits mass must have been twice his own¡ªand regarded him thoughtfully. ¡°I am Fiond,¡± she said, her Uellish tinged by a heavy, unfamiliar accent. ¡°Run not, or I will you slay.¡± It was not the strangest event of Jonathan¡¯s week. Seeing that he was shivering and weak from the cold, the perplexing giant woman sheathed her sword and set it aside, motioning for him to come close to the fire. Jonathan slumped down next to it, soaking up the welcome heat even as the spitting rain continued to wet his head and shoulders. Fiond produced a large cloak of a fine canvas material¡ªsimilar to one she wore herself¡ªand laid it over him, sheltering him from the downpour. It had a strange, oily smell to it, but kept the water out marvelously. They sat in silence for many minutes, Fiond slowly turning the spit and Jonathan sitting as close as he dared to the flames as feeling slowly returned to his numb fingers and toes. He sneezed, and then sneezed again. ¡°Drink,¡± said the giant, handing him a flask. Jonathan sniffed carefully and took a sip, finding it to be a pleasing, sweet cordial with a hot after-taste that warmed him from the inside. ¡°Hey, lemmee have some!¡± came Devi¡¯s high-pitched voice from the pouch. She held out a tiny mug, and he carefully poured out a single drop of the liquid, then handed the flask back to Fiond. Fiond looked sharply at the tiny person¡ªeven smaller in proportion to her own towering height¡ªbut said nothing of it. ¡°Take clothes off,¡± instructed his host. ¡°Sit by fire. Wet and cold will you kill.¡± Jonathan, finding sense in the oddly-phrased suggestion, struggled piecemeal out of his wet clothing, trying and failing to maintain a degree of modesty beneath the oversized canvas cloak. Devi giggled, but Fiond¡¯s face remained impassive. Naked but for the cloak, he let the heat of the fire revive mind and body. Finally he felt safe enough, and warm enough, to ask a question. ¡°What are you?¡± ¡°I am Fiond,¡± she answered, poking the roasting pig on it spit. ¡°Yes, but what? I¡¯ve never seen anything like you.¡± She sighed. ¡°Sir Richard named us giant-man.¡± Jonathan stared at her, his mind slowly putting the pieces together. ¡°Sir Richard¡ of Enderly?¡± Fiond nodded, her face etched with terrible sadness. Miss Snipe¡¯s terse statement of the facts of the murder bubbled up to his mind. Mr. Gorp was killed by a religious lunatic named Robert of Gorham, she had said. Gorham was acting at the direction of Sir Richard of Enderly, a Crown Knight who Hobb the Wise banished two years ago. And Sir Richard, if my reports are correct, has either succumbed to profound and charismatic insanity, or else has become the tool of something calling itself ¡®God,¡¯ the true nature of which, I confess, is wholly unknown to me. He thought, too, of the changes in Merrily since Rolly¡¯s murder. ¡°How did you come to be here?¡± he asked. ¡°And where is Sir Richard of Enderly now?¡± ¡°I know not where is Sir Richard,¡± she answered, beginning to carve the flank of the roasted pig. ¡°I followed him to here with friend. Guillam was his name. A man who traveled with Sir Richard was he. Gray people took friend since five moon. I seek friend Guillam now. Sir Richard crossed big river, and I see him not.¡± Fiond¡¯s simple, halting words were at odds with the depth of intelligence and emotion in her face. She moved, too, with the grace and purpose of a trained warrior. This was no simpleton. She watched him closely, her frigid blue eyes willing him to understand through the limits of their shared speech. He nodded slowly. ¡°You followed Sir Richard here with a friend, but the goblins captured your friend about five months ago. Now you¡¯re searching for him, and lost Sir Richard.¡± She handed him a large slab of roast pig on a broad metal plate. The plate also contained cooked wild carrots and potatoes, and a bunch of fresh parsley. Jonathan ate the hot food awkwardly, singing his fingers and tongue, but it warmed him and restored his strength. The sneezes had stopped. His host said little else, and Jonathan asked no more questions. That he had been killed neither by exposure nor the enormous sword seemed so strange he couldn¡¯t quite bring himself to challenge it. Devi nibbled at the food, giving him sidelong and inscrutable looks. He was too weary to work them out. Fiond let him sleep in the tent that night as his clothes hung under a canvas shelter by the fire. There was a warm, oversized bedroll that smelled like her, and a huge heap of steel armor in one corner that he discovered only when he tripped over it. Devi curled up in a tiny blanket in her pouch. As they were both falling into sleep, the snarf woman asked a question. ¡°What¡¯re ye gonna do now?¡± She asked the question like it mattered. He opened his eyes and stared up at the darkness in the tent. ¡°I¡¯m going to find Sir Richard of Enderly,¡± he said, his mind hazy and half-asleep, ¡°and I¡¯m going to kill him.¡± ??? The next morning, Fiond was nowhere to be seen at the camp, though her belongings were still present. Yesterday¡¯s driving rain had slacked to a cold, light drizzle, and Jonathan gratefully retrieved his dry clothes from beneath the shelter by the fire. Looking around helplessly for his absent host, he reluctantly resolved to move on and try to reach the Gray Kingdom this morning. With a pencil and sheet of hemp paper from the sealed oilskin pouch that he kept under his coat, Jonathan wrote out a short note.
Dear Fiond¡ªDevi and I are most grateful for your kindness and shelter. I, at least, owe you my life. If you will find me at the Snugg offices in Hog Hurst or Green Bridge, I shall repay you properly. In sincerity, your friend, Jonathan Miller.The road leading west to the Gray Kingdom was approximately where he¡¯d left it the previous night as he fled the grayskin ambushers. Carrying Devi in the pouch and sash¡ªand politely enduring a steady stream of her lilting curses at the cold, damp weather¡ªhe trudged stolidly along the track, keeping a careful watch on the shadows of the immense boles on either side. But no new ambush party awaited him, and when he next saw a goblin, it was a familiar and welcome figure. ¡°Hello Emily,¡± he greeted the watcher in her tree platform overlooking the border crossing. She peered at him through a pair of oversized spectacles, and then shimmied down the rope from the platform to the ground. She was short even for her diminutive race, with light gray skin and surprisingly delicate features. Emily was not a Quiet One, but rather a goblin of the rank and file that had taken with enthusiasm to the benefits of the newly-imported Uellish culture¡ªand, in particular, to its ready supply of sandwiches and beer. Jonathan knew her from border encounters on several previous trips. ¡°Good morning, Jonathan Miller,¡± she greeted him. Her Uellish was lightly accented, but carefully precise. ¡°You are welcome in the Gray Kingdom. And I am glad to see you. There has been trouble.¡± He looked at her sharply. ¡°What kind of trouble?¡± ¡°King Simon is gone,¡± she said bluntly, ¡°and Mrs. Miller has been taken by the Old Teeth.¡± Jonathan struggled to absorb that. ¡°Which problem ye ginna solve fairst, Jonathan?¡± asked Devi intently. ¡°The one involving my mother being taken by¡ who are the Old Teeth?¡± Emily peered curiously at the snarf, but quickly turned her gaze back to Jonathan. ¡°They prefer the old ways,¡± she answered. ¡°A gang, Mrs. Miller called them. She said it is a thing that happens to humans sometimes too. They have gone feral.¡± He pondered this. ¡°Did they hurt my mother?¡± he asked. Emily shrugged. ¡°I do not know. I heard they grabbed her from the classroom. Globclaw himself was there. He told them what to do.¡± ¡°Who is Globclaw?¡± Emily¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°The big boss,¡± she said, in a tone that dripped with disgust. ¡°When King Simon was here, Globclaw bowed to his face and whispered bad things behind his back. He took some of us who still thought and spoke in the old goblin ways, and moved them to the caves of the Bloody Teeth tribe. They had been empty, since King Simon brought us together. When he left¡ Globclaw stopped whispering. He played King Simon¡¯s drums, and stole his crown, and made some of us think he was the new King. He took those who believed him off into the old Bloody Teeth caves. They are there now. And so is Mrs. Miller.¡± Jonathan shook his head in confusion. ¡°Wait. King Simon left? Where did he go, and when is he coming back?¡± The look of disgust on Emily¡¯s face transformed into one of deep sorrow. ¡°I do not know the answer to either question, Jonathan. One day he was gone. It was on the fourteenth of September when I heard. I think he left the day before.¡± ¡°Then who¡¯s in charge?¡± asked Jonathan, struggling with growing shock. ¡°Who¡¯s teaching and leading the music and organizing the coal mining¡ and making sure people don¡¯t eat each other?¡± She looked around cautiously, as if a hostile listener might be lurking among the huge trees. ¡°No one does those things,¡± she said softly. ¡°The Quiet Ones have tried to keep the peace, and keep us all working together. They make food and give out beer and lead the singing. But they are not King Simon, and others do not follow them so easily. They are quiet. No one plays the drums like he did.¡± Jonathan thought about that. ¡°We need to find The Gizzard,¡± he concluded. ¡°He was always loyal to Simon, but never quite civilized either.¡± He looked down at Devi and smiled confidently. ¡°The Gizzard will help us get everything sorted out.¡± ¡°He¡¯s with the Old Teeth,¡± Emily informed him ruefully. Jonathan took a deep breath. ¡°Shit,¡± he concluded. ??? Jonathan walked to the small enclave of the Gray Kingdom set aside for Snugg coal wagons, and found that here, at least, business continued as normal. The drivers, their wagons parked and waiting while teams of goblin laborers loaded them with sacks of coal from the mines below, shrugged nonchalantly when Jonathan questioned them about the goings-on in the settlement. The grayskins were always wild, they said. They were savages, after all. If output was down, it just went to show that they couldn¡¯t be expected to operate the mines properly. One burly, mustached driver went so far as to predict¡ªapparently forgetting who he was talking to¡ªthat Snugg would take over the whole operation by the spring. Jonathan corrected him firmly. ¡°We will not,¡± he said, ¡°be taking over anything. This land belongs to the people who live on it. Keep talking like that, and I¡¯ll make a note of it in your record.¡± The man only smirked. ¡°Go ahead,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯d be pleased. When your boss realizes it¡¯s the only way to get what she needs, I¡¯d like her to know I thought of it first.¡± Irked, Jonathan stalked away toward the large construction site at the edge of the settlement, pretending to scribble something on the papers in his oilskin pouch. ¡°I reckon it¡¯ll come ta tha¡¯,¡± remarked Devi from her pouch. ¡°¡®Tis the same ol¡¯ story o¡¯er an¡¯ o¡¯er. Thems as got bigger muscle an¡¯ bigger swords talks nice ¡®til ¡®t¡¯ain¡¯t convenient-like; an¡¯ then talkin¡¯ turns ta¡¯ takin¡¯. Same ¡®ere as in the valley.¡± ¡°What do you know about the valley?¡± asked Jonathan. ¡°You haven¡¯t been around. Snugg¡¯s treated the snarfs honorably.¡± ¡°Ain¡¯t I been aroun¡¯?¡± she asked. ¡°Maybe ye ought ta¡¯ go see fer yerself whether them Snuggs is behavin¡¯ ¡®onorable-like. An¡¯ maybe¡ªwhile y¡¯er doin¡¯ tha¡¯¡ªask yerself what Fiond¡¯s friends¡¯re like ta¡¯ do when they come down this a-way.¡± ¡°How do you know there¡¯s any more like her coming this-a-way?¡± he countered skeptically. ¡°Maybe she¡¯s one of a kind.¡± ¡°Ye recall what she said when ye asked what she was? I do. She said¡ªan¡¯ I quote¡ª¡®Sir Richard named us giant-men.¡¯ Emphasis mine, Mr. Miller. Us, as in mar than one. And if mar than two ¡®er three o¡¯ that Fiond show up in one place, ye¡¯ll become real well acquainted wi¡¯ ¡®ow snarfs an¡¯ goblins feel.¡± He thought of the towering giant-woman from the night before. Of particular salience was her ten-foot sword of thick steel, and the pile of massive steel armor in the tent where he¡¯d spent the night. ¡°I expect,¡± he conceded, ¡°that more than two or three of Fiond in one place would make everything around them extremely complicated.¡± At the edge of the settlement was a wide clearing in the forest. It was larger than three foot-ball pitches in each direction. Towers of wooden scaffolding ringed the edge of the clearing, and the skeleton of some enormous, pill-shaped structure could be seen within. The scaffolding and emerging structure buzzed with the activity of goblins. Even here, though, the discord in the community was evident. Among the busy workers were small knots of dissidents. They looked inward, speaking only with each other, but casting angry and suspicious glares at their industrious fellows nearby. The malcontents wore large, flamboyant, decorated hats, in the tradition of their people. The workers, by contrast, wore only simple caps, or went with their heads entirely bare. Sometimes a shouting match would break out between the two groups. The working goblins would soon draw away, urged by one or two of their overseers on the job site. These last were well-dressed, never shouted, and watched everything around them carefully, and quietly. They were Quiet Ones. He made his way over to one of them slowly, giving himself time to be seen and recognized. It was Arthur, who seemed to be in charge of the mysterious construction site. Arthur wore a miniature business suit of light gray, a small cravat, and a rather strange round cap in the shape of a half a pumpkin, painted white. And this, Jonathan saw as he drew closer, was exactly what it was. Arthur looked up at him and smiled in recognition. ¡°Good morning, Mr. Miller,¡± he said with genuine warmth, doffing his white pumpkin-helmet. ¡°What a delightful surprise. I hope you weren¡¯t molested on the way in.¡± Jonathan returned the smile. ¡°Are you going to tell me yet what you¡¯re building here?¡± The well-dressed goblin winked and shook his head. Though Jonathan had previously been a regular visitor to the Gray Kingdom, neither Arthur nor Simon nor any other goblin had explained the purpose of the enormous construction site. Indeed, Jonathan fostered an amused suspicion that the entire thing was intended simply to keep large numbers of marginally-civilized goblins busy and distracted. ¡°I¡¯m afraid I was just a bit molested,¡± he explained to Arthur. ¡°A small group attacked me on the road last night, and it was only by very good luck that I wasn¡¯t killed. Do you know anything about that?¡± Arthur¡¯s face became instantly grave, and he lowered his voice. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry, Mr. Miller,¡± he said contritely. ¡°This disease has been spreading through the more atavistic members of our community. I strongly suspect that you encountered goblins from the Old Teeth; that¡¯s what they call themselves. They¡¯re a gang of¡ tribals¡ that has moved off into cave homes to the west. With Simon gone, their numbers are growing.¡± Jonathan nodded. ¡°I heard about that from Emily, at the border crossing. Is it true that The Gizzard is with them?¡± Arthur nodded shortly, but said nothing. ¡°And my mother, Alice?¡± The goblin nodded again. ¡°They took her from her dwelling here six days ago, on the fifth of October. She was just starting one her longer visits. I believe she meant to stay for three weeks. The Gizzard left at the same time, and he was seen with Globclaw later that day.¡± ¡°Has anyone tried to get her back?¡± he inquired, his heart dropping in his chest. Six days was an eternity among feral goblins, who tended to an indiscriminate view of what¡ªor who¡ªconstituted supper. Arthur¡¯s face emoted deep sorrow, and he closed his eyes briefly. ¡°I regret, Mr. Miller,¡± he said, ¡°that with Simon gone, none of us commands the respect or loyalty of enough warriors to move against them. It¡¯s all we can do to keep our people busy, fed, and out of trouble.¡± Jonathan nodded. ¡°I understand, Arthur,¡± he replied, as kindly as he could manage. ¡°It would be far worse here without you.¡± He squared his shoulders, looking up at the nearest pillar of scaffolding and the rib taking shape within it. ¡°I¡¯ll just have to get her back myself,¡± he announced conclusively. ¡°Yer a dead man,¡± came Devi¡¯s muffled voice from the vicinity of his chest. ??? Jonathan heard the Old Teeth before he saw them, and smelled them even before that. The smell began with the faint hint of decay and acrid smoke, growing into a stench that combined a sickly floral rot, the eye-watering odor of massed excretion, and the foul reek of green Juju-jug, harvested too soon and not properly dried. ¡°Tha,¡± remarked Devi quietly, ¡°is th¡¯ sweet smell o¡¯ supper. An ye, me frien¡¯, are the main course.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not getting eaten today,¡± he hissed back irritably. ¡°I¡¯ll be sure ta mention that ta the chef,¡± she smirked back, ¡°as ¡®ees carvin¡¯ up yer behin.¡¯ Yer rump¡¯ll make a fine roast.¡± He heard the sound, next. There was a low thumping in the distant reaches of the forest, at the lowest register of his hearing. It was unhurried, stubborn. As he drew closer to the sound, it became louder, more defined, and other, complementary beats grew around it. There was a grinding, thrusting syncopation to the slow beat that was both fascinating and horrifying. From time to time a snatch of high-pitched, leering vocalization could be heard above the grinding thrust of the bass percussion. He laid a finger to his lips, glaring at his miniature tormentor in her pouch at his chest, and crept forward toward the low ridge over the cave entrance to the old Bloody Teeth caverns. Jonathan recalled a day, more than two years ago now, when he and his mother had crept over this same ridge, looking down at this same cave mouth across a stream choked with the limp gray bodies of scores of goblins, slaughtered in one of their endless back-and-forth raids. He had, at the time, not yet recovered from the blow to his head in the Green Wood, and his vision had been swimming and shifting. The man Brutus had shown himself in the distance, leading him to another cave entrance. Jonathan had, consequently, not gone in this front way. But he knew this was how the old Big Giant Huge Bloody Teeth of Doom to Clumsy Big-People and All Their Stupid Dogs came and went from their home. It was that way until Simon had come along and taught them a different way. Now the caves were occupied again. He could see two of the Old Teeth outside the cave entrance, across the shallow stream. They were gnawing hunks of raw flesh from the bone of some large creature; a deer, perhaps, or a mule. They bickered angrily amongst each other in their own tongue, which Jonathan could not understand. A third goblin staggered out of the cave mouth as he watched, squatted over the stream, and noisily defecated into it. Jonathan saw¡ªand smelled¡ªabundant evidence that this was a common practice among the cave¡¯s new inhabitants. He swallowed, rising slowly to his feet. His mother was in those caves. He would simply have to walk in and make the best of it. Some of the ferals would speak Uellish, at least, and perhaps he could intimidate the others. He found a large stick at hand and hefted it manfully. ¡°You¡¯re going to get eaten, Jonathan Miller,¡± said a voice near at hand¡ªand it was not Devi¡¯s voice. It was deeper, louder, and had an odd, slightly demented lilt to it. His head snapped in the direction from which the voice had come, and he saw, sitting at the foot of a nearby tree, that its owner was a lone grayskin. The little person wore rank, uncured pelts, a perverse smile, and a hat accoutered with bones, knives, gems, and the bedraggled remains of a taxidermized squirrel. ¡°The Gizzard?¡± asked Jonathan incredulously, recognizing his visitor. ¡°What on earth are you doing here?¡± ¡°Well, perhaps I¡¯ll be the one to eat you,¡± replied the little creature. ¡°I haven¡¯t had man-flesh in half a lifetime. And you¡¯re looking a bit plump around the midsection. Just a little off the middle?¡± ¡°Why does everyone think I¡¯m his next meal?¡± exclaimed Jonathan angrily. ¡°No! No, you may not eat me, not you and not any of the rest of your people down there. The next person that says he¡¯s going to eat me is getting this stick straight up his¡ª¡± ¡°Calm down! Calm down!¡± protested The Gizzard, rolling with laughter beneath his tree. ¡°No one¡¯s eating you yet, Jonathan Miller. I¡¯ll wait until you¡¯ve died from your own stupidity first. Save the stick for a bigger, badder monster than me!¡± Jonathan sat down again on the forest floor, snorting petulantly. ¡°Then what are you doing, popping out of the woods here? Were you lying in wait all this time, hoping someone would show up so you could make a comedic entrance?¡± ¡°No,¡± replied The Gizzard, shaking his head. ¡°Actually, I followed you. You make enough noise for three giant men.¡±Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website. Jonathan looked at him sharply. ¡°Giant-men? You know about them too?¡± Now The Gizzard looked confused. ¡°Big people,¡± he explained. ¡°Large talking animals with two legs. Uellishmen. You, Jonathan, are as loud as three of them.¡± He nodded sagely. ¡°Of course. You think we¡¯re giants. Makes as much sense as actual giants.¡± Then he shook his head and focused again. ¡°The Gizzard. Is my mother in there?¡± The Gizzard¡¯s face grew grave. ¡°She is, Jonathan. She is a captive of Globclaw.¡± ¡°Then she¡¯s alive?¡± His heart leapt. He hadn¡¯t really dared to grapple with the possibility that she might not be, and found to his relief that he might not have to. ¡°For now,¡± said the little goblin. The rhythmic thumping of drums in the distance continued its ominous underscore. ¡°Globclaw has been trying to get her to teach the Old Teeth how to make things. But the only goblins he could persuade to follow him were the most stupid and gullible. They¡¯re too stupid to learn what he wants her to teach them. I think he may get fed up with her, and she may get fed into him.¡± Jonathan cocked his head to one side curiously. ¡°Your Uellish has gotten better,¡± he observed. The Gizzard gave a broad smile. ¡°Ha ha! You noticed! Alice made my Uellish better¡ªso I will help you go and get her.¡± There was a long silence, as Jonathan stared in shock at The Gizzard, and The Gizzard nodded his head slowly, eyes closed in deep satisfaction. Then a tiny guffaw came from the pouch at Jonathan¡¯s chest. The Gizzard peered up curiously at the source of the noise, then rose up on his tip toes to peer into the pouch. ¡°Devi?¡± he said. ¡°You¡¯re less rotten than I thought you¡¯d be.¡± Devi¡¯s tiny lance lashed out of the pouch and smacked The Gizzard across his broad, gray nose. ¡°Watch how ye address a lady, ye gray imbecile,¡± she growled. ¡°No amount of rhymin¡¯ an¡¯ wordplay¡¯ll save ye if ye give offense ta¡¯ me honor.¡± Jonathan shook his head, trying to clear away the distractions. ¡°I need to get my mother out of there,¡± he declared, rising to his feet and picking up the stick. ¡°The Gizzard, I don¡¯t know whose side you¡¯re on, or why¡ªbut if you want to help, I could sure use it. And I¡¯m going in there now.¡± The Gizzard rose to his feet as well, and winked at Jonathan. ¡°I came here looking for Simon,¡± said the little goblin. ¡°I thought maybe they¡¯d caught him. I was wrong. But I know the caves. If you go in, I can help you. That stick won¡¯t keep the Old Teeth away from you if they decide to make you into lunch.¡± The little goblin¡¯s eyes twinkled again. ¡°But I,¡± he said, ¡°have a cunning plan.¡± ??? Ten minutes later, Jonathan walked into the caves of the Old Teeth, his hands bound with hemp rope and a small sack over his head. The cloth of the sack was of a coarse weave, which he could see through with little difficulty. His hands clenched the ends of the fake knot in the rope. It was also not the strangest event of Jonathan¡¯s week. ¡°This,¡± he muttered to The Gizzard, who led him by a rope around the neck, ¡°is the oldest, laziest, most predictable plan in any story, anywhere. And I¡¯ve read an awful lot of them.¡± ¡°Lucky for you then,¡± said The Gizzard, ¡°that nobody in these caves can read even one. Watch your head,¡± he added, just after Jonathan smacked his head into a low stone overhang. The Gizzard picked up a smoldering torch that someone had left on the ground and held it up, helpfully illuminating the hazard after the fact. Cursing sulphurously, Jonathan crouched down, shuffling awkwardly after the light and foul stench of the torch. As they moved deeper into the caves, Jonathan felt as if he¡¯d stepped back in time¡ªthough only by two years. Crude fires smoldered under the half-cured carcasses of forest animals, scattered haphazardly around the roughly-hewn caves. Trash and feces littered the floors of packed dirt or stone, and ugly, vulgar scrawls covered the walls in places. The goblins they encountered had slack jaws and vacant stares, though the glitter of natural cunning could still be seen lurking in the eyes of some. They occasionally stepped over groups of inhabitants rutting or fighting on the cave floor, as others looked on approvingly. Jonathan found that he was generally ignored. ¡°Are there other human captives here?¡± he asked quietly. ¡°They don¡¯t look surprised to see me.¡± ¡°A few,¡± The Gizzard confirmed. ¡°Alice is nearby, and there¡¯s another man that they¡¯ve had in here since the early summer, I think.¡± ¡°I wonder if that¡¯s Fiond¡¯s friend,¡± Jonathan speculated. Then he worked through the timeline in his head. ¡°So this group has been split off for so long?¡± he continued in surprise. ¡°I thought King Simon only left a few weeks ago.¡± ¡°There were always troublemakers who didn¡¯t want to follow Simon¡¯s way,¡± said The Gizzard. ¡°When he was still around, it was only a few, and they hid out in these caves. But since he left, Globclaw got bold, and talked more into joining him. If Simon doesn¡¯t come back, and Globclaw keeps talking, he¡¯ll be King of the Goblins soon enough.¡± As they walked, the heavy thumping sound that Jonathan had heard earlier, and which had been growing steadily in intensity, suddenly bloomed into an immediate presence. A cavern opened up to his left, revealing, by smoky and flickering torchlight, a large group of grayskins gathered around a crude elevated platform. On it, a small figure wearing Cyrus¡¯s old prop crown beat madly on the drums as the crowd chanted. Jonathan remembered fondly King Simon¡¯s impassioned percussion, but this playing was different. The beat had a leering, mocking character that left him feeling slightly debased. It provoked, however, an equally excited reaction from its audience. They crept past the opening, deeper into the claustrophobic, stony blackness. The caves here were unworked, apparently of entirely natural origin. Some galleries were large, and others small. The connecting tunnels showed signs of being carved by the passage of water over millennia. By the dim light of The Gizzard¡¯s torch, despite the rough cloth of the face covering, Jonathan could see glittering black veins of undisturbed coal running through many of the walls. ¡°Has Simon not had people working the coal here?¡± he asked curiously. ¡°No,¡± answered The Gizzard. ¡°The coal in the other caves is plenty, and even all the goblins working together for the last year hasn¡¯t used it up. We were going to move on to these caves when we made more babies.¡± Another flickering light suddenly caught Jonathan¡¯s eye through the weave of the head covering. At the same time, The Gizzard stopped suddenly, causing Jonathan to nearly trip over him. ¡°The man-jails are ahead,¡± whispered The Gizzard in the darkness. ¡°Globclaw keeps his big-people prisoners here in little holes. Alice is in one of them. There are usually four guards.¡± ¡°What¡¯s the plan now?¡± asked Jonathan, keeping his voice low. ¡°You go in and kill the guards,¡± replied The Gizzard with a self-satisfied nod. ¡°You said your plan was cunning,¡± pointed out Jonathan. ¡°That¡¯s not cunning; it¡¯s the opposite of cunning. It¡¯s stupid.¡± The Gizzard looked up at Jonathan as if he were an imbecile. ¡°But you¡¯re larger than they are,¡± he pointed out, as one might to a dull child. ¡°And you have the magic.¡± ¡°What?¡± hissed Jonathan. ¡°Magic isn¡¯t a thing. And even if it weren¡¯t not a thing, I don¡¯t have any.¡± The Gizzard shook his head confidently. ¡°You have the magic, Jonathan. Two years ago, when you and Alice came to rescue Cyrus Stoat and Merrily Hunter, you killed more than forty goblins with a stick, in the dark, in a flat open cave. You have a stick now, and it¡¯s dark, and we¡¯re in a cave. There are only four goblins up there. Go and do the killing magic. I will watch.¡± Jonathan groaned softly. ¡°It¡¯s not like that!¡± he protested. ¡°I don¡¯t even remember what happened that night! I¡¯d hit my head, and I could barely stand up!¡± ¡°I was there,¡± said The Gizzard. ¡°I saw. You did the magic. You can do it again. I believe in you!¡± Then, to Jonathan¡¯s horror, and before he could react, the little grayskin turned, took a deep breath, and shouted loudly in the goblin tongue. His imprecation went on for some time, and was answered by harsh, outraged shouts from up ahead. ¡°I told them,¡± he explained in cheerful Uellish, amid the rising din of goblin voices that was rapidly approaching in proximity, ¡°that if they don¡¯t come out with their hands up, the god of murder will go to them and rearrange their faces. That¡¯s you, Jonathan Miller. You are the god of murder. Go do god-things.¡± ¡°Ye want me help?¡± asked Devi from inside her pouch. ¡°Or kin yer divinity handle this one on yer own?¡± Jonathan ripped off the hood that covered his face, dropped the false bindings on his wrists, and fished the stout cudgel out of his pants. ¡°Help,¡± he said firmly. ¡°Help, or we¡¯re all dead.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll help,¡± said The Gizzard. ¡°Come down here. I have something to give you.¡± Jonathan, nervous but obedient, went down on one knee in front of The Gizzard. Perhaps he had a better weapon than a stick¡ªor at least a larger stick. The angry voices of approaching guards were nearly on top of them. ¡°Do the magic,¡± instructed The Gizzard firmly. And then, before Jonathan could react, the goblin snatched the cudgel and laid a sound stroke on the side of Jonathan¡¯s head. Lights spun in his eyes, and he felt himself falling. ¡°Follow the bright path,¡± he muttered in the fey tongue as consciousness left him. And then: ¡°I love you, Merrily.¡± ??? When Jonathan came to his senses, he found that consciousness was nearly as confusing as unconsciousness. There was a cacophony of shouting and screaming around him; how near, he couldn¡¯t quite tell. He was being partly carried, partly dragged along the floor by some unknown person. The only light source was a bobbing yellow glow that seemed to come from behind them both. This light illuminated a dim vista of ugly limestone and granite. ¡°Did The Gizzard kill me?¡± he inquired of the person who was half-dragging him. ¡°Is this Hell?¡± ¡°No,¡± said the sharp voice of a woman. ¡°It¡¯s not Hell, but it will be soon.¡± It was the voice of his mother. Jonathan cried out in recognition, just as she dropped him on the hard stone at their feet. ¡°You¡¯re alive! Ouch.¡± Alice Miller, visible by the light of the torch she held, was dirty and scratched¡ªbut otherwise uninjured. She had even taken a moment to tie back her iron gray hair and rub some of the smudged dirt off her face. ¡°As alive as you are, for now,¡± she confirmed. ¡°But that¡¯s likely to come to a sudden and nasty end in a minute or two if you don¡¯t get to your feet and walk on your own. I can¡¯t carry you around, any more than I can still nurse you.¡± After a moment of wincing pain, Jonathan staggered to his feet. His vision swam and spun, and the side of his head throbbed from where it had been struck by the cudgel. ¡°Where are Devi and The Gizzard?¡± he asked, suddenly remembering his other companions. ¡°They stayed behind,¡± explained Alice. ¡°After you killed the first eight¡ª¡± ¡°Wait, what?¡± exclaimed Jonathan, interrupting his mother. ¡°I killed someone?¡± She glared him into silence. ¡°After you killed the first eight, and rolled back the stone from my hole, another group boiled out from somewhere. One of them knocked your feet out from under you, and I dragged you out.¡± The shouting and screaming drew closer, and Jonathan staggered uncertainly toward it. The facts at hand seemed to swim in a mushy gruel of confusion and uncertainty. He¡¯d killed eight goblins? With a stick? He could remember none of it. ¡°Wrong way, son,¡± chided his mother. ¡°You want to run away from the sounds of killing, not toward it.¡± ¡°But my friends are there!¡± he said. ¡°They¡¯re there,¡± Alice replied emphatically, ¡°so you can be here. They¡¯ll catch up, or they¡¯ll die. Let¡¯s go. I know the way.¡± Jonathan shook his head in confusion. ¡°How do you know the way?¡± he asked. ¡°We haven¡¯t been in these caves since we came here two years ago to get Merrily and Cyrus.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve come and gone,¡± she said. ¡°I¡¯ve been coming to these caves for months to try to bring the atavists back around. That¡¯s why they took me; they know me.¡± She snorted derisively. ¡°They seem to think I can teach them to conjure beer and sandwiches out of thin air, or do it myself. You need civilization for those things, Jonathan. Why does no one seem to understand that? Without law and order, there can be no beer.¡± It seemed a fair point, and Jonathan was in no mental state to argue with his mother. He allowed himself to be led in the direction she was travelling. Soon the sounds of fighting and screaming behind him died down, and padding footsteps caught up with them. He turned quickly, raising his fists in a hapless attempt at self-defense; but it was only The Gizzard. The little goblin was grinning like a madman and carried¡ªwith peculiar gentleness, in both hands¡ªthe small, feminine form of Devi. The snarf was covered in blood, gore, and scraps of flesh. On the end of her tiny lance there was a single eyeball. ¡°Is any of that yours?¡± asked Alice. ¡°Nay,¡± answered the snarf with a self-satisfied smirk. ¡°All theirs. The ones I didn¡¯ kill, ran off. But I reckon they¡¯ll be back soon enough; I ¡®eard more o¡¯ their voices comin¡¯ up fast. I brought ye an eyeball, Jonathan. The Gizzard ¡®ere insisted we bring this wee offerin¡¯ ta¡¯ the god o¡¯ mairder. Ye want it?¡± Jonathan shook his head, retching slightly. This was very nearly the strangest event of his week. ¡°Fair enough. I told ye,¡± she continued, addressing The Gizzard, ¡°he ain¡¯t nay god, and he willnay take it! Go on then.¡± The Gizzard¡¯s smile broadened, and he plucked the eyeball from the end of her lance, popping it in his mouth. ¡°Ye always preten¡¯ to make sacrifices ta the gods,¡± observed Devi, ¡°so¡¯s the priests kin¡¯ munch on th¡¯ good bits once the gods turn it down.¡± ¡°Let¡¯s get one thing completely straight here,¡± said Jonathan. ¡°I¡¯m not any kind of god of any¡ª¡± He was interrupted by a burst of screaming goblin voices from shockingly nearby. ¡°We can discuss your morbid transfiguration later,¡± said Alice firmly, taking his elbow. ¡°Now, out.¡± ??? That night, Jonathan, Alice, The Gizzard, and Devi shared a simple meal in the Gray Kingdom with Arthur, the chief engineer at the goblins¡¯ mysterious construction site. They sat in King Simon¡¯s old audience chamber¡ªthough in truth its appearance was more like a classroom. Colorful paintings and charts lined the walls, depicting Uellish letters, musical symbols, and mathematical formulae. Several chalkboards were laid against the walls as well, and the seats were arranged, before the crude platform, in broad concentric rings, as in a school classroom. Once, there had been a homemade drum set on the platform, on which Simon had beat out the rhythm that called his people to a new way of life. Now it was empty. Two older female goblins brought the group a rich chicken soup and a sandwich each, with cold mugs of a nutty ale. Then they withdrew quietly. ¡°Some things,¡± said Arthur, looking at the departing servers, ¡°change slowly. It¡¯s difficult to persuade the older females to think of themselves as more than servants and toys for the males. The younger generation is learning more quickly; people like Emily, who you met at the border crossing. Simon was always quick to encourage females like her to take on more responsibility. And we set an example, when we can.¡± ¡°I wish we could bring more of your people to Green Bridge,¡± said Jonathan ruefully. ¡°Seeing the respect people have for Queen Anne would be good for them. As it is, the climate right now is¡ not so good. Ever since Rolland Gorp was murdered, the goblins who were living in Green Bridge have been in hiding. Obilly Smallhat is the main suspect, and he¡¯s fled back here.¡± Arthur nodded. ¡°Yes. He¡¯s been living with us Quiet Ones. He¡¯s waiting for someone to come to him here¡ªsomeone from Green Bridge. I don¡¯t know who, or when this person will arrive.¡± Jonathan thought for a moment. ¡°Cyrus Stoat,¡± he concluded. ¡°It has to be. Veridia said she¡¯d set Cyrus to solve Rolly¡¯s murder because he¡¯d stumble into the truth of why Rolly was killed. If that¡¯s right, then however Obilly knows that someone¡¯s coming, that someone is practically guaranteed to be Cyrus Stoat.¡± They ate their soup slowly, sipping at the hot, rich, salty broth. When they were finished, the two goblin matrons returned to take away the dishes, bringing forth another round of ales at the same time. ¡°Is there anything that can be done,¡± asked Jonathan, ¡°about the coal output? The people at Snugg are beginning to get antsy about it.¡± Arthur looked at him gravely, care written into his squat face, bulbous eyes, and wrinkled gray skin. Jonathan realized he must be rather old, for a short-lived goblin. ¡°Is Snugg going to come and take away the Gray Kingdom?¡± he asked. ¡°No!¡± replied Jonathan hastily. ¡°Why do you think that?¡± Arthur shrugged. ¡°I hear the caravan drivers talk,¡± he said. ¡°They say we can¡¯t operate the mines because we¡¯re too¡ uncivilized.¡± ¡°That¡¯s nonsense.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not entirely. Our people are fragile, Mr. Miller. They could break. And they are lost without a strong leader. Simon led them, in the way that they need. But we Quiet Ones are not like Simon. None of us is made to lead. If he doesn¡¯t come back, then this whole place will just¡ disintegrate. Indeed, by the time he does return, it may be too late¡ªif the Snugg people come and drive us out.¡± Jonathan thumped his hand against the table in exasperation. ¡°They just need to know you better,¡± he said. ¡°That¡¯s all. They need to see how valuable your people are, if they¡¯re given time to develop and become more like¡¡± He trailed off lamely. ¡°More like you?¡± said Arthur with a smile. ¡°Don¡¯t be afraid to say it, Mr. Miller. The alternative is what you saw in the caves of the Old Teeth. But I agree that it would be helpful if the Snuggs were motivated to not seize our land from us right away, just because coal output is down. Could they be appeased for some time, until we can find Simon?¡± Jonathan thought about that, working through an idea in his mind. It was flimsy and speculative, but there was something there. The Gizzard interrupted his thoughts angrily. ¡°That¡¯s the whole trouble! Our problems get bigger every day Simon is gone, not littler. I searched for him all over; up trees, down holes, in the river. I even went to Green Bridge when he first went away, and looked in all the little places a goblin might hide. No one has seen him since¡ªsince¡ª¡± He struggled to express himself, breaking down into a string of imprecations in the goblin tongue. ¡°The thirteenth of September,¡± supplied Arthur gently. He turned to Jonathan with a smile. ¡°Some of the natives struggle with the idea of a calendar.¡± ¡°Man-thought is like twisting your brain into a pretzel,¡± snapped The Gizzard. ¡°A delicious, salty pretzel, like one I got on the street in Green Bridge. I gave a big-woman money, and she gave me a pretzel and more money back. She was a fool, but the pretzel was better than rutting two females at once. What were we talking about?¡± ¡°What you need,¡± said Jonathan firmly, ¡°is a quest.¡± ¡°A what?¡± asked The Gizzard dubiously. ¡°A quest,¡± said Jonathan. ¡°To find the lost king. You can be like a knight errant, journeying throughout the realm in pursuit of justice and right, defeating villains, slaying dragons¡ Well. Probably without the dragons. But the point is, you go on a holy quest, and if you¡¯re pure of heart and diligent in your questing, then you¡¯re rewarded by finding the object of your quest.¡± ¡°Jonathan,¡± said Alice, ¡°these people have a hard time with irony.¡± But The Gizzard¡¯s eyes had already lit up with a fired imagination. ¡°I,¡± he declared, ¡°will go on a holy knight errand.¡± ¡°Knight errant,¡± said Jonathan. ¡°A knight errant goes on a quest. An errand is¡ well, I suppose it¡¯s confusing, isn¡¯t it. But your heart¡¯s in the right place, The Gizzard. You must go on a quest to find King Simon. Someone has to, right? Why not you?¡± The Gizzard looked up at him in something approaching awe. Soup dripped down his chin, and Jonathan saw that his headgear had now had a recently-deceased rat bolted to the front of it, projecting forward like the bowsprit of some deranged vessel. ¡°I am a knight errand,¡± he said, ¡°and I am going on a holy quest.¡± This, Jonathan concluded, was the strangest event of his week. ¡°Well, this¡¯s just bound ta¡¯ end fantastically, ain¡¯t it,¡± remarked Devi dryly. She was lounging over the edge of her ale mug, dipping her face into a clear patch in the froth to lap up the amber liquid beneath. ¡°Sendin¡¯ one lone gobbo out inta th¡¯ world to look fer another gobbo who don¡¯t want ta¡¯ be found. Definitely won¡¯t end in mairder an¡¯ cannibalism. Next the gobbos¡¯ll be workin¡¯ fer the Snuggies, buildin¡¯ their great metal road an¡¯ bein¡¯ fed in leftover ¡®uman bits.¡± ¡°Is it cannibalism if a goblin eats a human?¡± asked Jonathan curiously. ¡°I genuinely don¡¯t know.¡± ¡°It is,¡± replied Arthur with conviction. ¡°Where we came from, the law didn¡¯t care what race you were, as long as you could think and talk. All the different kinds of people were treated the same. Same rights, same responsibilities, same laws. And one of them was you couldn¡¯t eat each other.¡± There was a long pause at the table, as Devi slurped at her beer and the rest of them thought about this. ¡°Where exactly,¡± asked Alice finally, ¡°did you say you came from?¡± Arthur¡¯s face grew mournful. ¡°I don¡¯t remember,¡± he said. ??? The following day was the twelfth of October. Jonathan¡¯s small, leather-bound appointment book told him so with indefatigable stubbornness. He spent the morning with his mother, making sure her hurts were tended to and she was on her way to recovery from her ordeal. But Alice Miller was made of stern stuff, and by the afternoon she was back in King Simon¡¯s classroom, teaching twenty wide-eyed goblin children to read and count in the Uellish fashion. She waved off his ministrations, dismissing the Old Teeth as if they were misguided children. That same afternoon, Jonathan found his way to Obilly Smallhat. The fugitive goblin mathematician was tucked away in a small, newly-constructed cabin at the edge of the large construction site. It was decorated with miniature versions of furniture that might otherwise be found in the home of a well-off craftsman or trader in Green Bridge. There was even a potted plant. The goblin himself wore a white shirt, coat, and hose, patterned after the current male fashion in Green Bridge. He politely rose as Jonathan entered, looking at his visitor with curiosity, and then offered Jonathan a very small stool. Jonathan instead sat cross-legged on the floor. ¡°My name is Jonathan Miller,¡± he began. ¡°I know who you are, Mr. Miller¡± answered Smallhat sadly, seating himself on the stool. ¡°I¡¯ve seen you with Rolly and his other friends.¡± Jonathan nodded. ¡°I¡¯ve come to ask you if you¡¯ll go back to Green Bridge with Cyrus Stoat when he comes here.¡± ¡°How do you know Cyrus Stoat is coming here?¡± asked Smallhat, with a slight twinkle in his eyes. ¡°Stoat is obnoxious¡ªnot incompetent,¡± replied Jonathan with a sharp laugh. ¡°You¡¯re the prime suspect in a murder that he¡¯s been charged to solve. He¡¯ll come, and he¡¯ll ask you to come back.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t kill Rolly,¡± said Smallhat firmly. ¡°If I go back, they will blame me, but I did not kill him. I don¡¯t know who did¡ªbut whoever it was, there was a reason. Big-people have reasons for everything they do; not like goblins. Goblins kill for fun, or because we¡¯re bored. Not big-people. Not the man who killed Rolly.¡± Jonathan thought for a moment. This had to be handled delicately. ¡°Why do you think he was killed?¡± he said finally. ¡°I think,¡± answered Smallhat, ¡°that it was because of what he and Professor Pie discovered in their sums; or else, perhaps, his work with Professor Tentimes and her new star. But I think it¡¯s more likely because of Professor Pie. I don¡¯t think Pie himself did it, Mr. Miller. But both Rolly and the professor were frightened of something, at the end. Nobody¡¯s afraid of a new star, even if it doesn¡¯t move right.¡± ¡°Then you have to go back to give testimony,¡± said Jonathan, ¡°and prove you¡¯re innocent. Right now, it looks like you¡¯re running away because you did it.¡± The goblin sighed heavily. ¡°Will it make a difference if I go back?¡± he asked. ¡°Will the Billies even listen to me? Will a judge?¡± ¡°They will,¡± assured Jonathan, pouring into his words all the faith he could muster. ¡°At least, I think they will. And even if it doesn¡¯t come out right for you, at least you¡¯ll be showing the people of Green Bridge that goblins can respect the law too, and can be trusted to follow it.¡± He stood up. ¡°I expect you will do the right thing, Mr. Smallhat,¡± he said. ??? The next day, the thirteenth of October, Cyrus Stoat duly arrived in the Gray Kingdom. Jonathan found him concluding his interview with Obilly Smallhat¡ªwho had evidently followed Jonathan¡¯s advice, and would travel back to Green Bridge to give his testimony. Alice Miller was present, but Devi had disappeared someplace. Perhaps she was burrowed deep in his backpack. ¡°Good evening, Professor,¡± Jonathan said blandly as he walked in. ¡°I didn¡¯t expect to see you here.¡± This was a bald lie, and his mother glared at him, but Jonathan kept his face neutral. Cyrus looked up from his notes, turning away from Smallhat and Alice. ¡°Jonathan. Well. This is a surprise. What are you doing here?¡± Jonathan shrugged lightly. ¡°I came to see if I could encourage these fine people to start sending my employers some more coal. Shipments have been off.¡± Cyrus shook his head in disgust. ¡°This from someone who swung across the Grand Ballroom at the Palace Naridium on a chandelier with me and Mari Snort. You¡¯ve become a bureaucrat, Jonathan Miller. I expected better of you.¡± Jonathan flushed, but answered smoothly. ¡°Trade makes their lives better as well as ours, Professor. Coal goes to Hog Hurst and on to Green Bridge, and coin comes here in return. Coin goes to Green Bridge and back comes food, beer, clothing, tools, books, and ideas. With every shipment that arrives in the Gray Kingdom, these goblins live better, cleaner, longer, and more peaceful lives.¡± Cyrus glared at him suspiciously. ¡°Did you memorize that from a sheet of paper, Miller?¡± Jonathan felt his flush deepen. ¡°Well... yes. It took a while. But look, it¡¯s true! I believe it. I always wanted to be a merchant when I was growing up, and this is just the place where a merchant can make a difference.¡± Cyrus gave Alice a look of exasperation, but she simply smiled serenely. ¡°Come on, Professor,¡± said Jonathan, clapping a friendly hand on his shoulder. ¡°I¡¯ll find you a place to sleep. I¡¯m riding back to Hog Hurst tomorrow, and you¡¯re welcome to come along.¡± ??? The following evening, Jonathan sat again with Rufus Snugg in his office, and outlined a proposal to use goblins as labor on the new rail line to Devi Valley. Devi, whose sarcastic remark yesterday had inspired the idea, remained scarce to be found. ¡°Jonathan,¡± the red-haired magnate remarked as Jonathan concluded his proposal, ¡°I like you. You¡¯re an ambitious young man, and you¡¯ve done good work for me. I enjoy your company, and I flatter myself that you remind me of me, just a few years ago. I¡¯d gladly ride into battle with you, from a very safe distance, with overwhelming numerical and technological superiority. But this is the most outlandish proposal anyone has put before me since Cyrus Stoat asked us to pay for him to adventure around the pre-Imperial ruin sites beyond the frontiers of northern Uelland. Goblins working on the rail line? Alongside men? They¡¯ll be killing each other within a week, or eating each other, or worse.¡± ¡°That bet on Cyrus Stoat worked out well for you,¡± pointed out Jonathan. Rufus wrinkled his lips into a playful scowl. ¡°Just because one absurd gamble paid off, Jonathan, does not mean that a second one will do the same. In fact, if you consider the chances of both things happening, the combined individual absurdity of either outcome magnifies the odds against them both coming to pass.¡± Jonathan shook his head in mild confusion. ¡°I got started with the company running the gambling books in Pour Vaille,¡± Rufus explained. ¡°Now look, Jonathan. I know you¡¯re trying to help your friends. That¡¯s fair. Nepotism is a cornerstone of good business¡ªbut only if the friends and family you¡¯re shoehorning into a job are competent as well as trustworthy. What makes you think a bunch of little gray savages are fit to work on a highly technical engineering project?¡± ¡°Three reasons,¡± said Jonathan. ¡°Excellent,¡± responded Rufus, cutting him off before he could enumerate them. ¡°I like threes. There¡¯s a delightful symmetry. You can¡¯t divide it by anything. Go on.¡± ¡°First,¡± said Jonathan, ¡°they barely sleep.¡± ¡°Noted,¡± answered Rufus, nodding approvingly. ¡°Every industrial robber baron dreams of a workforce that can work twenty-three hour shifts.¡± ¡°Second,¡± continued Jonathan, ¡°they learn very fast. My mother¡¯s been teaching them Uellish, mathematics, and history for the last year. The youngsters barely have an accent, and can do long division in their heads. Even the middle-aged groups are able to communicate fairly well.¡± ¡°Hmmm,¡± mused Rufus, rubbing at the stubble on his chin. ¡°You don¡¯t want workers to be too smart. It leads to all sorts of labor problems.¡± ¡°And third,¡± concluded Jonathan, ¡°they are absolutely obsessed with food.¡± Rufus raised a red eyebrow. ¡°You were on a roll, Jonathan!¡± he protested. ¡°Why ruin your streak?¡± ¡°Because,¡± Jonathan replied, ¡°it means they are also obsessively loyal to whoever gives them food. Keep up a steady supply of beer and sandwiches to the work crews, and you won¡¯t have the slightest worry about labor problems.¡± Rufus sprang to his feet. ¡°I¡¯m inspired, my friend!¡± he said excitedly, clapping Jonathan on the back. ¡°Bring me one hundred of these wonder-workers, and we¡¯ll try them out on the rail line. But not the best hundred¡ªI want those back in the coal mines. And Jonathan, there¡¯s one other thing you should know.¡± Jonathan rose to his feet as well. ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± ¡°You¡¯ll be coming with us.¡± His eyes widened. ¡°What? Where?¡± ¡°To Devi Valley, of course. I¡¯m going to bring the first group of goblins to work on the river crossing and the ridge traverse. You¡¯ll come with us to keep them in line and get them acclimated to our way of doing things. My rail line, my rules, Jonathan¡ªif you want to give your little gray friends a chance to prove themselves, I need you to oversee it personally. I¡¯ll make the arrangements with Veridia... from a very safe distance.¡± ¡°But my wife¡ª¡± he began. ¡°Oh, you¡¯ll get breaks, Jonathan. I¡¯m not a slave driver. You can go back to Green Bridge from time to time; maybe even for longer periods, if things work well. It¡¯ll all be arranged. I¡¯ll give you a deputy to run things here in Hog Hurst. Alright? Of course it is. Now go and pack. I want you to go back to the Gray Kingdom tomorrow and gather up the first cohort. We¡¯ll leave in three days. Beautiful number, three.¡± Jonathan, feeling dazed at this turn of events, wandered back to the public house. There he found Cyrus, already deep in his cups at a table, with his detached wooden leg propped up against one of the chairs. Obilly Smallhat was with him, quietly enjoying a soup and ale that might well be one of his last as a free creature. The three ate their supper together, reminiscing on old times and old friends. And then, quite suddenly, they were joined by one of the latter. ¡°Cyrus Stoat!¡± came a voice from the door. Cyrus turned awkwardly in his chair and looked back, as did Jonathan. The man who had spoken was clean-shaven, with broad shoulders. He had a pleasing, if rather long, face. He wore the uniform of a post-rider, right down to the cap, and he carried a leather satchel at his side adorned with the brass plaque of the Merchants¡¯ Post. ¡°Rider!¡± roared Cyrus merrily. ¡°Michael Rider! Come in and join us! I was just telling Mr. Smallhat how I rescued you from certain death and consumption by his compatriots when I--¡± ¡°Cyrus,¡± interrupted the post rider, walking closer and lowering his voice. ¡°You¡¯re a father. Miss Snipe gave birth on the tenth of October. Congratulations, professor.¡± Cyrus froze, and gaped. A small trickle of beer flowed out of the corner of his mouth. ¡°What is it? I mean, which is it?¡± he asked, in a daze. ¡°A healthy baby boy, I understand,¡± replied Rider. ¡°She¡¯s named him Marius. And, uh, she sent me with a message. You can read it if you want, but it boils down to this: ¡®Get back here right now or I¡¯ll send assassins after you.¡¯ I¡¯m to take you myself; I brought a spare horse. We can leave immediately.¡± Cyrus looked at Jonathan. ¡°If it were me, I¡¯d be on the horse already,¡± Jonathan remarked. Cyrus bolted for the door. Chapter 37: Death, Metal Devi Valley, October 28th The long, windswept trough of Devi Valley stretched out below Jonathan like a stream of white-flecked green within a surrounding river of gold-flecked white. The snows had not yet settled in deeply on the ground, and the yellowed seed-tops of last year¡¯s grasses emerged from their frosted bed to bend and sway in the wind. The river¡ªa high tributary of the East Branch¡ªhad not yet frozen, but the rocks near the banks were capped in white. The two steep ridges that framed the valley to the west and east were likewise dusted with early snow, but their rocky features were still visible. On the opposite ridge¡ªthe east¡ªJonathan¡¯s eye caught a small, round building with a half-spherical dome, perched precariously at the top of a sheer cliff. High above this, barely visible against the leaden clouds, a triangular kite fluttered in the wind. He wondered what strange games the Snuggs were playing at. Since it was Rufus Snugg¡¯s operation, he concluded it must be devious, brilliant, and ethically questionable. In the center of the valley, straddling both sides of the turbulent river, was the small settlement of Beatrice. It had not been there when Jonathan last looked down at this valley, returning to Hog Hurst with Cyrus and Merrily more than two years ago. Though the new houses were mostly small, their heavy log construction promised a sturdy resilience against the harsh weather. Larger buildings, with the look of warehouses, dotted the riverbank on both sides, and a series of stone piers jutted out into the icy water on both banks. A ferry was tied up to one of these. It was, evidently, the only method of crossing the river. His mind clung to memories of his first view down on the valley, with Merrily. They had found love here, once upon a time; love born from shared thrill and despair, and then simply from love. He had resolved, here in this valley, to follow her to Green Bridge. All that history was waiting, down there, to pull him back into a past that he could never touch again. ¡°You can¡¯t go back,¡± he whispered to himself. A small, ambulatory heap of clothing, coming up to about Jonathan¡¯s waist, passed close beside him, interrupting his melancholy. ¡°Good day, Mr. Miller,¡± it said politely as it waddled past. Then another heap of clothing trundled by, and another. ¡°I didn¡¯t eat anyone at all today, Mr. Miller,¡± proclaimed one of the heaps in a tone of immense pride. ¡°Almost to the new cave home!¡± observed another self-propelled bundle. ¡°Will there be a sandwich bonus?¡± Jonathan nodded, smiling despite himself. Behind him, a long line of similar clothing heaps stretched out along the traversing path up the western slopes of the ridge. The odd mounds chattered as they trundled up the steep road, their Uellish delivered in a maniacal, lilting dialect peppered with good-natured threats and eye-watering curses. The heavily-wrapped grayskins moved with an energy and urgency that never failed to surprise Jonathan. For every day of their two-week journey along the emerging rail line from Hog Hurst, he had awakened before dawn to find that his was the last tent to be struck, and the rest of the diminutive gang were lined up and ready to march on. They slept only very briefly each night, generally heaped together in several giant piles near the campfires and emitting a thunderous collective snore. Jonathan resumed his pace, quickly catching up to the head of the line just as it was approaching a pair of Snugg sentries standing outside a small, cozy hut at the peak of the ridge. ¡°I¡¯m Jonathan¡ª¡± he began. ¡°Miller,¡± interrupted one of the two men. He had a black cloak over a chest plate of padded leather, and he carried both a long gun and a sword. A silver patch in the shape of a snake, curved to resemble the letter ¡°S,¡± was visible on his breast. His companion was similarly armed and attired. ¡°We¡¯ve been expecting you,¡± the other sentry added. ¡°The hawk-riders have been watching you for the last three days. Head down to the pier on the west bank, and the ferry will take your company across. Mr. Snugg wants to see you as soon as you get in. But before you go, you¡¯ve got another boss to answer to.¡± Jonathan looked around in confusion. Other than his goblins, there weren¡¯t any other people nearby. ¡°Is he very small?¡± asked Jonathan. ¡°Yes,¡± answered the first sentry. ¡°He is very small.¡± ¡°¡®T¡¯aint¡¯t tha¡¯ I¡¯m small,¡± came a tiny, piping voice from near the ground. ¡°¡®T¡¯s tha¡¯ yer a bloody great lumberin¡¯ oaf wi¡¯ all the perceptive aptitude of a mouse turd. Ye¡¯d best watch yer feet while yer in our valley, Jonathan Miller, or ye¡¯ll find a very small lance stuck in one of ¡®em.¡± Jonathan turned his eyes to the source of this overture, and found that it was Daven Dingeholt. The six-inch tall diplomat was perched on top of a badger, which glowered at Jonathan ferociously. Daven was heavily wrapped in furs against the cold¡ªand, true to his threat, he carried a silvery, needle-like lance. ¡°Sorry, Daven,¡± apologized Jonathan with a grin. ¡°I should have known better. Devi will never let me forget¡ª¡± He yelped suddenly, feeling a razor-sharp pin sticking into his back, through the fabric of his heavy pack. ¡°Er¡¡± he stumbled. ¡°Devi Valley¡ will never let me forget¡ to be polite to snarfs.¡± He resisted the urge to unsling the pack and give it a vigorous retaliatory shake. Daven stared at him suspiciously. ¡°Well,¡± he concluded, ¡°ye ain¡¯t gotten n¡¯better a¡¯ talkin¡¯. So I¡¯ll be especial patient-like whilst ye explain why yer leadin¡¯ e¡¯en more gobbos int¡¯ar valley. A whole army of¡¯em now, ¡®t looks like.¡± Jonathan blinked. ¡°Rufus didn¡¯t tell you?¡± he asked in surprise. A colorful scowl lit up Daven¡¯s tiny face. ¡°Rufus Snugg don¡¯t tell me much o¡¯ anythin¡¯,¡± he spat. ¡°They¡¯re here to work on the rail line,¡± explained Jonathan, some unseen bother tickling the back of his mind. ¡°Nobody¡¯s invading. What¡¯s wrong between you and Rufus? I thought the two of you got on well.¡± Daven turned his head to watch the line of goblins moving past, and then nudged the flanks of his badger mount, turning the animal to follow after the head of the line. Jonathan trailed after him. ¡°¡®Tis all gone ta¡¯ pot,¡± the snarf explained, his voice tinged with bitter sadness. ¡°Since Rufus pumped out the water in the deep mines, ¡®ee ain¡¯t had time ta¡¯ talk ta¡¯ us snarfs. Suddenly the Snuggs¡¯r all secrety-like, an don¡¯ wan¡¯ us around. Pulled out tha¡¯ piece o¡¯ paper ¡®at the lawyers made up, an¡¯ ¡®ee started goin¡¯ on about ¡®quiet enjoyment¡¯ and ¡®right ta exclude,¡¯ and other silly words. Our man Threespoons said i¡¯ was all legal an¡¯ proper, an¡¯ we mustn¡¯t make a fuss.¡± ¡°Rufus Snugg is very fond of his property rights,¡± observed Jonathan as they trudged along through the snow. ¡°But has he actually done anything that was against the terms of your deal?¡± ¡°No,¡± conceded Daven grudgingly. ¡°A¡¯ least, no¡¯ as I know about. But ¡®ees up ta¡¯ somethin¡¯ down there in the mines¡ªan¡¯ I wanna know what! Those mouse-shite steel finers ha¡¯ been smokin¡¯ up Great Roof somethin¡¯ awful since they started bringin¡¯ more coal from yer gobbo friends in the west, an¡¯ more o¡¯ our people are takin¡¯ off fer Refuge when they can¡¯t stand it no more. Every now an¡¯ then tha¡¯ twit Dadtoad Digdeep drops by ta¡¯ sneer an¡¯ ask if I wanna join ¡®em. An¡¯ now the Snuggs ¡®er doin¡¯ something secret-like down in the deep mines ¡®at used ta¡¯ be underwater. What¡¯s ¡®ee gonna do next, Jonathan? Blow up the ridge? ¡®Ee¡¯s mad, if ye ask me. First pumpin¡¯ out the deep mines, as should have been rightly left alone, an¡¯ now flyin¡¯ aroun¡¯ like ¡®ee was a hawk rider, distractin¡¯ our patrols¡ª¡± ¡°Wait,¡± interrupted Jonathan. ¡°Can you say that again? I got a bit lost in your brogue.¡± ¡°Not right in the ¡®ead,¡± said Daven, slowly and precisely. ¡°Pumpin¡¯ out the deep mines. Smokin¡¯ up our home. Flyin¡¯ around in our sky.¡± Jonathan stopped walking and stared at him. Daven reined in the badger and looked up at him questioningly. ¡°Flying,¡± repeated Jonathan. ¡°Aye,¡± confirmed Daven. ¡°Not well. Not graceful-like. Had a couple o¡¯ bad landin¡¯s ¡®at gave us all a good laugh. But aye, flyin¡¯.¡± ¡°And how, exactly, is Rufus Snugg flying?¡± asked Jonathan, still not quite believing it. A look of extravagant resignation came over Daven¡¯s face, and he rolled his eyes in the direction of the distant kite that Jonathan had spotted over the domed building on the eastern ridge. The broad red triangle was circling deliberately, wavering but resisting the wind; it appeared to ride up on the gusts, allowing itself to be buffeted without losing its balance, and then dipped down, using gravity and glide to propel itself against the motion of the air. It didn¡¯t move at all like a kite. And there was something round suspended beneath it. ¡°¡®Tis th¡¯ most unnatural nonsense I¡¯ve ever seen,¡± grumbled Daven. ¡°But if ¡®ee don¡¯t break his neck landin¡¯ tha¡¯ contraption first, I reckon ¡®ee¡¯ll find a way ta¡¯ fly up an¡¯ touch the sun.¡± ??? Rufus Snugg descended from on high, swooping toward the ridgetop at an apparently lethal speed as Jonathan watched in horror. Next to him, Gretchen Pickle observed the approaching disaster placidly. ¡°He¡¯s going to die!¡± proclaimed Jonathan. ¡°Probably,¡± she agreed. The broad triangle of red fabric swooped closer. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t we try to catch him?¡± inquired Jonathan, watching as his prospects for professional advancement hurtled toward a sudden and probably squelching conclusion. ¡°And get crushed ourselves?¡± replied Gunnar von Boof with deep skepticism. ¡°Not likely.¡± A pair of hawks flew nonchalantly alongside the rapidly descending craft, their snarf riders watching in evident interest as Rufus Snugg plummeted toward destiny. At the last second, with the flying wing just ten feet from the ground, there was a flash of smoke and fire from the nose of the triangle and it tipped upward sharply. With the plane of its wings suddenly perpendicular to its angle of descent, the craft wobbled wildly and jerked to a sudden deceleration. The frame of the left wing snapped, plunging that side downward into a sudden, spinning final descent. The entire contraption came to a crunching stop on the thin, ice-crusted soil of the hilltop. A faint moan could be heard from underneath it. ¡°Best landing yet,¡± remarked Gunnar. ¡°Only one of the wings broke,¡± agreed Gretchen. ¡°Let¡¯s see if the pilot broke as well.¡± Jonathan, Gretchen, and Gunnar moved forward and dragged the wreckage of the glider away from Rufus, as the two hawks continued to circle curiously just above the scene. ¡°Brilliant!¡± exclaimed Rufus, popping awkwardly up from the carnage of his craft. The ruthless merchant scion that Jonathan knew appeared to have transformed into something resembling a brown snowman. His body was obscured under a shapeless outfit of massively padded clothing, and a huge, spherical helmet of cotton-padded leather adorned his head. His arms were so enormously bundled that he could barely move them. Gretchen and Gunnar began undoing the straps that held his padding in place, causing huge wads of cotton and wool to spring out from inside the nearly-formless sack that protected his body. ¡°The retro-thruster was nearly perfect, Gunnar,¡± Rufus went on enthusiastically. His face was lit up by a huge, boyish grin. ¡°You just need to make it burn slower so I can fire it earlier. Then I expect the shock of it won¡¯t snap the frame.¡± ¡°Making a pot of gunpowder burn slower is no easy matter,¡± grumbled Gunnar, zipping down the front of his employer¡¯s cocoon and allowing him to step out of the protective wrapping. Beneath it, Rufus wore a rumpled business suit, complete with a heavily-creased cravat. ¡°All the powder wants to go off at once,¡± the engineer concluded. ¡°Maybe if you put the powder in a tube made of steel,¡± suggested Gretchen, ¡°you could persuade only the part at the front of the tube to go bang. And then the bits behind it would go off once the front part had blown away.¡± Rufus appeared to notice Jonathan for the first time. ¡°Jonathan Miller!¡± he exclaimed in evident pleasure. ¡°Have you brought my miracle workers yet?¡± ¡°I have,¡± answered Jonathan. ¡°But they¡¯re not miraculous enough to keep you alive if you fall out of that thing. What on earth are you doing riding a kite into the sky? I¡¯ve heard about your adventure with the balloon, but a kite seems excessive.¡± Rufus clapped him on the shoulder, leading him back toward the square tunnel entrance that led from the ridgetop down into the finery system. ¡°It¡¯s not a kite,¡± he explained. ¡°It¡¯s a glider. This one was our fifth prototype, in fact. And it¡¯s a marvel, Jonathan. A miracle! Not much longer will my reach exceed my grasp. Gretchen and Gunnar together have made a true miracle. I can fly for minutes at a time; sometimes more. The snarfs have been teaching me how their hawks find thermals to ride on, and I can use them to gain altitude and then dip down.¡± ¡°Landing seems to be giving you some difficulty,¡± observed Jonathan. ¡°Pish,¡± snorted Rufus derisively, ¡°and posh. Any landing you walk away from is a success.¡± ¡°Why,¡± Jonathan repeated, ¡°are you trying to fly?¡± Rufus stopped and stood in front of him, looking squarely into his eyes. ¡°Because it is magic, Jonathan. To escape the bonds of the earth, if only for a short time; to soar with the hawks; to master the world below; it is to become, ever so briefly, like a god.¡± Jonathan shook his head. ¡°Why do you need to be a god, Rufus? You have more money than God already.¡± Rufus barked a laugh. ¡°Right again! But for all that money, I¡¯ve never yet bought the thrill of floating above the earth. I only discovered it by accident in the balloon incident two years ago. But alright, my friend¡ªif you must destroy the romance of my personal apotheosis, consider this. The ability to rapidly move men and goods overland without concern for the dangers and impediments on the ground creates a strategic advantage over opponents both commercial and military. If we can master the magic of flight, let Leadfeather and Wallacewog look to their pocketbooks¡ªand let Hobb the Wise and his goons find another kingdom to loot.¡± There was a faint grumbling from inside Jonathan¡¯s backpack, but he ignored it. Jonathan looked back over his shoulder, across Devi Valley, at the rough path of the rail line taking shape up the flank of the opposite ridge. ¡°Isn¡¯t it enough to invent a steam-powered engine?¡± he muttered. ¡°Life is short enough without going up in the air on a kite with explosives strapped to the front of it.¡± Rufus looked at him slyly. ¡°Life is too short, Jonathan,¡± he said, ¡°to not learn to fly.¡± ??? It was late when Jonathan made his way back to the river to collect his goblin workers, and later still when he got them settled into an abandoned tunnel in the old iron mines. Though Jonathan found the environment dark, damp, and unpleasant, the goblins chortled and smiled as if the arrangements were cozy and welcoming. They placed their campfires to maximize the draught of smoke outward, carefully set out their meager personal belongings, and then fell to dinner with gusto when the Snugg mess staff appeared with heaping trays of meat, steamed vegetables, and fresh bread. Jonathan had taken the precaution of writing ahead with the provisioning requirements for his new workforce, and was pleased to see that Rufus had heeded his cautions that food be provided in abundance. Satisfied that his charges were in no immediate danger of collective feral degeneration, he made his way wearily back to the town of Beatrice along the eastern riverbank. A small room had been made up for him in a private house next to one of the barracks. Jonathan withdrew Devi secretly from his pack, and they ate a private supper together. Then, with his miniature bodyguard already snoring in a tiny bedroll in one drawer of the bedstand, Jonathan collapsed into bed himself, not even bothering to change clothes. As he ruminated on his many worries, his eyes fluttering closed and his mind starting to drift away, there appeared perversely in his brain an echo of the testy conversation with Daven earlier in the day. Well, ye ain¡¯t gotten n¡¯better a¡¯ talkin¡¯. So I¡¯ll be especial patient-like while ye explain why yer leadin¡¯ e¡¯en more gobbos into our valley. A whole army of¡¯em, ¡®t looks like. ¡°Even more goblins,¡± he said aloud into the darkness. Only Devi¡¯s snores answered him. ¡°More goblins,¡± he said again, struggling to think through the implications. Then he pounded hard on the bedstand, eliciting an explosively foul, if high-pitched, curse from within. ¡°I need to talk to Daven!¡± he hissed to Devi. ¡°How do I find him?¡± ??? The night was unusually calm as Jonathan climbed the narrow human-path up the eastern ridge. Though Devi Valley was known for its near-constant wind, tonight barely a breath of air tickled his skin. Only a sliver of moon glimmered in the sky, but the vast canopy of stars overhead gave him enough light to see the path. The effort of climbing the steep slope soon warmed him, warding off the chill air of a late-October night. ¡°Up thar¡ªtake th¡¯ little path off ta¡¯ th¡¯ right,¡± directed Devi quietly from over his shoulder. Rather than riding in the pouch in his sash, she had insisted on staying just inside his pack, where it was harder to spot her. Jonathan followed her directions, clambering up a steep, rocky notch toward the crest of the ridge. At the top, there appeared suddenly a small light near the ground. As he drew closer, he saw that this came from a narrow window in an odd, circular hut with its half-sphere dome, perched at the highest point on the ridge. It was, he realized, the small building that caught his eye earlier as he stood on the opposite ridgeline. The door opened and the form of a woman entered, briefly silhouetted against the light from within. Her body was rather broad, and her gray hair was pulled back in a messy bun. Jonathan caught a brief glimpse of a face he didn¡¯t recognize. Then the door shut, and he turned back to the task at hand. ¡°The hawks nest o¡¯er thar,¡± directed Devi. ¡°Watch out; the crack opens up real sudden, an¡¯ a clumsy oaf like ye is like ta¡¯ fall down in¡¯it. Be a right mess, an¡¯ disturb the hawks somethin¡¯ mighty.¡± Jonathan felt forward with one foot at time until he at least found the steep drop-off into the chasm that formed a mews for the snarfs¡¯ hawk flights. He pulled back, then called into the darkness: ¡°Hey you!¡± There was a startled silence below him. ¡°Hey! Whoever¡¯s on duty down there! This is Jonathan Miller. Please tell Daven Dingeholt I need to talk with him right away.¡± ¡°Why should I?¡± came a high-pitched voice from below. ¡°I brought beer.¡± He pulled out a sealed flask, opened the top, and poured out a bit on the ground. ¡°Ho now!¡± replied the voice from below. ¡°Don¡¯t be pourin¡¯ good beer out on¡¯ the rock, ye daft big-man. I kin smell ¡®er well enough. Hold yer mice there, an¡¯ I¡¯ll go an¡¯ fetch Daven. An¡¯ if ye drink the beer while I¡¯m gone, I¡¯ll poke yer eyes ou¡¯ in the dark.¡± Jonathan sat back, closing the flask. ¡°Your friends, Devi,¡± he remarked, ¡°are all charming and well-adjusted. There¡¯s not one psychopath among them.¡± He felt a prick against the side of his neck, as the tiny lance pressed against his skin. ¡°If ye speak another word abou¡¯ me while we¡¯re out ¡®ere, Jonathan Miller,¡± she said matter-of-factly, ¡°then Digit down there won¡¯ have ta¡¯ bother wi¡¯ yer eyes, cause I¡¯ll already ¡®ave fed ¡®em ta¡¯ the ¡®awks.¡± Jonathan spent many minutes seated on a profoundly uncomfortable rock, shivering under the cold and brilliant stars. Eventually, there came a faint rustling from ground level, and his eyes picked out the tiny forms of two snarfs outlined against a patch of icy snow. ¡°Give th¡¯ man ¡®is beer, Jonathan,¡± instructed Daven. ¡°An¡¯ save some fer me, fer me trouble comin¡¯ out in the freezin¡¯ night.¡± Jonathan carefully poured out the flask into a pewter mug that he¡¯d brought along, and then knelt low to address Daven at something like eye level. The other snarf¡ªDigit, evidently¡ªstuck his head into the pewter cup and began to slurp away happily. ¡°Ye¡¯ve gone ta¡¯ some trouble to come an¡¯ find me, Jonathan,¡± observed Daven. ¡°I¡¯m sure neither of us is keen as a good mushroom trip ta¡¯ be out ¡®ere a¡¯ night. So wha¡¯ is it ye want to tell me?¡± ¡°What other goblins?¡± he asked bluntly. ¡°Come agin?¡± ¡°This morning you said I¡¯d brought more goblins to Devi Valley. I¡¯ve never brought even a single goblin here before, and neither has Snugg, as far as I know. What other goblins have been here?¡± ¡°Ye don¡¯ know?¡± asked Daven in evident surprise. ¡°I figgered ¡®ee was one o¡¯ yers. Yer the only big fella I know who¡¯s on good terms wi¡¯ gobbos.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± said Jonathan, ¡°but I very much want to.¡± Daven shrugged. ¡°¡®Twas near exact a month ago, as the Snuggs put it. Th¡¯ moon looked about th¡¯ same in th¡¯ sky, ¡®t any rate. Thar was jes one; little gray feller, come up ta¡¯ jes about yer belt. Nights wairn¡¯t so cold then, an¡¯ he wairn¡¯t wearin¡¯ much; a bit of a smock, an¡¯ nothin¡¯ on ¡®is ¡®ead. I dinnay whether th¡¯ Snuggs knew abou¡¯ ¡®im, but ¡®ee was on ¡®is own. If we was on speakin¡¯ terms, Rufus Snugg an¡¯ I, then I migh¡¯ ¡®ave asked¡ªbut we ain¡¯t, so I ¡®aven¡¯t.¡± ¡°Where did you see the goblin? And where did he go?¡± ¡°¡®Awk riders spotted ¡®im as ¡®ee came across the western ridge,¡± answered Daven. ¡°We sent badger scouts ta¡¯ keep an eye on him after tha¡¯. ¡®Ee crossed the river pretty far upstream, away from th¡¯ Snugg village. Looked like ¡®ee was tryin¡¯ not ta¡¯ git caught. Made ¡®is way up ta¡¯ the ridge at night, right where we¡¯re standin¡¯ now. And then ¡®ee went inta¡¯ tha¡¯ upper entrance tha¡¯ you used when ye came out this afternoon.¡± ¡°Did you follow him inside?¡± ¡°Well now, Jonathan, we aint¡¯ s¡¯possed to go in th¡¯ ¡®uman tunnels, are we? Property rights an¡¯ quiet enjoyment an¡¯ all tha.¡¯¡± Jonathan shook his head in impatience. ¡°I won¡¯t tell Rufus. I promise. Whatever he¡¯s got down in the deep mines, it doesn¡¯t involve me. I just need to know everything you can tell me about that goblin.¡± Daven rubbed a hand on his chin. ¡°I reckin¡¯ yer a man o¡¯ yer word, Jonathan. Ye ain¡¯t ne¡¯er played us wrong before, whate¡¯er I might say about th¡¯ scoundrels ¡®at came after ye. So yes¡ªI followed ¡®im in. Did it meself, jes in case I got caught. They¡¯d ¡®ave a ¡®ard time puttin¡¯ me in a barrel ta¡¯ drown, like they did Devi; they¡¯d all wake up dead th¡¯ next mornin¡¯.¡± ¡°The Snuggs didn¡¯t drown Devi,¡± insisted Jonathan¡ªnoting with some inward amusement that Daven was doubly wrong. ¡°You can¡¯t hold them responsible for the crimes of the White Knights.¡± Daven shrugged. ¡°All ye big folk are the same in th¡¯end, Jonathan. We never shoulda made that deal. But we ain¡¯t talkin¡¯ abou¡¯ time travel ¡®ere, are we? Ye wanted to know about the gobbo. Well, yes. I followed ¡®im in. ¡®Ee was real careful-like, stayin¡¯ well away from big-folk any time ¡®ee ¡®eard ¡®em. Didn¡¯t seem ta¡¯ need a light, either; went through some of the unlit sections of th¡¯ upper complex wi¡¯out slowin¡¯ down a bit.¡± Jonathan nodded. ¡°Goblins can mostly see in the dark. Comes of being a cave-dwelling race, I suppose. Where did he go?¡± In the starlit night, outlined against the icy rime on the ridgetop, Daven¡¯s expression was unreadable. He was silent for a moment. ¡°¡®Ee went inta tha¡¯ thaird vault,¡± came the answer, spoken softly. ¡°Shut the door, so¡¯s I cunnay get in.¡± ¡°How long did he stay?¡± ¡°I dinnay. Troop o¡¯ Snugg men came by after a bit, an¡¯ I skedaddled. Ne¡¯er saw the gobbo agin. Fer all I know, ¡®ees still in thar.¡± ??? The vault level of the System A complex consisted of a long, broad hall leading from, at one end, the library and stairway down, to, at the other, an opening into the enormous shaft directly above the sulfurous vent chamber. Scaffolding, recently constructed by Professor Weaselbeer-Yourfork¡¯s archaeologists, allowed access to a labyrinthine nest of tunnels and chambers about thirty feet above, cut into the solid bones of the ridge. Who had carved out these upper chambers, or why, remained even less understood than nearly any other space in the enormous three-part complex¡ªsave only the vaults themselves. The vaults were the home of dead and alien things. The hall was black. No archaeologists or librarians with their, tiny, impertinent lights disturbed the massive, crypt-like serenity. Jonathan walked down it slowly, holding his own lantern high and taking little comfort in the presence of tiny Devi in his pack. She had remained in a near-permanent state of obscurity since their arrival, and did not rouse herself to comfort him in the dark. He was alone.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. Jonathan counted the massive, arched openings as he walked past them; all on his left. He peered inside each one as he counted it. The hulking shapes of quiet, unknowable artifacts lurked inside. He caught a glimpse of tubes, pipes, rows of irregular, blocky shapes; and other shapes that more closely resembled the skeletons of men, though with oddly distorted proportions. If Snugg had clues to their purpose or meaning, no one had shared it with Jonathan Miller. Their complexity and otherness left him with a creeping dread that his rational mind could not explain away. Snugg, he thought, must know about this place. They must have translated something. They must have theories. He counted vaults as he moved past them, until he reached the one. A small wooden placard just by the floor proclaimed, in simple, blocky Uellish letters: ¡°Vault Three.¡± Swallowing his fear, Jonathan stepped through the door. His lamp cast light, but illuminated little. A tall structure ran down the center of the room, studded with embrasures, flanges, tubes, and cables. The ceiling of the vault was outside his view, and the central structure stretched up at least fifteen feet; he could not clearly make out its upper surface. Some distance along its length, a cluster of thick, knotty cables ran up into the darkness. The space around the thing was mostly empty, with perhaps ten feet of clearance to the wall on all sides. A lump or two of decayed metal along the perimeter suggested that there once might have been additional features, now lost to time. The silence was oppressive, and a faint odor of rust tickled his nose. ¡°Devi,¡± he whispered. But she did not answer. His eye caught a glimpse of sparkling light from somewhere inside the strange edifice. But just as he began to look closer, trying to discern if it was a reflection or some other light source, a faint hint of sound from behind him made him jump and whirl. Something was in the room with him. He backed away from where he thought he¡¯d heard the sound, breathing in the iron taste of the air and feeling his heartrate soar. Nameless and Terrible Things gathered in the darkness beyond his paltry lamplight. There was another sound, closer, and Jonathan froze, utterly petrified. It had come from behind him. He forced himself to turn, his knees wobbling. A face entered his field of view. It was wrinkled, and illuminated from beneath by the yellow light of an oil lamp. It was a woman¡¯s face; rather plain, old, and a bit round. Jonathan blinked, and waited to die. ¡°Mr. Miller, I presume?¡± said the woman¡¯s mouth. He shivered, but forced himself to speak to the demon who had come to kill him. ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry to frighten you.¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°My name is Agaberth Tentimes.¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°Now Mr. Miller, you¡¯ve had a bad fright. Come along out of this haunted old place, and up to the observatory. I saw you come in, and followed along to find out what you were about. But I feel badly that I¡¯ve put you out of your senses, so let me make you a cup of tea and settle you down.¡± He followed mutely as Tentimes led him back down the wide, dark corridor with its horrible vault entrances, up a steep stair in the scaffolding, through the narrow corridors in the level above, and eventually out into the frigid night air. Jonathan felt as if he¡¯d walked out of a prison and breathed deep despite the sting of the cold. Tentimes kept going, though, and he followed quickly. She opened the single door to the round hut, letting a wave of heat and light escape. Inside was a broad, round room, with a cast iron coal stove in one corner and several lamps. A strange contraption, comprised of a series of increasingly narrow tubes joined together, protruded down from the ceiling. This ceiling, he saw, was made not of wood or thatch, but of canvas, liked a tent. Furthermore, it could be unbuttoned to open different panels. The telescope¡ªfor Jonathan had read enough adventure novels to slowly remember what the business end of a telescope looked like¡ªwas set on wooden skids, and could be moved around the room to sit beneath different openings in the ceiling. ¡°Sit down, Mr. Miller,¡± said Tentimes, gesturing at one of two wood-framed chairs with seats of woven rushes. There was a tiny table with teacups and saucers, and a kettle was venting steam on top of the coal stove. She scooped tea leaves directly into the cups rather clumsily, then poured the hot water over them, sloshing it on the saucers. ¡°Damn. I¡¯m afraid I¡¯m not much of a hostess. I keep the tea up here to stay awake. Don¡¯t get many visitors, even from the Snuggs. Man dining alone may be a barbarian, but woman taking tea alone¡ is a man.¡± Jonathan had by now unwound his mind sufficiently from the precipice of hideous death to attempt a multi-syllabic query. ¡°What are you doing up here?¡± She raised an eyebrow. ¡°You¡¯ve never seen a telescope before?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve seen woodcuts.¡± ¡°What do you imagine I¡¯m doing with this large telescope, at night, on top of a mountain? I¡¯ll give you a hint: It¡¯s not sex, but it does rhyme with ¡®salami.¡¯¡± ¡°I imagine you¡¯re looking at the stars.¡± She sniffed. ¡°Peasants look at the stars, Mr. Miller. I am measuring the distances between them.¡± He picked up the tea, but she swatted his hand with a spoon. ¡°It¡¯s not ready yet. Even a barbarian waits for his tea to steep. Now it¡¯s your turn, Miller. What are you doing up here?¡± ¡°Wait. How do you know me?¡± Tentimes snorted. ¡°Your wife is famous. I¡¯ve seen you dragging along behind her at Triad. And I do read the company dispatches; they told us all that Mr. Jonathan Miller would be arriving with a load of goblins, and not to kill or molest any of you unnecessarily. That¡¯s two questions I¡¯ve answered, and zero for you.¡± ¡°Did they really say ¡®molest¡¯? And ¡®unnecessarily¡¯?¡± ¡°No more answers until you even the score, Miller.¡± He sipped at the tea, watching carefully to see if the sharp-tongued astronomer would swat his hand again. She did not. The hot, energizing drink settled his frazzled nerves, and he took another sip before setting the cup down. ¡°I was looking for a goblin,¡± he answered her earlier question. ¡°Did you lose one already? You¡¯ve only just arrived.¡± ¡°Not one of mine,¡± he replied, shaking his head. ¡°Another goblin. He¡ªwell, he ran away. I thought maybe he¡¯d come here.¡± ¡°What makes you think that?¡± ¡°The snarfs saw a goblin go into Vault Three at night, a month ago. It just about fits with when he disappeared, if he¡¯d made straight for Devi Valley.¡± She sat back in her chair, musing. ¡°Vault Three is an interesting destination for a goblin fugitive. Did you see the light?¡± He looked up sharply. ¡°Yes. I thought my eyes were playing tricks.¡± She shook her head. ¡°No. There¡¯s a light on the inside of the¡ whatever it is. It never flickers, and never goes out. Can¡¯t possibly be a candle or a lamp; it¡¯s been there since Snugg surveyed the place, and I had a look at it when I got here this summer, too.¡± ¡°Why don¡¯t you open up the enclosure and find out what¡¯s in it?¡± She snorted. ¡°Maybe you were too busy wetting yourself to get a good look at that room, but the thing in there¡ªaround the light¡ªis massive. Almost all metal. And not just iron or steel, but some kind of alloy that Gunnar can¡¯t identify. Fantastically strong, and probably impossible to pry apart. Anyway, Rufus has forbidden his people from disassembling or destroying anything in the Vaults. Says we¡¯d never get it back together again. I suppose he¡¯s right, but I don¡¯t understand quite why he cares. He¡¯s taken apart plenty of other priceless artifacts to see how they work.¡± ¡°Did you see a goblin?¡± he asked. ¡°Before your lot? No. Is this fugitive a friend of yours?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Jonathan mused, ¡°I suppose he is. But the real problem is that all the other goblins badly need him to come back.¡± She shrugged. ¡°Lousy argument to convince someone on the run to turn around. Now look, Miller. I have actual work to do up here. You¡¯re welcome to sit and enjoy the tea and the fire, but I have a sky full of stars that need attending to.¡± Tentimes shook her head. ¡°And one lost sheep,¡± she added to herself in an absent-minded mutter. He sipped at the tea. ¡°What¡¯s the lost sheep?¡± ¡°There¡¯s a star out of place,¡± she mumbled in response, one eye already pressed to the finderscope. ¡°I call it my lost sheep, because it wanders around like one.¡± A number of dots connected themselves in Jonathan¡¯s brain. ¡°Tentimes. Professor Tentimes? Of the Astronomy Department at Triad University?¡± She glared at him over the finderscope. ¡°Of course I¡¯m a professor. Even Rufus Snugg wouldn¡¯t give a rig like this to an amateur.¡± Jonathan sat up straight in excitement. ¡°Then you knew Rolly! You worked with him this summer, before¡ª¡± He trailed off, thinking hard. ¡°Before you fled the city,¡± he concluded. ¡°And he was murdered.¡± ¡°I have an alibi,¡± she said dryly. ¡°I was hundreds of miles away, on top of a mountain, looking at the stars. There are witnesses.¡± ¡°Nobody thinks you killed Rolly,¡± he scoffed. ¡°But do you know why he was killed?¡± ¡°I have no idea,¡± she answered, a hint of sadness creeping into her sardonic tone. ¡°He was as gentle as a peanut. I can¡¯t think of anyone who disliked him, and it¡¯s inconceivable to me that he¡¯d fall in with criminals. Triad paid him a decent salary, and he picked up extra working for Snugg.¡± Jonathan sat up suddenly. ¡°I didn¡¯t know that. What did he do for Snugg?¡± She shrugged. ¡°I don¡¯t know either, exactly; he was very closed about it. Something rather complex, though. He mentioned it once or twice in passing. Said Veridia Snipe was driving him like a pack mule.¡± ¡°I think,¡± he said slowly, ¡°that Veridia Snipe has been keeping things from me.¡± ¡°She does that,¡± replied Tentimes, turning back to the finderscope. ¡°Get used to it. That woman keeps secrets like you keep interrupting me. And she¡¯s got more of them than Hobb the Wise. When she told me to drop what I was doing and come out here, I was on a coach within the hour, no questions asked. They sent me my things and circulated some nonsense about visiting family in Roosterfoot.¡± ¡°When was that?¡± he asked. ¡°The twenty-seventh of June,¡± she replied. ¡°Now really, Miller, you must let me work. I haven¡¯t had a good clear night like this in weeks. I have to take down measurements on my lost sheep.¡± Jonathan pulled his leather-bound appointment book out of his pack, flipped to an empty page, and wrote notes. ¡°Thank you, Professor,¡± he said, rising to his feet. ¡°I won¡¯t trouble you any more tonight.¡± ??? The next morning, Jonathan groggily hauled himself out of bed, dressed, ate a quick breakfast of hot porridge, crossed the river, and ascended the western ridge to check on the goblin work crews. He found them busily clearing loose rock from the path of the planned rail traverse. Though they were still bundled absurdly, they swung shovels, pickaxes, and hammers with vigor, singing a thumping, rhythmic chant in their own tongue as they worked. A well-stocked mess wagon at the foot of the path emitted the smells of a savory bean stew, and the work crews took it in turns to go to the wagon in small, organized groups to be fed. These then marched happily back up the slope to resume their labors, and another group came down to the food. A gang of heavily-armed Snugg guards stood by the mess wagon, eyeing the grayskins dubiously. ¡°Just keep the grub coming,¡± Jonathan instructed their leader, ¡°and they won¡¯t give you any trouble.¡± The soldier shook his head in disapproval. ¡°This¡¯ll end badly,¡± he predicted. ¡°Their type and ours ain¡¯t meant to mix.¡± Jonathan made a note of the soldier¡¯s name in his book, with a reminder to have Rufus reassign him. At the highest point that the crews had yet reached, he found the heavily-wrapped form of Arthur, the engineer. He was one of three Quiet Ones that Jonathan had brought along, in the hope that they might be able to mediate any trouble that arose between their cousins and humans. ¡°Mr. Miller!¡± Arthur exclaimed warmly, seeing the young man approach. ¡°I hope your friends in the valley have more for us to do than just clearing the traverse. We¡¯ll have this side of the slope done in a week, and the other side in another week. I don¡¯t want this lot to get bored,¡± he added, nodding affectionately at the goblins down the slope. ¡°Take your time,¡± Jonathan advised. ¡°Pay attention to the details. Even clearing rock and ice has to be done right.¡± Arthur snorted. ¡°If you think I don¡¯t know how to do a proper excavation job, Mr. Miller, then go back to the Gray Kingdom and look at the new mines. As long as they keep my goblins fed, we¡¯ll get it done.¡± Jonathan nodded in approval. ¡°After that, they¡¯ll have you lay the rail and ties. They may need some of you to help with mining the iron ore, and perhaps in the finery. If that doesn¡¯t keep you out of trouble for the winter, I expect they¡¯ll put you to work on the bridge over the river.¡± ¡°Now that,¡± said Arthur with a smile, ¡°is a challenge I look forward to. But I want a word with Snugg¡¯s architects, if you don¡¯t mind. I¡¯m curious about the design. It¡¯s a short span, but judging by the angle at which we¡¯re building this traverse, they¡¯re planning for a relatively high load rating.¡± Jonathan returned the smile. ¡°One thing at a time. But I¡¯ll have a word with Rufus, and see what can be done.¡± ¡°You can tell him I have a few ideas for his glider, as well,¡± added Arthur with what Jonathan took, beneath the layers of scarves and hats, to be a wink. He started to turn back to the nearby work crew, straining to shift an ice-rimed boulder. But then he faced Jonathan again, and drew him a few feet further away from the other goblins. ¡°There¡¯s more than iron ore coming out of that mine,¡± Arthur said, lowering his voice. ¡°The tunnels where they told us to camp are well out of the way, but I went for a little walk last night while the others slept. There¡¯s one tunnel where they¡¯ve posted guards all hours. And there are people working down there. I saw men coming past with heavy sacks on poles. Why post all the guards, just for another ore vein? And I saw other people come and go, too¡ªnot miners, but the sort of people who spend their time reading and writing.¡± Arthur carefully wrapped one hand in his handkerchief, then reached into his pocket and drew out a small lump of black metal. It was pitch black, and irregularly shaped. The metal seemed to suck up light, reflecting none at all back to Jonathan¡¯s eyes. It looked oddly heavy in Arthur¡¯s gray palm. ¡°This is what they¡¯re bringing out,¡± the goblin stated. ¡°One of the workers let it fall, and I took it when nobody was looking.¡± He took his wrapped hand away, and the black lump of metal hung in the air for a moment, suspended, before slowly, reluctantly drifting down to the ground. It did not bounce on the cold rock, but simply stuck. Jonathan stared silently, eyes wide in amazement. Arthur stooped to pick up the lump of ore, wrapped it in the handkerchief, and slipped it back into his pocket. ¡°I don¡¯t want trouble, Mr. Miller. I won¡¯t ask questions. But maybe you should.¡± ??? ¡°Dispatches,¡± announced Elizabeth Karn, laying a stack of papers on Jonathan¡¯s desk. He sighed. Snugg¡¯s paperwork followed him around like a lost puppy. ¡°Do you need help with the decryption?¡± she asked politely. Jonathan blushed, and nodded. Despite his best efforts, he still struggled laboriously with even the simplest of Snugg¡¯s encryption ciphers. Elizabeth Karn, the chief linguist among the many researchers that Snugg employed in Devi Valley, was a slim young woman in her late twenties. She had straight, shoulder-length brown hair, green eyes, and thin fingers. Her expression was perpetually serious, and her large spectacles gave her a bookish, slightly forbidding air. She reminded Jonathan of a younger, less carnivorous Veridia Snipe. Miss Karn seated herself gracefully across the table from Jonathan and began shuffling through the mail. Jonathan watched her for a moment, and then looked away rather awkwardly when she glanced up at him. She suddenly stopped, raised one delicate eyebrow, and handed a small, rolled piece of paper to Jonathan. ¡°This one is in cleartext,¡± she declared in surprise. ¡°No ciphers. Addressed to you personally.¡± Jonathan took the small slip of paper, opened it, and read. He instantly recognized Merrily¡¯s graceful, compact handwriting. Dear Jonathan, it began. Merrily never called him Jonathan.
I hope you are well, wherever Snugg has sent you. I am on an errand for the Queen, and it may take several months. I expect we won¡¯t see each other until after the new year. Perhaps longer.His heart began to sink in his chest.
It was a mistake for us to be married, Jonathan. I¡¯m sorry. We had better end it properly when we can. I¡¯ll take care of the details with the Queen. Good luck in whatever you do. Sincerely, MerrilyJonathan felt a cold wash of panicked unreality slide around him. This couldn¡¯t be real. It was the wrong branch. Follow the Bright Path, he mumbled in the fey-speech. But nothing changed. No vision of that elusive golden cord materialized in his vision. No alternatives appeared, in which he didn¡¯t hold this piece of paper. It was gone. ¡°Mr. Miller?¡± asked Miss Karn, across the table from him. He looked down at the simple, cheap, unstained wood of the tabletop. It wasn¡¯t real. ¡°I¡¯ll come find you later,¡± he said. ¡°If you don¡¯t mind. Please excuse me, Miss Karn.¡± With a look of compassion, she stood up and left the room. He put his forehead down on the table and waited to wake up. But there was no waking. ??? ¡°Don¡¯ drink,¡± said Devi, sitting on an upturned cup in front of him. Jonathan, his eyes puffy, stared down at the table just in front of her. A man brought a bottle of something very strong, just as he¡¯d asked. He pulled the cork out of the bottle. ¡°Do not,¡± she repeated emphatically. ¡°Ye cain¡¯t drink now. No¡¯ now, no¡¯ fer some time, Jonathan. Everythin¡¯s shite now, but it¡¯ll be shite on fire if ye stairt drinkin¡¯.¡± He reached for the bottle anyway, and she stabbed him vigorously in the hand. He cursed and drew his hand back, nursing it. ¡°Ye¡¯ll thank me, one day,¡± she said. ¡°Mebbe tomorrow. Mebbe next year. Trust me, Jonathan, I¡¯ve ¡®ad me ¡®eart stomped too. Drink makes¡¯t worse, na better. What ye need is a mess ta clean up. Somethin¡¯ ta¡¯ focus on, what ain¡¯t yer broken soul.¡± ¡°What,¡± he asked, his voice still quavering badly, ¡°did you have in mind?¡± ¡°Go an¡¯ fin¡¯ out what¡¯s in tha¡¯ deep mine the Snuggs pumped ou¡¯,¡± she suggested. Jonathan proposed that Devi be inserted into a somewhat different variety of deep mine, located within the nearest available donkey. His language was considerably colored by long acquaintance with Cyrus Stoat, and, I am sorry to say, largely unfit for publication. ¡°Why,¡± he asked in conclusion, ¡°are the bowels of System C any more relevant?¡± ¡°One,¡± she began. ¡°Because Rufus Snugg don¡¯ want Daven an¡¯ my folk ta¡¯ know, and that¡¯ makes it interestin¡¯ an¡¯ probably dangerous. Two, because yer gobbo friend Simon came ou¡¯ this way lookin¡¯ fer something,¡¯ and wha¡¯s in them mines might well shed some light on¡¯t. Three, any secret kept by someone else is worth findin¡¯ out. An¡¯ most impairtant, ye need ta¡¯ git outta this hut and out o¡¯ yer mind in a way that don¡¯t involve puttin¡¯ booze in yer brain. So figger out what¡¯s in them mines, afore I have ta¡¯ stab ye somewhere that¡¯ll hurt more¡¯n yer hands.¡± He threw the mug at her, which she dodged nimbly. ¡°Do tha¡¯ again,¡± she observed, ¡°and we¡¯ll see which o¡¯ us fairst gets shoved up a donkey¡¯s arse.¡± ??? Jonathan strode briskly through the upper levels of the System C mines. His thoughts were a fog of grief and panic, but he forced his back to be straight and his legs to move. I am a shell of myself, he thought, and the shell is going for a walk without me. He drew the hood over his lantern and watched for a time in the darkness, until a small group of men came up from the deeper levels. Each pair carried between them two poles with a sling between, and these were laden with some obviously-heavy material, though its nature was obscured by sheets of sackcloth laid over it. He waited in the darkness, and the same group came back again. They said little to each other, and he could not make out their faces in the dark. They were Snugg laborers from the small settlement that straddled the river. A pair of broad pipes, apparently made of steel and dripping with condensation, ran side by side along the passage. Jonathan followed in the dark along the tunnel from which the laborers had come, placing his feet carefully. Somewhere out there in the unreal world was Merrily, lost. He felt a tugging at his mind, as if it were being pulled out of him. His senses told him he was in a rather pungent mine, but he found it nearly impossible to attend them. The world of senses was not real. Another group of laborers came up from behind Jonathan in the dark, and he scuttled into a narrow crevice in the side of the tunnel. The laborers moved past him silently, and he drifted along behind them, well outside the reach of their lanterns. The small group approached a squad of four Snugg guards, each armed with a long gun and a steel sword. They looked bored, and one was dozing slightly. It was late, and these men had evidently drawn a poor watch. Jonathan, remembering the purpose for which Devi had prodded him to come here, drew himself up and started forward. A hand fell on his shoulder in the dark. ¡°You won¡¯t get in that way,¡± came the whisper of a woman¡¯s voice. He turned, his eyes dull. Before him was a wrinkled face, gray hair sticking out in untidy tufts from beneath a broad-brimmed hat. He took a moment to study the face, and then recognized her. ¡°Professor?¡± he whispered in return. ¡°Professor Weaselbeer?¡± ¡°It¡¯s Weaselbeer-Yourfork,¡± she hissed. ¡°All the syllables count. And if you want to get past that guard post, and find out what¡¯s in the deep mine, then I have a better way.¡± She pulled at his arm, and together they withdrew back into the darkness of the upper tunnels. ??? When a gang of laborers next approached the four guards, there was little difference to note about their appearance. And so the guards noted very little, watching in bored disinterest as the muscled but meek laborers trudged past. Each pair carried a long sling between them, bulging with an untidy heap of sackcloth to wrap their cargo on the return trip. Once they had passed beyond the light of the guards¡¯ lanterns, the laborers set down the poles, and the slings¡¯ hidden occupants flung off the sackcloth and stood up. Prunella Weaselbeer-Yourfork handed a small sack of silver bottoms to each man with an admonition to wait for their return, and then she and Jonathan went on their way. ¡°Never,¡± she counseled Jonathan as they walked, ¡°overlook the productive outcomes of human greed. It motivates men to feats of tedium that no sane person would ever engage in, like writing history, or digging bits of shiny metal out of solid rock and melting it into little round discs imprinted with the face of some distant megalomaniac they¡¯d go out of their way never to meet. Greed girds the mind and arouses the soul, and without it we would know precious little about our own past. In this case, greed is going to get us a look at Rufus Snugg¡¯s secret project.¡± ¡°Why are you helping me?¡± ¡°I¡¯m not. I¡¯m helping me.¡± ¡°Why?¡± he pressed. In the dim light of the hooded lanterns, her eyes glittered beneath the broad-brimmed hat. She withdrew a thin silver chain from inside her coat, even as they crept further along the stony passage. ¡°Because I¡¯m not just here to dig up old pottery shards, Mr. Miller.¡± Hanging on the thin chain was a delicate silver ornament: a pair of crossed bars, with a circle set in their center. ¡°An Advocate? You? I can¡¯t believe it.¡± She tucked the ornament back into the front of her shirt. ¡°We can discuss moral philosophy and the reasonableness of belief another time, Miller. Right now, there¡¯s metallurgy at hand.¡± ¡°Metallurgy,¡± he repeated. But she said nothing more. They continued walking even as they whispered, and Professor Weaselbeer-Yourfork now held her lantern up close to one of the walls. The rough-hewn rock showed signs of recent working, and amidst the scars from picks and hammers was a thin strip of blackness. It absorbed the light so completely that it seemed to Jonathan that there must a hole in the rock. He pressed his fingers up against the band of black, finding it to be icy cold even compared to the surrounding granite. The strip was hard and smooth. ¡°What is it?¡± he breathed, turning his eyes back to the professor. She shook her head silently, then motioned for him to continue. Light began to filter up the tunnel from some source deeper down. Distant voices could be heard echoing from the stone walls. The two interlopers pressed themselves close to one wall as they moved, fearful of some group coming up from below. But none came, and the light remained steady, growing neither brighter nor dimmer. After a few moments, Professor Weaselbeer-Yourfork moved forward more confidently, gesturing for Jonathan to follow. The light slowly grew brighter as they moved, and they finally emerged into a larger cavern at floor level. Lights around the walls illuminated an open chamber hundreds of feet across, and at least fifty high. The figures of humans could be seen moving about under the lights, and the sound of hammers and pickaxes greeted their ears. Jonathan looked around cautiously in case they should be detected¡ªbut no one was nearby. The two large pipes, which had run all the way from the upper levels, ended here. One of them was venting fresh air, still smelling of the frost and wind up above. The broken rock underfoot was slightly damp. ¡°God¡¯s tits,¡± muttered Weaselbeer-Yourfork next to him, drawing Jonathan into the shadows behind a long hopper. The air temperature dropped noticeably as they crouched down. Jonathan soon perceived why. The hopper was full of that dense, icy metal, sucking into it all light and reflecting back none. At least two tons of it must have been piled up in the hopper. And as Jonathan¡¯s gaze drifted around the room, he saw that great stretches of the walls were occupied by veins and sheets of utter blackness. ¡°It¡¯s some kind of ore,¡± muttered Weaselbeer-Yourfork. ¡°They¡¯re taking it topsides, and it gets stowed in one of the larger warehouses.¡± ¡°What is it?¡± whispered Jonathan. ¡°And what¡¯s it for?¡± She shook her head again. ¡°I haven¡¯t a clue. But look¡ªthe ore sucks in all kinds of energy. Light; heat; let¡¯s see about kinetic. Pick up a piece.¡± Jonathan selected a small chunk of the metal from the hopper and pulled. It was surprisingly heavy for its size. His fingers burned from the cold, and he quickly drew one hand inside his shirt sleeve to hold the chunk of ore through the fabric. The metal¡ªif that¡¯s what it was¡ªseemed to resist movement with more than just the expected force of gravity. ¡°It feels like it¡¯s glued in place,¡± he said, ¡°like a magnet.¡± ¡°Drop it,¡± instructed the professor. The thing fell almost reluctantly as Jonathan let go of it, just as the lump of ore that Arthur had shown him. When it struck the broken stones at their feet, it did not bounce at all, but rather stuck, and then slid downward slightly. Not the slightest sound came from its impact. Weaselbeer-Yourfork timidly reached into the hopper, wrapping her hand in a cloth against the cold. She slid a tiny piece into her pocket. Jonathan picked up his piece as well, prying it off the floor against the strange magnetic force. He looked up again at the activity. There were scores of people faintly visible¡ªat least, where they didn¡¯t overlap with the light-sucking black substance. Some were working at the walls, extracting the ore. Others appeared to be examining it closely, or working with instruments and machines. Voices came suddenly closer, and Weaselbeer-Yourfork grabbed at Jonathan¡¯s arm, with a silent gesture of her head toward the exit. Jonathan nodded, and together they scuttled back into the tunnel entrance. Both were silent as they made their way back to the waiting laborers, who covered them in sackcloth again and conveyed them past the guard post. Jonathan¡¯s mind wandered even as he emerged and followed meekly behind the professor, his thoughts split between Merrily and the strange hunk of ore in his pocket. ??? Weaselbeer-Yourfork¡¯s office, if it could be called that, was in the workshop level below the steel finery in System B. The archaeological work on this level showed no signs of completion, and now, at night, it was entirely abandoned. A small desk at the back, cluttered with papers and surrounded by wooden crates and barrels, apparently served as her headquarters. ¡°I work here,¡± she informed him, ¡°because it¡¯s harder for Rufus¡¯s people to listen in. I¡¯m certain every wall in the buildings by the river has a spy-hole in it. But if he wants to listen in here, he¡¯ll have to drill through solid rock.¡± She took out the hunk of ore that she¡¯d lifted from the deep mine and gently set it on the desk. Even under the light of several nearby lanterns it was entirely black. It was as if a little piece of void had come to rest on a tabletop. ¡°What is it?¡± Jonathan asked again, staring at the ore. ¡°I don¡¯t have any more of an answer now than I did an hour ago,¡± Weaselbeer-Yourfork answered waspishly. ¡°But observations suggest several germane points of data. First: It absorbs all kinds of energy, including energy that we¡¯ve never considered to be transferrable. Second: It can be mined, meaning its absorption isn¡¯t perfect. If it absorbed one hundred percent of kinetic energy applied to it, you¡¯d never get it out of the rock. And third: Rufus Snugg is interested enough in it to devote considerable staff and secrecy to getting large quantities out of the rock. So there must be some commercial value.¡± A nearby barrel gave a guilty squirm, and both Jonathan and Professor Weaselbeer-Yourfork looked at it sharply. The Professor reached for a nearby pistol. The lid of the barrel lifted, and a man rose up out of it. The light of the nearby lamps showed a shock of red hair beneath a wide-brimmed hat, a white shirt with dirt stains on it, and a heavily-creased cravat. It was Rufus Snugg. ¡°What are you doing in that barrel, Rufus?¡± demanded Professor Weaselbeer-Yourfork, not setting down the pistol. ¡°And what did you do with the artifacts I had packed in their for shipment back to Triad?¡± He shrugged nonchalantly. ¡°Hiding in a barrel is easier than drilling through all that rock. And before you turn that pistol on me, Prunella¡ªI had the artifacts moved to a different barrel.¡± ¡°You personally sat in that barrel all this time, on the off chance I might show up here with someone to talk to?¡± ¡°No. I only got in the barrel after the laborers you bribed to sneak past my guards informed me that you and Jonathan were on your way back. I guessed you¡¯d come here. Human greed, Prunella, is indeed a productive phenomenon, but so is human predictability. So¡ªnow that I¡¯ll never be able to use this trick again, what do you make of your new pet rock?¡± Jonathan blinked, momentarily too surprised at this exchange to recall that he was living in an alternate reality of horror and heartbreak. ¡°It eats energy and shits void,¡± she answered tartly. ¡°Indeed it does,¡± he proclaimed. ¡°Though it does neither as efficiently as it might. Still, as you said, if it were a perfectly efficient energy sink, we¡¯d never move it. Now where do you suppose all that energy goes to?¡± ¡°You¡¯re not angry at us?¡± inquired Jonathan. ¡°Angry? Hardly. I hired both of you for your insuppressible curiosity. It was, therefore, inevitable that at some point you¡¯d try to get into the deep mines. I have only myself to blame.¡± ¡°Then why all the secrecy?¡± ¡°Because not all of my employees are insuppressibly curious, and there are some among them that that are entirely too curious. I know of at least three spies from the other trading majors, and two rather incompetent buffoons from the Republic. I assume the Brotherhood of Fallen Stars has someone on site as well, though we haven¡¯t found him yet. We might at least make them work for their intelligence. But you, Jonathan and Prunella, don¡¯t work for any of my enemies.¡± ¡°Why not just show us the deep mines, then?¡± the professor snapped. ¡°Because, my dear, you haven¡¯t asked me nicely. And furthermore, it really isn¡¯t any of your business.¡± ¡°You hired me to illuminate the secrets of this place, Rufus,¡± she retorted acidly. ¡°Why keep me out of the biggest secret of them all?¡± He shook his head in amusement. ¡°What makes you think that¡¯s the biggest secret in this valley?¡± ¡°What do you know about this stuff, Rufus?¡± asked Jonathan, suddenly feeling daring. ¡°Why don¡¯t you drop the spymaster act and tell us what¡¯s going on?¡± Rufus stepped out of the barrel, turned it over, and sat on it. ¡°Last night,¡± he said, ¡°you went looking for a missing goblin. Tentimes told me all about it. I do from time to time inspire a certain loyalty in people, Jonathan, primarily by paying them well and fairly for it. You told her that your errant goblin went to the Vaults¡ªand specifically to the Third Vault, which is nearly as troublesome as that hunk of ore on the table. How do you suppose your goblin friend knew to come here? What was he after? And what do the vaults have to do with the black metal ore?¡± Jonathan blinked, and said nothing. ¡°The more we study this place,¡± Rufus went on, ¡°and the deeper we dig, the less we seem to understand. We have the remains of a giant steam turbine, a library full of books we can barely translate, machines in the upper vaults we can¡¯t begin to comprehend, a steel finery unlike any design ever seen before¡ªand now an old flooded mine full of some kind of ore that sucks up light, heat, even movement. I¡¯m out of my depth, Jonathan. There are more unknowns than I know how to deal with. There¡¯s money to be made here, yes¡ªbut also enormous risks. My little colony can barely cope with one or two of these mysteries at a time. Sooner or later, if we don¡¯t get a grip on what¡¯s going on in Devi Valley, someone with more resources than Snugg & Co. is going to catch wind and take it away from us. What will we be giving away to them if that should happen? Some days I think we should simply mix up a giant batch of gunpowder and blow the whole thing up.¡± ¡°You can¡¯t do that,¡± said Jonathan sharply. ¡°What about the snarfs?¡± ¡°Indeed,¡± agreed Rufus. ¡°One coin on the scale against total annihilation. But Daven hasn¡¯t exactly made it easy to work with them.¡± ¡°A little good will toward your neighbors would go an awfully long way right now,¡± observed Jonathan. ¡°Show Daven what¡¯s in the mines, and that you don¡¯t know what it is any more than he does, and his people might be easier to deal with. Move the finery operations out to the riverside instead of the caves, so the smoke doesn¡¯t go up into their town, and perhaps they¡¯ll¡ª¡± A faint ringing sound in the distance stopped him cold. Rufus held up one hand in warning, and Weaselbeer-Yourfork turned sharply in the direction of the passage up to the finery. ¡°That¡¯s the fire bell,¡± remarked Rufus. And he hopped off the barrel and sprinted for the exit. ??? On the ridgetop, the small, round observatory was an inferno. Neither Jonathan nor any of the other rescuers from the colony by the river could approach it, so hot and all-consuming was the fire. A broad swath of flame lit up the ground, too, in a straight line proceeding out to about thirty feet away from the conflagration on either side. ¡°It¡¯s like someone dumped oil on the ground in a line from above, and then threw a match on it,¡± remarked Rufus, standing next to Jonathan and watching the flames with a shared horror. ¡°No sign of Professor Tentimes,¡± reported Gunnar numbly, approaching them with the hulking form of Gog the Hammer just behind him. ¡°She must have been inside. She came up to take observations tonight.¡± They all stood together, watching the pyre in helpless futility. ¡°Do you hear that?¡± asked Jonathan. ¡°It¡¯s not the wind or the fire. Listen.¡± There was a steady rhythmic beating in the air, like the flapping of great wings. Some enormous body rushed over them in the darkness; felt, witnessed, but not seen. It was not the wind or the fire, but some combination of both. They cowered on the ground beneath it. ¡°I am beginning to think,¡± said Rufus Snugg, ¡°that I shouldn¡¯t have come here.¡± Jonathan patted his sash, then his pockets. A thought sprang into his head, unbidden: Where¡¯s Devi? Chapter 38: The Pilgrim Lightning crackles over the empty walls of Talen Kapvet, scarring the dusky night over the city with veins of sullen red. Ancient towers bite into the fiery sky like a row of ugly fangs. Between the towers, the abandoned city¡¯s houses and fortresses form a low, jagged tableau of teeth. In another instant the light is gone, and only blackness surrounds you. The hard, gritty surface of a sandstone ledge rubs at your weathered fingers and palms, and the wind blows dust into your face. You raise one arm to shield yourself, feeling the storm pluck at your body and threaten to lift it into the air. Thin from weeks of miniscule food and water, you weigh little more than a starved rat. Below you in the darkness lies a deep, narrow cut in the mountain. You have watched it for ten days and nights now, awaiting the pilgrims¡¯ arrival. The path into the crevasse is narrow and difficult to spot. Seen up close, there are signs of regular foot traffic. Clear markings on the rocks farther down the slope lead to the entrance of the cut. But in the time you have been here, no one has come. The Faceless are not noted for their piety. You have it on good authority that a group will come tonight. They will be the last pilgrims. You sharpen and polish your lance, taking comfort in the old rituals. You have not ridden a mount in decades, but the lance is still your weapon. Two sealed glass balls, black liquid filling their interiors, rest on the ground nearby your tattered and empty pack. They are the last of their kind; no more can be made. You are also the last of your kind, and neither can any more of you be made. Git on wi¡¯ it. ¡®Nuf o¡¯ this dramatic throat-clearin¡¯. Git ta¡¯ tha¡¯ good stuff. A faint, bobbing light appears on the slope below the cut. Its motion shows that the holder of the light is moving quickly¡ªnearly at a run. The light is precisely where and when it should be. You sit up from your weary perch, focusing on that distant light. The Curse draws certain needed elements from other parts of your existence, sharpening your vision. The scene below you lightens, colors fading to a wash of high-contrast gray that reveals the outlines of the pilgrims below. They are strung out behind the bearer of the light, trotting and stumbling through a gloom their unaided eyes can barely pierce. They are not alone. Half a mile behind them comes a crowd of humanoid forms, loping silently and smoothly. In your sharpening vision, they flow like a tide of mercury, oozing with terrifying viscosity along the surface a tabletop. It has no need of vision, that flow; it is guided by other senses. Indeed, its constituents no longer have faces that could hold the biological organs of vision. A dark shape passes over the stars above the two groups, embracing them in deeper blackness. You shudder in recognition, and for an eternal moment you are trapped by the doomful shadow of terrible wings. It is time to run, declares the Curse. As the tiny string of pilgrims scramble up the slope toward the ravine, you pull your hair back, tying it with a string of woven mousefur. A white strand escapes the knot, and you push it back behind one ear. Your muscles are stiff from the long wait on the mountain, but you feel your age even beneath the aches. Your skin sags in deep wrinkles, and your fingers are weathered and worn. Though the Curse has preserved your life for many years longer than the others of your kind, you have long outlived the one who gave it, and there is a limit to the reach of a dead god. The pilgrims reach the ravine below you, but the tide of Faceless has drawn close behind them. Shouldering your pack, you scramble over the edge of the sheer rock face that makes up one wall of the cut. You picked your lookout post well. It is a narrow ledge, broken apart by the slow shifting of the earth, forms a path down to the tunnel entrance at the head of the ravine. The nimblest mountain cat could not walk this ledge, but you trot along it easily. You have been practicing this run for the last ten days, and you know it in the dark. A startled desert snake looks at you out of a hole in the rock face to your side. Your lance has taught him not to trouble you. He stays curled in his den, sensing the power and terror that floats in the air above the cut. Sharp cracks suddenly rock the ground beneath your feet, and flashes of orange illuminate the entrance to the cut. Bodies of Faceless, and pieces of bodies, go tumbling and flying into the air. The rocking explosions remind you of the last night in Pour Vaille. The tide of advancing Faceless stops for a short time, pushed back by the bombs; but it soon fills in the hole again, rushing forward into the smoke and fire like a sea filling in the moat of a sandcastle. The staccato crack of repeating carbines fills the air, shaking dust and chips of loose rock from the walls. You dodge them as you run. The clatter of the carbines continues to shake the low end of the ravine, and then gradually fades into the clang and screams of hand-to-hand combat. But the single light is higher up now, its bearer climbing slowly, laboriously toward the shrine. The screams of dying humans at the bottom of the gorge fades, and the tide of Faceless continues its relentless, silent flow upward. Your heart pounds as you race along the narrow ledge above, leaping over breaks in the rock and ducking under sharp overhangs. Even with the Curse filling your lungs and strengthening your legs, the long sprint is taxing. It is well you memorized the way; one misstep would drop you down into the heart of the gorge. You might survive the fall, but not the trampling feet of the advancing bipeds. You will not fall, intones the Curse. The shrine is near the top of the gorge, carved into the solid rock of the wall below your ledge. The last of the pilgrims gather there to make their stand: six haggard men and women, their breath wheezing and their backs slumped from the hard climb. They carry guns and bombs, but no other supplies. As you creep down a narrow crack in the wall, they grimly set about priming their bombs and loading fresh rounds into their carbines. The rustling, flowing tide of Faceless begins to emerge from the shadows of gorge below, just visible in the starlight. Repeating carbines open up, the flashes of their muzzles lighting the narrow space and their bullets mowing down the advancing bodies of the Faceless. The pilgrims, with nowhere to retreat, unleash the full fury of their last machines. Bombs, cast forward from hand-held slings, explode with terrible violence among the ranks of the Faceless, building walls and furrows of their severed limbs and torsos even as the whipping bullets pierce through the fire and carnage to mow down the rearward ranks. The gorge is a narrow place, and few of the Faceless can come through at any time. Conceal yourself, instructs the Curse. They will be forced inside soon, and they must not mistake you for one of the afflicted. You slither down the long, irregular crack in the rock face, hiding behind a low outcropping at the bottom and watching the grim, haggard defenders. They are old, save for one young man in his prime. Their dark-skinned faces, lit by the muzzle flash of their guns and the sudden daylight of bombs, are drawn with long hunger. Their wide-brimmed hats conjure up ghosts of the fearless, jovial heroes you knew long ago, who fell at the Four Corners. You wonder for a moment, amidst the carnage and fury of the battle, where they got the hats. They were never in fashion in the Empire. Ah knows whar they got tha¡¯ hats, dammit! The roar and crash of the guns and bombs goes on for many minutes. And then a sudden silence washes over the gorge, broken only by the ragged breathing of the defenders. The starlight shows huge mounds and walls of broken bodies below. Nothing moves. No sounds come from the twisted remains of the Faceless. No groans or screams betray their suffering, if they can be said to suffer. ¡°Where are the others?¡± asks the young man. His eyes, white against the black skin of his face, show resignation without hope. He speaks in the local dialect of Late High Imperial. You picked it up during the long years of the Exodus, listening to doomed bands of humans as you followed them, scavenging from their stores. ¡°If there were any that could still move,¡± replies a much older man, ¡°then they¡¯d be moving toward us.¡± His skin is dark, too, and a thin fringe of curly white hair rims the edge of his bald pate. He is lean, and moves gingerly, but you see strength in his frame still. He carries a birdcage in one hand, and in the cage is a blob of white; a pigeon, or a dove, you think. It has been decades since you saw one. The bird is listless and bedraggled, but alive. The noise begins as a breath, whispering from the depths of the blood-spattered canyon below. Crouched behind your small rock, you hear the noise before the humans do. Soon they react, looking to the sky. The sound swells from its first whisper into a deep, thudding bellow, rising and falling in a rhythm that can only come from the beating of vast and terrible wings. It is a primal dragon, says the Curse. Take shelter inside the passage. Go now. Knowing what is to come, you leave the cover of your rock, making for the shrine. You keep to the edges of the narrow gorge bottom, hoping to escape the humans¡¯ notice. It is essential that they remain unaware. The six survivors of the pilgrimage, backing toward the shrine as well, have their eyes to the open sky, high above. You slip first into the narrow door of hewn stone. You have practiced this part as well. You do not need to look at the features of the opening or interior to know your next hiding spot: a crack in one wall, opened by the restless sleep of the earth over the millennia this place has stood waiting. Outside the shrine, the noise turns to fire. It begins instantly: a column of vast white-orange, descending from the peak of the canyon like a bolt of lightning. It consumes the limp bodies of the Faceless, sweeping up the narrow path toward the opening of the shrine. The humans turn frantically to race for its protection. Unlike you, they were not forewarned. Two, farther from the entrance, are annihilated before they finish turning, and a third manages two steps before being reduced to ash. The old man with black skin falls before he reaches the shelter of the rock, incinerated even as he flings his small birdcage forward. The remaining two humans dive into the shrine entrance, rolling down the gentle slope of the floor and pressing cloaks to their faces against the heat. This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there. The Primal¡¯s bulk is too great for it to descend into the narrow cut, and so it contents itself to bathe the canyon floor with furnace-like flame from above. The humans crawl away from that awful heat, pressing themselves deeper into the passage leading to the shrine. But mainly they cower, hoping to survive a few moments longer. It is not your time yet, instructs the voice of the Curse. Ye¡¯ve always been rubbish wi¡¯ comfortin¡¯ words, ye know. The column of fire stops abruptly, leaving the sticky, hideous emission of the dragon¡¯s stomach to burn down to a smoldering, fuming goop. The passage grows suddenly dark, and one of the humans fumbles with his lantern, striking a match with a shaky hand to light it again. The man¡¯s face is old for his kind, worn and wrinkled with years of care. His skin is pale, like yours. His eyes are a sparkling blue in the lamp light, and a hidden smile plays on his lips even amidst the horror and fear of these last minutes of his life. His companion is the younger man with deep black skin. As the terror of the Primal fades, they weep, crawling toward the blackened husk of the man who didn¡¯t quite reach the shrine. ¡°Deeper, Iko,¡± says the one with the lantern. His face is wet with tears. ¡°That is the only way now. We do what we came to do, and then we will be at the end. Make it an end worthy of your father¡¯s journey.¡± His words are in Late High Imperial, but he speaks them with a slight inflection that reveals him as a foreigner in this land. The old man picks up the fallen birdcage and its occupant, which have miraculously survived the flight into the tunnel. You, too, scuttle forward in the gray-shaded darkness, letting the Curse guide your steps. You know the way. The humans seem to have some idea where to go, though their advance is hesitant. They have never been to this place, and they imagine dangers unseen in the dark. The passage slopes downward for nearly a quarter mile, and you pause to wait impatiently from time to time, keeping well ahead of the light as your unwitting pursuers fumble slowly forward. What began as a rough-hewn passage in the rock soon broadens to a highway under the earth, the walls opening up until they are nearly fifty feet apart. The ceiling ascends, too, and the floor becomes regular and slightly textured, as if to help bipeds descend safely. And then, with little warning from the design of the passage, it emerges into the Sphere. You see, with the enhanced vision of the Curse, what the humans do not see in their paltry lamplight. They merely stop in wonder as they sense the opening up of a great space. But you see the Sphere in its complete perfection, a colossal negative space hollowed out within the mountain. It is at least three hundred yards wide, perfectly geometrical, its stone boundaries relentlessly smooth. The lower arc is littered with irregular and scattered shapes¡ªsome large, some small¡ªbut the upper reaches are pristine and undisturbed. The two humans behind you advance slowly down the gentle slope of the Sphere, making their way toward its lowest point. You keep ahead of them, out of sight. Your gray vision resolves the shapes that litter the lower slopes of the sphere as they approach. Statues with horrid, leering faces and distorted bodies; blood-stained altars; patterns of swirling, concentric lines made of stones on the floor. You pass by them all confidently. Your pursuers react as they approach the first artifact, recoiling in momentary horror. ¡°These monuments are more recent than the chamber itself,¡± remarks the older man with pale skin and blue eyes, recovering his wits. ¡°The locals must have taken it for a holy site. What this place was¡ªwhat it is¡ªis too much to bear, even for an ignorant and shallow mind. I think these little idols are meant to domesticate it.¡± The younger man looks up into the yawning blackness above and around. ¡°It is not domesticated,¡± he replies. His face is still wet with tears. They reach the very bottom of the Sphere, as you wait and watch, out of the reach of the lamplight. You feel the air coming to you in shallow gasps, and your heart racing. You force yourself to slow your pulse and even your breath. I warn¡¯t scaird. No old statues in th¡¯ dark kin hairt me. I knew jes¡¯ wha¡¯ would happin¡¯ nixt. You do not know what will happen next, and the Curse has given no clues. Its foreknowledge stops at the edge of the great Sphere beneath the mountain. Bollocks ta¡¯ ye. The old man and the young man are closely inspecting the floor at the bottom of the great Sphere. There is a plate there, and in the plate is a hole. The hole is too small even for you to wriggle through, and your previous inspections revealed nothing but darkness inside. The two men are crouched over the hole, staring at it. A whisper reaches your ears, coming from the path down which the two humans walked to reach the plate. It is the shuffling of many feet. It always has more of Itself. The voice of the Curse is sardonic and dry in your mind. The whispering shuffle alerts the two men as well, and they stand abruptly. The old man holds the lantern high. From far off at the edge of the Sphere its light reflects back from scores of bobbing, shuffling patches of metal. They move at head level; indeed, they are where faces used to be. ¡°Always more of them,¡± mutters the older man. ¡°But no more of us¡ and nowhere left to go but up.¡± He whirls back to the hole in the plate, probing at it with his finger. ¡°Up,¡± he repeats. ¡°The wall etchings your father found in Kargen¡¯s Palace showed a great circle and a man in the center, yes?¡± ¡°They¡¯ll be on us in thirty seconds,¡± replies the younger man. He withdraws a large, cylindrical bomb from his tattered pack and holds up the fuse to the lamp. ¡°Did they show a man at the center of a circle?¡± demands his companion, his voice suddenly desperate, intent. He jerks the lamp back. The younger man blinks and nods. He lights the fuse. You watch, intently. This is what you have awaited, ten years in the dry waste. This is why the Curse kept you alive. The older man withdraws something from his pocket. It is a long, thin rod, absolutely black, reflecting no light even under the lamp. The shuffling grows louder, and the glinting lights of metal faces draw close. ¡°Goodbye, Jonathan,¡± says the young man. ¡°It wasn¡¯t much of an end.¡± The name stirs a memory, but you can¡¯t summon it up. Wait for the moment. ¡°Wait, Ikgonbe!¡± cries the old man, grasping for his companion. But the other sprints off into the darkness. Wait for the moment. See what he does. Ah got this, ye daft machine. Several things happen all at once. There is a terrific light and blast from the direction of the advancing Faceless. In the same moment, the old man bends swiftly to the floor and inserts the thin rod into the hole in the plate. Another rumble begins¡ªdeeper, sustained¡ªand bands of light emerge from hidden recesses in the floor, arcing up along the perimeter of the Sphere in many lines to brightly illuminate its massive girth. The Curse speaks to you for the last time. Run. You obey, sprinting toward the feet of the old man. The Curse pulls at your alternate selves in the nearby branches, drawing on their last strength and endurance to speed you along the ground. Their possibilities are sacrificed to make this you the most perfect self you can be. Before you, the plate begins to rise up into the interior of the Sphere, propelled toward its center by some massive shaft of steely metal. You dive for the edge of the plate as it ascends, grabbing at the slick lip of the rising circle and slipping backward. You dangle helplessly for many seconds, feeling the pull of gravity sucking you downward. With a final, desperate, panic-fueled surge of strength, your aged arms lift your body onto the lip of the plate. Glancing down, you see that you are now hundreds of feet in the air. The old man, collapsed on its surface, does not see you. The bird cage, containing one very frightened dove, lies next to him. With a jerk, the plate stops, momentarily lifting you into the air above its surface. By the Sphere¡¯s now-blazing interior lights, you see that you are in its very center, surrounded on all sides by empty space save for directly below, beneath the plate. The smoke of Iko¡¯s bomb is visible toward the entrance, and the vivid, scattered painting of blood and the body parts of scores of Faceless. Somewhere among them is what used to be a young man with black skin and hopeless eyes. Then the world begins to shift, and the pathways open up before you. You feel a sudden wind; impossible in this underground place, and yet you feel it. The dove flutters in its cage. ??? In the dim dusk-light, the man Basil drifts silently through the ruins of the White Knights¡¯ fortification. The bodies of men have been hauled away, and the fort itself has burned down to ashes. He moves with deliberation, and without haste. He is looking for something. He comes upon an overturned water barrel that escaped the fire. There is an iron pigeon cage on its side in the barrel. He pulls it out, and carefully opens the door. He reaches in, pulls out a tiny, limp form, and tucks it into his pocket. Then he walks out of the camp, never looking back. South, along the bank of the river under the starlight, he pauses and sits down on a fallen log at the river¡¯s edge. He withdraws the tiny thing from his pocket, and lays it on the log. Then he pulls an even tinier black pebble out of another pocket. He selects some river grasses and carefully, slowly, weaves from them an ornament in the shape of two crossed spokes with a circle in the middle. He weaves the black pebble into the center, where the arms cross inside the circle. He takes the limp form on the log and dips it into the water of the river. Then he withdraws it and places the ornament on top of the dead thing. He takes a deep breath and breathes out slowly onto the body and the ornament, as if he were blowing on a faint spark to stir it to life. He does this once again, and then a third time. There is a light from within his hands, like fire. A faint trail of smoke can be seen, as the ornament is consumed. He smiles, and whispers into his cupped hands. ¡°Wake up, little one,¡± he says. ¡°We have great things to do, you and I.¡± You tumble through the black infinite, feeling the pull of gravity suck you downward. The world flows past you in a continuum of chaotic, indecipherable sensations. You are a mote of dust falling through the fabric of reality, tumbling downward into the web of branching pathways as the threads around you pull your senses into experiences they were never equipped to consume. The full, awful reality of the universe¡¯s complete and undifferentiated oneness is impressed on your mind, which has for all its current waking contemplated only the illusion of change and motion. You experience everything that exists all at once, in every moment of time; every single possible version of you, of all the people you once knew, of all the people you once hated, of all the people you never knew, of all the people who never existed. You sense towering cities in the stars, galaxy-sized clouds of purple and yellow drifting amidst the void, the crushing collapse of a black hole¡¯s singularity, the birth of monomolecular life in the deep oceans of some lonely and alien world, the titanic collective emotions of quadrillions of living beings in their quintillions of concurrent realities as they war and love and weep and dream. Your mind is lost, drifting in an eternal, spherical one that is everything, both lovely and horrible, maddening and unknowable. ¡°Wake up, little one,¡± he says again. Slowly, gradually, the titanic oneness begins to fade, the differentiation itself lasting an eternity. The totality of the weave disappears, leaving you just a billion creatures, then just a million, then just a thousand, then just one. Your experience of time narrows, collapsing from the complete beginning and ending of infinity to just one lifetime, then just one turning of your home planet, then just one day, then just one moment. The one that is you is empty, void of identity and meaning and memory. From the oneness of everything, you become the oneness of nothing at all. ¡°A bit too far. I will guide you back. We will rebuild you a piece at a time.¡± His hands close around you. Chapter 39: Very Small Undead Things Pour Vaille is burning. You watch it burn from the tall peak of a steep-roofed home in the Moun neighborhood. The Valleri used to say of Moun that its residents had rough hands and drank inferior wine; but there is little difference now between the squalor of the rich and of the poor. Those who could flee across the Gulf of Carelon are long gone, and there are no more ships. Those who remain have achieved, in their shared misery, a sort of grim ¨¦galit¨¦. A dense, choking haze of smoke lurks low over Pour Vaille, obscuring your view of the stars this night. The Curse has little cause to enhance your vision, though, as the streets and houses below you are well-lit by the ugly orange glow of the fires around the edge of the city. Above the flames, the hulking, winged shapes of Primals glide slowly, making deliberate circuits around the perimeter walls. You count at least eight of them. From their mouths spew forth long, conical gouts of flame, directed downwards to the neighborhoods on the outskirts of Pour Vaille. But they have not yet moved toward the city center, or the harbor. They are, rather, pushing the population inward, herding the citizens and their few defenders into a smaller and smaller area. You slide down the steeply-pitched roof, your feet hopping over the edge of each smooth clay tile. At the eaves, you catch one hand on the lip of the roof and swing inwards, guiding your momentum to propel yourself into an open window. Your landing on the table inside the window, rather less graceful, concludes with one foot in an inkwell up to the knee, and the other in a particularly runny piece of cheese. ¡°I¡¯ve a volunteer for either my next writing quill or my next dining fork,¡± remarks an elderly human sitting at the table. A quill¡ªthe incumbent¡ªis dipped carefully into the inkwell around your leg, then withdrawn to scratch letters with slow precision on the surface of a somewhat bedraggled sheet of paper. The man¡¯s form is hunched and wizened, and the light of several candles reflects from the panes of a dirty pair of spectacles, obscuring his eyes. His white hair is long and ragged, and his tattered clothing is pungent. The hand shakes badly as it writes, but its owner moves slowly, patiently through his laborious inscription. The room is mostly bare. A narrow cot and blanket for sleeping occupy one wall, and this writing table another. A large satchel is tucked in one corner, and the battered hilt of a broadsword protrudes from beneath it. You step out of the inkwell and the cheese, settling down on the edge of a book on the table¡¯s surface. The old man coughs weakly, moving his hand away from the paper to avoid a blemish. ¡°Thar comin¡¯ tonight,¡± you tell him. ¡°Won¡¯t wait ¡®til marnin¡¯. Folk ¡®er pushin¡¯ in toward the docks, but ain¡¯t no way ou¡¯.¡± The old man nods, recovering his breath laboriously. ¡°Just as well. They¡¯ve left Pour Vaille for last, but at least they¡¯ll save me the trouble of dying slowly.¡± He scratches again at the paper, and you wait patiently. The streets outside the shabby house are strangely quiet. Most people in Moun have already fled for the docks. Satisfied at last, the old man carefully folds the paper in half and then in half again, slips a thin metal rod into the folds, rolls it tightly, and seals the bundle with wax and a ribbon. ¡°My old friend,¡± he announces, ¡°I have a last favor to ask, if you are willing.¡± His voice quavers, and he coughs again. ¡°Vicod came to visit me this morning. He¡¯s found a boat. Little more than a skiff, he says, but it has oars. He hid it away under one of the waterfront docks at the far east end. He asked if I would come, but I can¡¯t. Can barely walk down the stairs to take out the chamber pot and get a little drink of water.¡± The man shakes his head weakly. You¡¯d be surprised if he could stand up from the chair, much less navigate the stairs. You¡¯ve brought him stale bread scavenged from other houses for the last month, but his teeth have grown too weak to gnaw it. ¡°I want you to take this to him,¡± continues the man, pushing the slim roll of paper toward you. ¡°He¡¯s off to the Isle of Hen. Heard there were a few ships still there from the Last Flotilla. Young Miller is down there, somewhere, across the sea in Broob. He used to write to me. Vicod¡¯s boy, too. Tell Vicod to give this to Miller if by some half-assed miracle he should make it across the Gulf.¡± He pushes the roll of paper toward you again, and you nod slowly, rising to your feet. It moves oddly, as if there were something inside it that resisted kinetic energy, but had itself no weight. ¡°But he won¡¯t make it,¡± continues the old man. ¡°Sixty miles of open ocean to the Isle of Hen, and who knows if there¡¯s still a ship there. We all choose the manner of our death, now. He won¡¯t make it. But writing to the ghost of young Miller has given me something to do while I wait.¡± The sound of fighting and dying begins to filter up from the streets below, intruding on the silence of the hospice chamber. ¡°Thar comin¡¯,¡± you repeat. ¡°Ain¡¯t no puttin¡¯ it off now.¡± The old man rises slowly, painfully, to his feet. He hobbles over to the satchel in the corner. From within he withdraws with some difficulty a battered old breastplate. The straps give him trouble, but you hop up on his back and help cinch them tight. ¡°Won¡¯t do ye much good,¡± you observe. ¡°Ye move ¡®bout as fast as a dead badger.¡± The man makes a disparaging noise and waves his hand at you. He withdraws from the satchel a battered, torn pocket of fabric, and places it on his head. It might once have been a broad-brimmed hat. ¡°They won¡¯t take me in my bedroom,¡± he announces firmly. The quaver in his voice seems to have settled down, and some of the shaking has left his hands. He picks up the broadsword from beneath the satchel, leaning on the tip as he hobbles toward the stairs. You shrug. We all choose the manner of our death, he said. You retrieve the small, rolled piece of paper and follow after him. The descent of the stairs is laborious. The old man leans on his broadsword with each downward step. During his slow progress the sounds of struggle and screaming draw closer. There are some few left in Moun after all. By the sound of it, the Faceless are going from house to house. The common room on the ground floor is long abandoned. The chairs are neatly stacked on tables, and the mugs and glasses behind the bar have been stowed. The landlord, whenever he left, meant to return. Your companion walks slowly toward the front door, his back straightening slightly as he moves. But there is no lessening to the ragged wheeze from his lungs. You follow at his side. He opens the door, and dense smoke wafts in from the fires at the city¡¯s edge. In the distance, down the street, a pair of figures run madly toward the docks. But your companion does not follow them. Instead, he turns toward the city walls to the north. From that direction comes the ugly glow of the fire. ¡°Thar,¡± you observe, ¡°are th¡¯ Faceless.¡± A group of them is advancing down the narrow street; perhaps ten. They move with ugly, fluid precision, and in complete silence. The distant firelight glints off the rounded metal sheets where their faces used to be. They are a mix of races, sexes, and ages. The remains of their clothing suggest this group were once refugees from northern Carelon. They perceive you both immediately, and perhaps half of them flow forward to meet you. The old man straightens his back and looks down at you. You return his gaze for a moment. ¡°Get on now,¡± he says. ¡°Please find Vicod at the docks, if you can. Give him my letter. Escape with him, if you like; or die here, in whatever way you wish.¡± He pauses for a moment, watching his own death approach. He looks down at you again. ¡°Thank you,¡± he adds. ¡°You¡¯ve been more kind to me than I deserved.¡± We must go, prompts the Curse. The window at the docks is narrow. ¡°Be seein¡¯ ye,¡± you mumble awkwardly. The wrinkled old face looks down at you, and gives you a smile. Then he raises the hilt of the sword to his face in a salute, and turns away to face the Faceless. You back slowly toward the docks, unwilling yet to turn away yourself. He speaks four words, clear and distinct as if he were in a school classroom. But they are in a language you do not understand, and the Curse is not forthcoming with a translation. Then he shuffles forward to meet the Faceless. You back away further, still unwilling to turn. He breaks into an awkward trot, one foot tenderly advancing and then the other; and then a run, his gait becoming swifter and more fluid as if the years and illness were falling away from him. The Faceless lope down the street toward him, coming to meet his charge. The old man lifts the sword above his head as he runs, and the tattered old hat flies off his head, settling back down into the street behind him. Run, now, prompts the Curse. Its command is irresistible. You turn, and run, and do not see him again. What was his name? I don¡¯ remember. Yes you do. This is real, now. Reach back into the past that is real. I don¡¯ remember. You don¡¯t want to remember, but you must. Your journey through the streets of Pour Vaille is at first uneventful. The few stragglers from Moun are too preoccupied with the last minutes of their lives to pay you any heed. You lope along the worn, cobbled streets of the old city, wondering if it will really be this easy. And then, turning a corner you know well, you catch sight of a figure that brings you up short. It is your size, just six inches tall, bent over the face of a fallen human. You cry out hoarsely, stopping your progress and walking toward it. No! commands the Curse. You must not! ¡°Fech ye,¡± you reply. ¡°¡®At¡¯s one o¡¯ mine. Ye said they was all dead, ye lyin¡¯ piece o¡¯ filth.¡± You stride toward the diminutive humanoid carefully. Its back is to you, and its hands are busy at the face of the dead human. This will not end the way you want it to. You draw near to the creature. ¡°Ye¡¯s a long wee from ¡®ome, frien¡¯,¡± you greet it. The figure turns to you, rising to its feet. The harsh glint of metal shines from where its face should be. ¡°No!¡± You hear the horror and disgust in your own voice. This should not be. Yes. Now run. The miniature Faceless advances toward you with a grim, unhurried saunter. More tiny figures boil out of the alley, emerging from drainpipes, from sewer grates, sliding down from the rooves. They flow outward in a steely tide¡ªsilent, tiny, and unforgiving. You back away, turning to run. Tears flow from your eyes, defying your own will and self-discipline. You obey the Curse, fleeing from the horde of degenerates that were once your own people. Say it. Say what they are. They was snarfs once. ¡®Til they got ther faces takin¡¯ off. And that makes you¡? Ah don¡¯ remember. You do remember. To know yourself can be frightening, but it is the only way back. Do you want to come back? Yeah. Then what were you? Ah was one o¡¯ them. Ah was a snarf, too. You had a friend. You left him in Moun. What was his name? I don¡¯ remember! I tell ye, an¡¯ I ain¡¯t lyin,¡¯ I cain¡¯t recall ¡®is name. The old man pauses for a moment, watching his death approach. He looks down at you again, and a wry, wistful grin plays at his lips. ¡°Thank you,¡± he adds. ¡°You¡¯ve been more kind to me than I deserved.¡± What is his name? It¡¯s Cyrus. Cyrus Stoat pauses for a moment, watching his death approach. He looks down at you again, and a wry, wistful grin plays at his lips. ¡°Thank you, Devi¡± he adds. ¡°You¡¯ve been more kind to me than I deserved.¡± Who is Devi? I don¡¯ remember. Let¡¯s find out. You run, and they run. The Curse strengthens your legs and feet and lungs, but even so, the Faceless snarfs are fast and relentless. The street behind you flows with their number, and they draw closer with every passing second. They flow over and around the bodies in the street, over barrels and carts, through fire and water. You trip on the jagged edge of a cobblestone, and they are on you in an instant. Dozens of hands hold you down, even as you struggle. One hand is placed on your temple, and you feel something cold and liquid flowing out from the hand, into your skin. It engulfs your face, flowing into your eyes, and from there into your brain. It didn¡¯ happen like that. How do you know? I don¡¯ remember nothin¡¯ like tha¡¯. I¡¯d ¡®a remembered if they¡¯d-a caught me. We¡¯re making progress. That was one of the other Devis. She borrowed that one so that you would not trip. You leap over a broken cobblestone and dash onward. The frantic chase through the streets of Pour Vaille brings you to the docks, and your lungs burn with the exertion of the long sprint. The humans there have built barricades, and armed men and women stand behind them. But few are soldiers; most are badly frightened amateurs. Their faces show that they understand their plight. There is no escape, and no defense will hold. There is only a brief delay, a few more moments to go on living, and the pride of dying with a weapon in hand. The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. You dash between the gaps in the makeshift barricade, and through the legs of the people beyond. The tide of Faceless snarfs behind you simply flows up and over, engulfing the human defenders. Behind them, a similar tide of larger Faceless flows as well, following their miniature vanguard for the final assault. You dodge and weave between the tightly-pressed feet of the refugees at the dock. It is hazardous work, but you have years of experience dodging the clumsy feet of big-folk. Do ah? You do. They are packed tightly into the docks, and there is nowhere left to run. Those at the waterfront, crowded out onto the wharfs, begin jumping into the harbor; but there is nowhere to swim to. The vast, winged bulk of a primal glides with terrible grace over the waters, casually plucking swimmers out or blasting the surface of the harbor with fire. You make your way among the pounding, shuffling feet, working your way to the east. Here, a long row of rickety docks protrude out into the dark waters of the harbor. Fishing vessels once put in at these docks, unloading their abundant catch in the quiet light of dawn. Now the only abundance is of terrified humans. Beneath one dock is a small, dark shape. It is gliding along the length of the structure, making for the open water. The Curse sharpens your vision and draws your alternate selves into this moment, stealing their speed and agility to give you what you need to survive. Countless dozens of you are trampled to death, their strength dulled and their vision dimmed. But you¡ªthis you, here¡ªsurvives the gauntlet of feet and falling bodies. You reach the end of the dock and dive out into the open space, landing with a thud at the booted feet of a human. He looks down from where he works the oars, but does not stop pulling. He has dark skin, like many of the Broobian expatriates in Pour Vaille. White eyes flash at you beneath the peculiar broad-brimmed hat of the Applied Historian. ¡°You¡¯re late,¡± he says laconically. ¡°But not too late. Where is my friend Cyrus Stoat?¡± You pick yourself up off the planks of the small rowboat¡¯s hull. You look up at Vicod Rayth, too winded to speak. Instead, you simply shake your head. ¡°I thought not,¡± says Rayth. His voice is calm, quiet, but you hear a faint catch that betrays what he feels. At the landward end of the dock, a turbulent mass of writhing bodies and elevated screams marks the arrival of the Faceless. Desperate citizens dive into the dark water; few show any evidence they know how to swim. The small boat glides away from the carnage at the docks, into the dark waters of the harbor. Rayth pulls hard, and the vessel begins to move swiftly. The primal is off at the western end of the harbor, blasting away at the unfortunate citizens. Neither of you speaks, as he labors at the oars and you collapse from exhaustion. Behind you, as the boat slips away into the open waters of the Gulf of Carelon, Pour Vaille is burning. ??? You drift on a high thermal, idly watching the sunlight as it reflects off a broad, distant river. The land is flat and vibrant green as far as the eye can see¡ªand a snarf¡¯s eyes see very far indeed. The occasional low hill or stand of trees breaks the monotony of the farmland, and the crumbling ruin of an old human castle glowers over the river to the south, but little else about the geography suggests anything other than the relentless cultivation of edible grass seeds. Far, far to the east, the white-crowned teeth of the Haalsterne drift above the plain in lofty disdain for the petty disputes of men and monsters. Below you, the petty disputes of men and monsters are reaching a crescendo of blood, fire, and steel. The farmland seethes with the activity of violence. From a thousand feet up, the whole affair has an abstract quality of swirling motion, like a slowly simmering pot. The collective scream and din of battle is faint, and almost lost in the wind. At the edges of the melee are more discernable features: a flag here, a row of bristling cannon there. In places, coherent masses of similarly-clad soldiers make up oozing blobs in the stew of murder. But through most of the central battlefield, the impression from above is of a surprisingly homogeneous mass. You imagine for a moment what it would be like to turn and fly home to your valley. You look around at the flight of hawks and their riders nearby; tall, brave snarfs on their fierce mounts. They are fearless, and they are yours. They will dive when you dive, following you to their deaths. You wonder whether it is right that you should lead them to that place. Nah, ah never wonnered any o¡¯ that. Stop makin¡¯ me out ta¡¯ be some moody great poet. We just wen¡¯ an¡¯ got stuck in wi¡¯ th¡¯ rest of ¡®em. Twitching the reins and nudging at Graw¡¯s feathered flanks, you begin the dive. Your wing¡ªjust forty riders remaining from the hundreds that departed Devi Valley in March¡ªfollows you downward in a smooth, graceful formation. As you descend, your ears popping from the change in pressure, the violence of the battle begins to resolve into discernible theatres. A small battery of cannon, exploding with red fury from the south of the field, plow massive furrows through the north quarter, throwing the steel-clad limbs of their unfortunate Giant-man victims high into the air. But throughout the rest of the field, great wedges of the tall invaders cleave massive holes in hapless formations of smaller human infantry. A cavalry charge on the west side of the field is in the late stages of disintegrating into small clumps of doomed horses and men. You dive low over the raging melee, and the murky, swirling stew resolves itself further into an abundance of scenes, grimly individual in their details. Your passage is too swift for anything more than impressions and individual images, each moving with a peculiar slowness. The massive sweeping up-swing of a Giant-man¡¯s two-handed sword, cleaving through the upper body of a horse. Flying clods of dirt and metal and fire from the impact of an exploding cannon shell, ripping apart all the matter around them. Fury and terror mixed together on the faces of armored spearmen, driving their points in futile unison at the impregnable bodies of a wall of Giant-men. You hurl one of your blindy-bombs at the face of a Giant-man passing beneath you, splashing the clinging black liquid and shards of glass into her eyes. The riders behind you take their cue from you, spreading out to deliver their payloads directly to the faces of the enemy. You withdraw another ball from the saddlebags on Graw¡¯s back behind you, and another, hurling them with proud accuracy. Your victims claw, bellowing, at their eyes; Professor Porkwald from Applied Chemistry taught your people to cut the ink with strong hydrochloric acid. The humans on the ground behind you leap at the opening created by your riders, thrusting their glistening spear-tips at the faces and necks of the incapacitated giants. But your blindy-bombs are soon expended, and there is nowhere to resupply. And, after months of harassment, the Giant-men are not insensible to the danger you pose. Large nets sweep into the air as you pass over their ranks, swiping at the hawk riders. Those that are entangled are quickly dragged to the ground, and lost beneath the stamping of heavy giant feet. Movement close to the ground catches your eyes, and you recognize the loping, shuffling forms of badgers, swarming through the melee toward a patch of open ground nearby. You bank Graw toward their destination, and your surviving riders follow. You land Graw near the badgers; perhaps a dozen in all. Each bears a snarf knight in mouse leathers, armed with a long lance. At the top of each lance is secured a closed lantern, and behind each rider, on the back of the badger, is a large, tightly bound satchel with a string protruding from its top. ¡°¡®Ow goes yer ridin¡¯, brother o¡¯ mine?¡± you inquire. ¡°Ye looks like a humie post-rider wi¡¯ them bags behind ye. Got a letter fer me?¡± Daven shakes his head, smiling wearily despite the mud and sweat that cover both him and Anklebiter. ¡°No mail,¡± he reports, shouting to be heard over the screams and clangs of the surrounding melee. ¡°But a message, if ye¡¯ll listen. One o¡¯ them balloons spotted a group o¡¯ Giant-men ¡®at they think¡¯s the command.¡± He nods his head in the direction of three small hot-air balloons, bobbing cheerfully over the bloody carnage of the battlefield. A single diminutive humanoid can be seen strapped into the tiny basket beneath it. ¡°An¡¯ ye¡¯re on yer way ta¡¯ invite ¡®em ta¡¯ kiss yer arse and ¡®ead back ta¡¯ th¡¯ North, ah take i¡¯?¡± you suggest, allowing yourself a playful smirk. Daven nods seriously. ¡°Aye, ¡®cept we¡¯re doin¡¯ th¡¯ invitin¡¯ wi¡¯ these ¡®ere satchels. Quite persuasive, if¡¯n th¡¯ suggestion is ta¡¯ be blown ta¡¯ wee bits. Will ye do me a favor, sis¡¯, and ¡®elp clear a path fer us?¡± ¡°We¡¯s out o¡¯ blindy-bombs,¡± you point out. ¡°And the geese ne¡¯er came. Dadtoad¡¯s folk¡ªthey ain¡¯t showed.¡± Daven spits in derision. ¡°¡®Ees a coward. Nothin¡¯ more ta¡¯ say fer that waste o¡¯ snarf. But ye kin¡¯ ¡®ave our blindy-bombs. Won¡¯t need ¡®em on this trip.¡± He gestures at his companions, who quickly unload the small, black glass balls and pass them up to your hawk riders. The faces of both companies are grim, and there is none of the usual good-natured ribbing between the air and ground forces. You take Daven by the forearm with one hand, clapping him on the shoulder. His narrow face is even more drawn and pinched than usual, and there are deep furrows in his brow. Daven has aged noticeably in the last six months. You shudder to think what your own visage looks like. ¡°Death ta¡¯ big-folk,¡± you say, forcing a grin. ¡°Death an¡¯ glory,¡± he replies. ¡°Ye been spendin¡¯ too much time wi¡¯ them humie knights,¡± you observe acidly. ¡°Next ye¡¯ll be quotin¡¯ romantic po¡¯try.¡± Daven remounts Anklebiter. The large badger glares at you fiercely. Your brother picks the lance out of its socket, holding it high so his companions can see. ¡°Mates!¡± he shouts over the din of battle. ¡°They may be big, but we¡¯re bigger! Who wants payback fer Great Roof? Who wants revenge fer¡¯ all them as didn¡¯t make it ou¡¯? Who wants ta¡¯ make some Giant-men go boom? Ah¡¯m off ta¡¯ blow up thar bosses! Who¡¯s wi¡¯ me?¡± They raise a ragged, angry cheer. Then Daven touches the spurs to Anklebiter, and the company leaps forward to follow him. Your riders lift off and fly above the company of badger knights. The ground riders thread expertly through the feet of the larger creatures on the battlefield. You keep an eye on them below, watching as the flow like a trickling stream around the bloody landscape, unseen by larger creatures. Re-armed with blindy-bombs, you watch out for Giant-men who might be inclined to look down, ensuring that their eyes will see nothing when they do. Ahead, Daven¡¯s target is a great mass of steel-clad warriors toward the northwest edge of the field. The guns to the south have gone silent. No more explosions rock the back ranks of the Giant-men. As you penetrate deeper over the enemy host, the only humans and goblins you see now lie prone where they fell. The Giant-men, lacking the distraction of hapless miniature soldiers to squash, begin to see you. Hands, swords, and nets begin to reach up. Keeping your riders at head level to deliver blindy-bombs exposes them to these hazards, and the wing begins to disintegrate. But the Giant-men are looking up, not down, and the badgers continue their stealthy advance through the feet of the enemy. You run out of blindy-bombs. There is nothing left to do but act as a decoy. You dodge and weave Graw back and forth, evading nets, clubs, and swords. Around you, the last of the hawk riders is netted, or peels off in other directions. The Giant-men begin to notice the badgers at their feet. You see them raise their legs to stamp, and the motion of raising and lowering feet spreads in their number. They bellow at each other, alerting their comrades to the danger. A giant foot comes down on the back half of Anklebiter, stopping him suddenly. Another descends on Daven, and you do not see him again. Back, instructs the Curse. You must get back to Cyrus Stoat and Merrily Hunter. Helplessly, knowing there is nothing more to be done here, you bank Graw sharply around, away from the Giant-men and the disaster of Daven¡¯s charge. A part of you wails in fury and grief, demanding to go down and die with him. But the Curse does not allow it. You fly higher over the waning melee even as you rage, making your way back to the human command post. A net closes over you, and drags you to the ground. You tumble off Graw¡¯s back, landing outside the rim of the net. You look up, just in time to see a steel-clad boot smash down over your pinned mount. You turn your face away, not wanting to see what is beneath it when it rises up. Ugly laughter comes from the owner of the boot. ¡°Le¡¯ me kill ¡®im. Just that one. Ye mus¡¯ let me. Then ah¡¯ll go an¡¯ die wi¡¯ Cyrus Stoat.¡± No. You sprint along the ground, dodging the boots and hooves of the combatants. Your run takes what seems an hour; but in truth it must be about five minutes. ¡°Can¡¯t ye help ou ¡®ere? Mek me stronger an¡¯ faster an¡¯ whatnot?¡± Very little. We must preserve the rest of your possibilities for later use. You have need of them in the future. If we expend them now, you do not reach the Shrine. ¡°Obtuse piece of shite Curse. Ye ne¡¯er make na¡¯ sense.¡± I git it now, alright, ye smug clever-arse? If I¡¯d a used up me other selves jes then, there¡¯d ¡®a been none left in Pour Vaille or a¡¯ the Shrine. She was right all along, if ye look at it from a certain point o¡¯ view. Ye happy? Still don¡¯ make it right, wha¡¯ happened ¡®ere. You pass beneath the feet and shields of a company of the Kings¡¯ Heavy Foot, drawn up to defend a low hill just below the old, ruined castle. Behind them, Snugg mercenaries are drawn up in three long ranks, aiming their long guns over the shoulders of the armored foot. You pass through their ranks, unnoticed. Behind them lies what is left of the Queen¡¯s command. There are many still bodies here, of all races. A heavy contingent of Giant-men penetrated earlier in the day, and the results were catastrophic. You saw it from above. Now, Anne herself lies under a bloody white cloth; the red is particularly deep where her head would have been. Numerous other human figures are laid out nearby. Their arms and armor are various and unusual, but they all have the wide-brimmed felt hats of their order laid over their faces. The bodies of the Giant-men, too heavy to move, lie where they were cut down by the Queen¡¯s bodyguard and the Applied Historians. General Howe of the King¡¯s Heavy Horse has taken command, and stands nearby with his surviving officers, giving out orders in a kind of calm desperation. We are not here to watch Thomas Howe die, instructs the Curse. Cyrus Stoat must leave this place before it is overrun. You trot wearily over to where Stoat kneels over the prone body of another human. His hat lies on the ground beside him, and his battered old breastplate shows fresh rents and splashes of blood. His broadsword is stuck point-first into the ground nearby. He is holding one hand of the body on the ground with both his own. The body is in bad shape, but you see that it was Merrily. There is a terrible, ugly gash across her face, and her chest appears to have been completely staved in. An elegant rapier is still clutched in one hand, and a dagger in the other. Cyrus¡¯s face and beard are wet with tears as he presses the limp hand to his forehead. ¡°We gotta go, Stoat,¡± you say, gasping for breath. He ignores you. ¡°Stoat! This place¡¯ll be overrun in a few minutes. You an¡¯ ah need ta¡¯ not be ¡®ere.¡± ¡°Go away if you want. I have nowhere to go, and no reason to go there.¡± You walk to him and poke him vigorously in the rear with your lance. He swats at you ineffectually. ¡°It ain¡¯t o¡¯er, Stoat.¡± You hear the urgency in your own voice. ¡°It ain¡¯t o¡¯er, na¡¯ by a long measure. Thar¡¯s years o¡¯ livin¡¯ left ta¡¯ do. Miss Merrily¡¯s gone, but ye ain¡¯t. Ye want to make ¡®er death be a meanin¡¯-less act o¡¯ stupidity? Or do ye wan¡¯ to do somethin¡¯ that¡¯s worth o¡¯ who Merrily Hunter was?¡± ¡°There¡¯s nothing left to do but to die¡ªright here, right now.¡± He turns his face away from you. His hand reaches for the hilt of his sword nearby. Tell him. ¡°Tell ¡®im what?¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°Tell ¡®im what?¡± ¡°Tell who what? Who are you talking to?¡± ¡°Shu¡¯ up, ye git. What am I s¡¯pposed ta¡¯ tell ¡®im?¡± ¡°I see we¡¯ve all reached the point of total, ludicrous insanity together. What happy company to keep at the end of the world.¡± Tell him about me. ¡°No way. ¡®Ee won¡¯t believe it.¡± ¡°You¡¯re right about that.¡± ¡°Shu¡¯ up¡¯, ah said. Now listen, Cyrus Stoat. Take a moment from feelin¡¯ sorry fer yerself an¡¯ listen good. Ye remember when ye got yer leg back?¡± ¡°How could I forget?¡± ¡°An¡¯ ye remember ¡®ow everyone though¡¯ ah was dead, an¡¯ then ah wasn¡¯t?¡± He nods, narrowing his eyes at you. The sound of fighting and bellowing and dying begins to grow louder to the north. ¡°An ye remember tha¡¯ ol¡¯ fruitbat Basil who used ta¡¯ wander aroun¡¯ wi¡¯ ¡®is two frien¡¯s, pretendin¡¯ ta¡¯ be all mystical an¡¯ all-knowin¡¯ and ¡®ave seer-like powers o¡¯ precognition?¡± ¡°I remember Basil, and Boris, and Brutus. I am not so old that my mind has grown flabby, Devi Dingeholt.¡± ¡°Right. Well, it was all true. Ah did die. An¡¯ ah did come back. Basil an¡¯ ¡®is pals could see the future¡ªor a kind of the future, a piece o¡¯ it. Only there¡¯s places where things kind o¡¯ come together; where the things ¡®at might be and ¡®at are get squished, so¡¯s there¡¯s only one real thing and before it all branches back ou¡¯ agin¡¯. In one o¡¯ those places, ¡®ee found a version of me from another branch, an¡¯ ¡®ee called it back.¡± The Giant-men hit the lines of the King¡¯s Heavy Foot fifty yards away from you, and the Snugg gunners behind them discharge their weapons in a long, tearing explosion. ¡°What are you getting at?¡± asks Cyrus. You see the spark of curiosity light in his eyes. ¡°Wha¡¯ ah¡¯m getting¡¯ at, Cyrus Stoat, is tha¡¯ things went wrong. We¡¯s in the wrongness, where what was s¡¯posed ta¡¯ be didn¡¯t ¡®appen.¡± ¡°Makes sense, I suppose,¡± muses Cyrus, stroking at his beard thoughtfully. ¡°Just about everything in this world is about as wrong as it can be.¡± ¡°Nay¡ªtha¡¯s lookin¡¯ at it too narrow-like. Look, we ain¡¯t got time ta¡¯ really get inta¡¯ the bits an¡¯ bobs ¡®ere, Stoat, ¡®cause if we don¡¯t move right now, them Giant-men is gonna come in an¡¯ make us all gooey. But thar¡¯s a chance we kin git this sorted out. Git back on track, as ¡®twer. Afore ¡®ee died, Basil gave me somethin¡¯. It¡¯s a Curse. It lets me see a little bit o¡¯ what ¡®ee saw, ¡®im and ¡®is frien¡¯s. It tells me things, an¡¯ it ¡®elps me sometimes. Sometimes it ain¡¯t so helpful. But I kin see tha¡¯ right now, the only thing tha¡¯ kin get us back on track is ta¡¯ get the almighty feck out o¡¯ here. The Giant-men ha¡¯ won. ¡®T¡¯ain¡¯t long afore them an¡¯ their Faceless an¡¯ their Primal Dragons an¡¯ all the res¡¯ of it swarms o¡¯er all the Neighbor Kingdoms. So we gotta make our ways south. Fight, don¡¯t give up, be clever every step o¡¯ th¡¯ way. But git, and git now. Because ye and ah ¡®ave a date with a ship in Pour Vaille, down in Brasse, and we cain¡¯t miss it. Ye get me, Cyrus? Ye¡¯re in the wrong branch now. Ye won¡¯t never leave it. But if ye do the right things, then ye can make the right branch real. Do ye want ta'' make things right? Fer her? Fer Veridia?¡± Cyrus Stoat looks down at what¡¯s left of Merrily, and gently lays her hands on her chest. Then he picks up his hat and sword, and rises to his feet. ¡°Yes,¡± he answers you. ¡°Yes, I want to make it right. I can¡¯t imagine why I¡¯d believe such nonsense, but there¡¯s nothing left to believe in the world. So I¡¯ll believe in you. Let¡¯s get the almighty feck out of here.¡± ¡°Pick me up then,¡± you instruct. He bends down and lays out his hands, and you climb into them. He tucks you gently into his pack. You and Cyrus slip away from the command post, even as the ranks of the Heavy Foot begin to break behind you, and the Giant-men come spilling in. With a view to the rear, you see how Howe cut down, and the remaining command staff with him. Cyrus unties a horse picketed behind the tents and swings up onto its back. Together you and he ride off to the south, away from the catastrophe of the Four Corners. ¡°One question only, right now,¡± he says, as the horse canters toward a wooden bridge over a narrow spot in the river. As you ride across, soldiers are already setting it on fire. ¡°Wha¡¯s that?¡± ¡°What exactly is this Curse? Is it catching? Am I going to get it?¡± ¡°Nay,¡± you answer. ¡°¡®T¡¯ain¡¯t catchin¡¯. ¡®T¡¯ain¡¯t like a fire at all. ¡®Tis like ash.¡± Chapter 40: The Fools Wisdom Green Bridge is burning. Ye¡¯ve already done this bit. Don¡¯ git repititive. Nonetheless, Green Bridge is burning. The landward districts¡ªso recently reconstructed, at hideous expense, following Hobb¡¯s Arson of III Leeland:16¡ªare once again engulfed in billowing, consuming flame. The massive hulks of the Primal Dragons are just visible over the low, dense smoke of the conflagration. But this time, there are no masses of refugees fleeing to Farley Island. The citizens were caught in their beds unawares. From outside the shattered walls, the regular boom of the Republican guns shakes the ground, and their exploding shells are methodically reducing the buildings of Triad University to¡ª This ha¡¯ better get isself pulled together righ¡¯ quick, ye pretentious arse. Yer self-indulgent reverse-time-apocalypse ain¡¯t no more fun ta¡¯ listen to than ¡®twas ta¡¯ live through. Can I finish? Please? Thank you. Veridia Snipe, backing up across the broad training ground outside Peacock Hall, coolly levels her prototype revolver at the advancing marines of the Republican Guard. The proximity of death is of no matter to Veridia; every moment of her life has been in service to what must happen, right now, to produce the required results. Right now, it is required that she kill these men to reach safety at Bastings Hall. She squeezes the trigger, and one of the red-clad men advancing toward her drops. But there are six more, and Veridia only has five shots. She fires again, and again. A cannon shell explodes in the training ground outside Peacock. High above, in a window looking out over the open square, a potted Hexastrid rattles from the impact; but its prudent owner has tucked it safely back from the ledge, and it does not fall. Veridia, out of shots for her revolver, feels her back press against the solid stone of Peacock Hall. The remaining marine thrusts forward with his sword. Righ¡¯, tha¡¯s it, ah¡¯m done ¡®ere. ??? I thought you didn¡¯t want to hear any more. Fech ye. Really, we can stop. Ah¡¯m jess sick o¡¯ all the folk ah care about getting¡¯ mairdered in a big ol¡¯ parade o¡¯ blood an¡¯ death. You explained this all to Cyrus in the last chapter. Ah know. Git on wi¡¯ it. The caboose separates slowly from the rest of the train, falling behind as gravity and friction claim its momentum¡ªone more victim in the endless, entropic march toward the heat death of the universe. King Simon looks back wistfully at The Gizzard, perched on the new rearmost car of the train. His arm is still outstretched, and his face is a mask of shock and agony. King Simon turns away, knowing what he must do. He slips into the human-sized door to the caboose, feeling the whole car slow to a stop and then slowly begin to roll backward down the steep slope. Selecting a stick of dynamite at random from one box, he slips around the numerous other boxes of rockets, racks of shells, and barrels of gunpowder. He makes his way to the back of the car, feeling the little vehicle pick up speed. Emerging at the back door of the caboose, the King of the Goblins looks sadly at the mass of Giant-men sprinting up the track toward the train. Behind him, the heavily-laden Number 2 is picking up speed in the opposite direction, making her way toward the tunnel that passes beneath the highest cliffs of the western ridge. But before him¡ªnow rapidly increasing in size¡ªare the Giant-men. ¡°Senseless,¡± he laments, in his light, musical voice. Ye got tha¡¯ right, King Simon. Makes about¡¯ as much sense as a flyin¡¯ badger. Simon takes off the crown, casually tossing it off the side of the caboose. It¡¯s a brass prop, anyway; one of Cyrus Stoat¡¯s old toys. Simon holds the fuse of the dynamite up to the lantern on the rear of the caboose, making sure that it is burning vigorously before he withdraws it. ¡°Oh my lady,¡± he inquires ritualistically, as he waits to meet his destiny, ¡°why have you abandoned me?¡± ??? Now look. We gotta git ta¡¯ the part where ah saves the day. ¡®Nuf of this doom and gloom. Do you? Do ah what? Do you save the day? Fechly well better, or ah¡¯ma stab yer eyes out an¡¯ feed yer wibbly bits ta¡¯ the rats. Rufus Snugg, strapped beneath his flying wing, fights with the controls and the billowing wind. Behind him, the twin rocket engines of his small aircraft provide enough thrust to propel him forward; but the constant up and down, left and right buffeting of the gusts makes it nearly impossible to control his heading. A pair of round goggles shields his eyes from the tearing wind. And then, abruptly, the wind stops. It is as if nature, having exhaled as much as she cared to, has paused before drawing her breath back in. Exultant, Rufus checks the twin bandoliers of gunpowder bombs strapped across his chest. They are still both intact. So, too, is the hooded lantern, its tiny flame protected from the wind by sturdy vented housing. The rocket engines blast him forward, and he manipulates the flaps and rudder to redirect himself toward his target. It is a beast: massive in girth, with wings that must stretch fifty feet in each direction from its comparatively slim, serpentine body. Its head is pointed down, looking for more targets among the harried Snugg mercenaries on the ground, all fleeing toward the last escape in the balloons. The flames have already claimed too many. Rufus Snugg has his own flame, though it dangles beneath his body awkwardly in the tiny lantern. He maneuvers closer, aiming for the spot on its back where the broad wings sprout from the body on powerful, muscular shoulders. The stillness of the air, shocking after the howling gale and rainstorm, are perfect for flying. The beast raises its head, and sees Rufus. Twisting its face into an alien, reptilian grin, it draws in breath and baptizes him with fire. Cyrus and Veridia, watching anxiously from one of the balloons already aloft, see a popping burst of fire and smoke, and the bedraggled remains of the flying wing drift downward in a fluttering spiral. The dragon banks and makes straight for the balloons. Cyrus puts his arm around Veridia and Marius, embracing them as they all wait to meet their destiny. ??? Now look. ¡®Ow many times ¡®r ye gonna kill Cyrus Stoat? I cain¡¯t say I pa¡¯ticularly object, but th¡¯ trope is startin¡¯ to wear a bit thin. ¡®Ees not really such a great and noble fella that ¡®ee desairves all o¡¯ these dramatic endin¡¯ scenes. That¡¯s all for now. Kin we git ta¡¯ me then? We ain¡¯t seen none o¡¯ me yet this time. There are two more stories that must end before yours can begin. Bollocks ta¡¯ ye. Jonathan Miller, crouched behind the overturned wreckage of the Number One train, watches the Man with the Metal Face stride past. The Man is alone, and he seems oblivious. Merrily¡¯s last words still ring in Jonathan¡¯s ears, and he feels their poison eating away at his heart. ¡°You took her from me twice,¡± he whispers. He steps out from behind the overturned engine, withdrawing Merrily¡¯s long, elegant dagger from his belt. And, moving faster than he ever knew he could, he swiftly stabs it into the back of the Man with the Metal Face. The tall figure slumps abruptly, and then crumples to the ground before Jonathan. INT: You still haven¡¯t told me how you died. SR: It was only moments ago. Jonathan Miller stabbed me, and I bled to death. You have people there. They can tell you. INT: It will only unlock the pattern for you to relive the experience yourself, Richard. Did you learn nothing from your time in the Metal God¡¯s black box? Your perception alone creates reality, and you control your perception. When you summoned forth Leeland to keep you company in those long months of isolation, he was real then. And as you tell me the moments of your death, it will become real again. The Metal God was in you; it controlled you. While we have this connection, you and I, in this place, I can directly observe its spin pattern. And then I can bring Leeland to you. The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. SR: Why are you in such a hurry? INT: Our time is almost finished, Richard. I cannot delay this moment for much longer. SR: You made a mistake to come here. INT: At last, you show yourself. SR: My tool has functioned perfectly. It is in harmony with the Kapleswed. And now the time has come to conclude our moment together. I have here a gun, which my tool has created with its mind. And you have committed the whole of your pattern to this environment. The result is decisive, and the matter is resolved. Goodbye, sister. INT: If you had the slightest shred of romance in you, brother, you would know¡ª He shoots her. SR: Hello, my love. The transcript ends. ??? Wait, wha¡¯? You and Basil sit together in the deep forest of ancient trees, on the steep slope of one of the many ridges in this wilderness. ¡°They will be here soon,¡± he announces. Ye¡¯ve a real talent, ye know. Ye kin deliver a obscure, inscruptable statement, wi¡¯out th¡¯ slightes¡¯ contex¡¯ er explanation, be¡¯er than any man ah¡¯ve e¡¯er met. ¡°Who?¡± you ask. You¡¯ve become accustomed to his obscure, inscrutable statements, given without the slightest context or explanation. Context and explanation always follow later. Sometimes it is much later. Prepare ta be stabbed. But today, they come quickly. ¡°The tools of our adversary. It has consumed and dominated a high-ranking man of the local state. His name was Sir Richard of Enderly. It now leads an army of Giant-men this way.¡± ¡°¡®Zat why we¡¯ve been¡¯ sittin¡¯ in this arse end o¡¯ nowhere fer the last two weeks? Ain¡¯t nothin¡¯ ¡®ere but moss an¡¯ trees. E¡¯en the mice ¡®er skinny.¡± ¡°No. To meet Sir Richard is why we have been sitting here for the last two hours.¡± ¡°Then why, by the cat¡¯s ¡®airy balls, did we come ¡®ere two weeks ago?¡± Basil shrugs. ¡°Because I like it here. The forest is old and peaceful and quiet. I find the trees empathetic. My services were not needed anywhere else, and so here we came to wait.¡± ¡°Wha¡¯ services do ye offer?¡± He shrugs again. ¡°The doing of things that are needful. To plant and to uproot; to kill and to heal; to scatter stones, and to gather them; the list goes on at some length. At times you might think my work tedious, and other times you might think it fraught. To the giver of our tasks, each breath is more important and deliberate than the construction of a star.¡± ¡°Ye said a grea¡¯ many words there, Basil, but ye dinnay convey na¡¯ meanin¡¯.¡± ¡°Not today, I didn¡¯t.¡± He raises his head suddenly, looking into the distance. You follow his gaze, but see nothing more than the endless march of towering, woody monoliths. The forest is silent around you. ¡°Hark,¡± he remarks softly. ¡°They come. Now, Devi, is where you and I must part. Go back to Jonathan Miller. He¡¯s still in the valley, lost in self-pity and despair. Walk with him, and show him the way back to the Bright Path.¡± ¡°Ah don¡¯ think ah can. Ah still don¡¯ know what ye mean by all tha¡¯ abou¡¯ paths and branchways. Ye gave me somethin¡¯ when ye called me back, but ¡®tain¡¯t like what ye see ¡®tall. Ah don¡¯ know ¡®ow me actions an¡¯ choices ¡®ll play ou¡¯.¡± He smiles at you gently. ¡°This is the first step of your path, Devi Dingeholt, not the second, or the middle, or the last. You know what She needs you to know. And you will not fail. I will give you a Gift to guide you along the way.¡± He holds out his hand, palm upward, in an inviting gesture. Bemused, you press your own hand into his. Something warm flows from him into you. And the warmth activates what was already in you: that which he added to you when he called you back into life. In one, instantaneous flash, you experience everything that is to come. The deaths of Simon, Veridia, Daven, Anne, Merrily, Cyrus, Vicod, and Ikongbe; a long, slow life, longer than your own kind was meant to experience, wandering the wastes; the constant dry, sardonic commentary of an inner companion you never asked for or wanted; and the certain knowledge of the sorrow and suffering that are to come, knowing that you must let it happen and even play your part in it. You draw your hand back, shaking at the enormity of what he has inflicted on you. ¡°¡®T¡¯ain¡¯t a Gift,¡± you say, catching your breath in anger. ¡°¡®T¡¯ain¡¯t a Gift. ¡®Tis a terr¡¯ble Curse, more awful than ah¡¯d lay on anyone, e¡¯en if ¡®ee killed me hi¡¯self.¡± Basil smiles sadly, and nods. ¡°I know,¡± he replies. Go, says the Curse. You must go now. Call down Graw and fly away from this place. It is the first command in your life that you have obeyed without at least a token protest. You put your fingers to your lips and give a sharp whistle. Graw, circling above, swoops down and lands obediently on the ground next to you. She pecks curiously at a worm in the soil, and then eyes you with that fierce, devoted, and slightly crazed glare that so captured your heart when she was a chick. You reach up and ruffle the feathers of her neck gently, then hop up into the saddle. ¡°Will ah see ye agin¡¯?¡± you ask. Basil shakes his head. ¡°Not in this branch. Our paths diverge. But follow the Bright Path, Devi, and all things and all people will come together again.¡± ¡°Ah¡¯ll miss yer inscruptable nonsense talk,¡± you say gruffly, holding back a lump in your throat. ¡°An¡¯ thanks fer bringin¡¯ me back from th¡¯ dead, I s¡¯ppose.¡± Graw ascends, circling a thermal to ride higher and higher into the cold April sky. Her blood pumps fiercely in the hot body; you can feel it moving beneath her skin and feathers. You watch the tiny form of Basil shrink into a barely-perceptible spot on the ground among the gray branches of the trees. Shapes move in the forest up-slope from him, toward the lonely figure. They are giant shapes. There is an army of them. ¡°We¡¯s goin¡¯ back,¡± you say angrily, banking Graw. This will not end the way you want it to, replies the Curse. But there is play yet in the path. Go back and witness if you wish. It may be to our advantage elsewhere in the weave. ¡°This host may come no further,¡± intones Basil, alone facing the Man with the Metal Face and his army of Giant-men. Basil¡¯s voice is not threatening. Rather, it is calm, undisturbed, and instructive. But the Man with the Metal Face is not looking at him. His featureless masks turns toward you, as you perch on a tree branch well above the confrontation. One of the Giant-men unexpectedly strides forward, as the Man¡¯s gaze continues to rest on you. He bears with him a huge shield and a massive hammer of solid steel. ¡°I will crush you, little man,¡± roars the creature, advancing on Basil. You find that the Curse has given you an understanding of the words, though you do not speak the language. The Man with the Metal Face barks a single word, in a language you do not comprehend. No translation is forthcoming. But you can hear desperation in his voice. And the Giant-man stops. Graw, startled at the harsh shout, lifts off from the tree branch. For a moment, all of reality is frozen, as if you were imprisoned in a single, endless moment of time. The Man with the Metal Face and Basil stare at each other, and a faint, sardonic smile plays at the edges of Basil¡¯s mouth. And then, when time resumes its normal services, the old pine tree from which you had just departed finally loses its hold in the soil, topples over, and falls directly on the Giant-men who had surged forward and then stopped. He remains obediently stopped, looking up at the tree as it falls on him. His head snaps at an ugly angle, and the sharp, rock-hard stubs of its lower branches punch through his steel armor, impaling him to the ground. He makes no sound, but lies still, his feet twitching slightly. ¡°The rewards of obedience,¡± remarks Basil quietly. The Man with the Metal Face moves forward then, drawing out a long dagger from the dead Giant-man¡¯s belt as he passes by. He strides up into the air and over the fallen trunk where fresh blood waters the forest floor, then descends those invisible steps again to stand directly in front of Basil. You watch them for a long moment, Basil and the Man. There is some invisible contest, as both bodies seem to struggle over an unseen thing, wrenching it back and forth, pushing one tiny moment in time between the variations of what might be. For an instant, you see two paths in the forest, two realities flickering back and forth; one a bright path, and the other dark. There is a hint of movement in your vision, and a single acorn shakes loose from its branch nearby your face, falling on the ground between them. ¡°Just missed,¡± says the Metal Face, after the briefest of pauses. And then its hand flashes up, and the knife plunges into the unprotected chest of Basil. As the blade pierces his heart, he looks up at you in the forest canopy above, and releases a long, deliberate, breath, pointing the wind from his lungs upwards into the sky. And then he falls silently to the ground. You cry out in terrible pain and loss, just as Graw wings away at your command. Basil¡¯s last breath disperses into the sky, moving the tiniest particles of air with precision, patience, and implacable purpose. He breathes like a butterfly flaps its wings. The movement spreads, but its outcomes are lost to you. ??? ¡°Wha¡¯s it all mean, then?¡± You sit next to Basil on a log under the bright stars, looking at the river as it flows gently south. The sounds of battle have died down back in the valley, and here under the dark trees it is as if the murder and agony of the day never happened. Here there is only starlight on water. ¡°It means you have remembered who you are,¡± he answers. In the dark, you cannot tell if he is smiling or not. ¡°But fer wha? So¡¯s I kin go an¡¯ live ¡®t all agin¡¯? Fech that. Put me back in th¡¯ barrel, please.¡± ¡°Who said anything about living that life again? I don¡¯t advise it.¡± ¡°Then wha¡¯s the point o draggin¡¯ me backward through me own future jess to shove me in this body agin¡¯? Ye may as well explain wha¡¯ went wrong so¡¯s I kin fix it.¡± He nods. ¡°Exactly right, my friend. Exactly right. Soon I will give you a Gift that will help you and all the people you care about to find their way back to the Bright Path, if you are wise enough to use it.¡± ¡°Wise? Me? Ah ain¡¯t wise. Ah was out rollin¡¯ in th¡¯ ¡®ay wi¡¯ Dingen Delaney the day they was ¡®andin¡¯ out wise. Got big grass seeds in the mos¡¯ uncomf¡¯table locations. No wise to be ¡®ad ¡®round ¡®ere.¡± Basil shrugs. ¡°If you don¡¯t have wisdom, then you will have to make do with foolishness. Now come, little one. We really do have great things to do, you and I, and we had better get a start. Your time to die has come and gone, and also your time to be born. Now we must plant and harvest, kill and heal, speak and be silent, and gather a great many stones. And we must do all of our tasks before the eighth of October next year.¡± You stand up and hop into his outstretched hand. ¡°Tha¡¯ seems like plenty o¡¯ time. An¡¯ anyway, what ¡®appens on the eighth of October next year?¡± Basil shuffles off along the riverbank, heading downstream. ¡°That¡¯s when we meet Jonathan Miller drowning in the Green River.¡± There is a long silence then, as Basil walks, and you think. ¡°Wa¡¯s this Gift, then? Is¡¯t shiny?¡± ¡°I¡¯ll tell you later,¡± is his cryptic reply. ??? Jonathan Miller did not drown in the Green River on the eighth of October, III Leeland:15. But six months later, he had every intention of drowning in a bottle of whiskey. As the rain beat down on the tiled roof of his bare room in the bare little settlement of Beatrice, he lifted the bottle to his lips again, fully intending that this would be the last time he¡¯d ever need to. He was, consequently, quite surprised when the bottle was removed from his hand and smashed on the edge of the table. Concluding that he had once again reached the desired state of delirium, Jonathan waited patiently to pass out. But instead, a shockingly cold splash of water drenched his face, and moments later something sharp jabbed him in the bottom. ¡°Yer gonna sober up, me fine blondie,¡± came a tiny voice, ¡°an¡¯ then yer gonna come wi¡¯ me. And we¡¯s gonna fin¡¯ King Simon, solve Rolland Gorp¡¯s mairder, save Merrily agin¡¯, an¡¯ stop a dragon from toastin¡¯ Cyrus Stoat and Veridia Snipe. An¡¯ if we don¡¯t, the world¡¯s gonna end. So barf up wha¡¯s in yer tummy, Jonathan Miller, ¡®cause ye an¡¯ I ¡®ave got some serious adventurin¡¯ ta¡¯ do.¡± Jonathan, too confused to protest, followed her instructions to the letter. Chapter 41: The Impossible Lunch May 12th, III Leeland:16 Rufus Snugg strode through the passages of System A with an air of deliberate violence, like a man walking to a duel, or perhaps to a drinking game. He wore a starched white shirt with a red cravat, a black woolen coat and pants, a black cape trimmed in silver, and brightly-polished leather shoes. His curly red hair was carefully brushed, and his face freshly shaved. Jonathan, shuffling rather less dramatically beside the young merchant prince, even caught a tasteful whiff of cologne. Rufus had evidently decided to look and smell his very best for his latest triumph¡ªor his own messy death. From the huge finery chamber ahead in System B, Jonathan could both hear and feel a low, thrumming rumble. It was overlaid with the voices of many people, but compared to the deep monotone drone they sounded like the chirping of birds. The rumble reached through his feet and into his bones. It was the mighty, awful chorus of Progress. The tunnel opened into the finery, and Jonathan gazed at the source of the drone. At the center of the cavernous space, set apart from the ranks of fining eggs with their exhaust pipes twisting toward the ceiling, was an entirely different kind of machine. Its forward body was a long cylinder, surmounted by a tall smokestack. At the very front of the cylinder was a large numeral ¡°1,¡± plated in gold. A cab at the rear rose slightly above the massive cylinder, with windows paned in real glass revealing an interior studded with valves, levers, and strange instruments. Eight wheels ¨C four large and four small¡ªwere arranged on either side of the machine, with the larger wheels to the rear. The massive steel hulk of the body gleamed even in the comparatively dim light of the oil lamps and torches that lit the fining chamber. Behind the main engine was a smaller wagon, also on wheels, piled high with coal, and behind that were five long, wheeled cars with open, flat beds. This conjoined procession of vehicles rested on sturdy steel rails, bound at regular intervals with strips of oak planking. Scores of human and goblin workers¡ªand scores more black-clad mercenaries wearing the Snugg insignia¡ªwere scattered around it in attitudes of hushed awe, like worshippers before some eldritch idol. A shiver ran down Jonathan¡¯s back as he contemplated what this machine¨Cand its sister, waiting in Hog Hurst¡ªrepresented. This was not the product of a single craftsman, or even a well-staffed workshop. It was not the passion project of some mad inventor, beavering away in an obscure basement. It was the output of hundreds of men and women working in tight coordination for tens of thousands of hours. Six discarded prototypes had preceded it. There had been deadly accidents¡ªexploded boilers, illnesses from the smoke, steel plates dropped on the legs or arms of unfortunate men. The steel alone was worth more than several Carolese duchies. It was beyond the reach of kings and emperors. Only the combined labor and concentrated capital of a multi-national trading concern could have created a machine like this, and its existence would transform the nature of trade, transport, and warfare. A profit would be expected. The principal investor, and the man whose family stood to profit the most, paused next to Jonathan, gazing profoundly at the metal beast he had dreamed and the small army he had assembled to make it real. Rufus Snugg¡¯s expression was some admixture of awe, ambition, and unshakeable self-confidence. A hush fell over the assembled workers as he drew near his creation. Rufus examined his reflection in the polished steel of the boiler. He adjusted his cravat slightly. ¡°I think,¡± he said with dramatic understatement, ¡°that I should like to have lunch in Hog Hurst. How far is it to Hog Hurst, Mr. Miller?¡± The faces of all in the great finery chamber were turned to watch this bit of theatre. A faint smile twitched involuntarily at the corners of Rufus¡¯s mouth. Jonathan rolled his eyes slightly. ¡°One hundred and ten miles, Mr. Snugg,¡± he supplied. Then, reading Rufus¡¯s slightly crestfallen look, he raised his voice and added: ¡°The fastest horse, running on the Eldenway in fair weather, couldn¡¯t cover one hundred and ten miles before lunch. It¡¯s impossible.¡± Rufus¡¯s face brightened noticeably, and he gave a broad smile. ¡°Right you are, Mr. Miller,¡± he proclaimed for the crowd. He drew out his pocket-watch and looked at it, idly twisting the wind for further dramatic effect. ¡°It¡¯s nearly eight o¡¯clock. By noon, you and I will have accomplished the impossible. All aboard.¡± He lightly ascended the short ladder into the first car, which had a boxy compartment and a bank of glass-paned windows, partly open. The cars behind were simpler, outfitted with rows of unadorned benches and protected only by waist-high barriers. Ranks of mercenaries, standing in orderly rows next to each car, began to file aboard. Each man carried a long gun, a large pack, and a broad sword at his belt. They wore brightly-polished breastplates, but no other armor. Aside from the shuffle of the soldiers filing onto the cars, the crowd was nearly silent. Jonathan climbed up into the coach behind Rufus. Inside were four round tables of dark-stained oak, each surrounded by several chairs. Both the tables and chairs were bolted to the floor of the car. Rufus was already seated at one, nibbling at a bun. Seeing Jonathan, he waved him over and gestured at a chair. At another table nearby sat Arthur and several other goblins, chattering and scribbling notes on sheets of paper. Gunnar von Boof, the chemist, occupied a third table, joining in the chatter and argument with the goblins. His long gray hair was tied back in a ponytail, and his enormous mustache was carefully brushed. ¡°Will you take some tea with me, Jonathan?¡± inquired Rufus. ¡°Of course you will.¡± Retrieving a cup and saucer from a small cabinet near at hand¡ªalso bolted down¡ªhe poured hot tea from a metal flask and gently pushed it across the tabletop. Jonathan dutifully sipped at the tea, looking closely at Rufus. ¡°Why are we taking two hundred soldiers with us to lunch?¡± he asked. ¡°I thought this was just a test run.¡± Rufus shrugged. ¡°It¡¯s a better test if we carry a load¡ªand I don¡¯t need twenty tons of steel in Hog Hurst right now.¡± ¡°But you need two full companies of your best mercenaries?¡± ¡°What luncheon isn¡¯t improved by overwhelming military force? Now look, Jonathan, don¡¯t be difficult. Focus on the positive: We¡¯re about to make history. Cyrus Stoat¡¯s intellectual heirs will write about this day in tones of hushed reverence a generation from now. Perhaps it will be adapted into a fiction play, and one day you and I shall be represented on stage by more attractive men than ourselves.¡± There was a terrific, blasting whistle from the front of the machine. ¡°It needs a name,¡± remarked Rufus. Jonathan thought about that. ¡°Steel serpent?¡± suggested Gunnar, from his table nearby. Rufus shook his head. ¡°Too destructive. This is a device of progress, not of annihilation.¡± ¡°People-mover?¡± offered Jonathan. ¡°Have you been drinking again?¡± There was another shrieking blast from up front. Jonathan sighed. ¡°Why don¡¯t you tell me the name you¡¯ve already thought of.¡± Rufus settled back in the chair. ¡°Landphoenix,¡± he proclaimed, drawing out the words slowly. There was a long silence in the room, and a faint, badly-stifled snort from inside Jonathan¡¯s satchel. Even the goblins, chattering at the next table, looked up with raised eyebrows. ¡°Well, alright,¡± said Rufus at last, looking crestfallen. ¡°I can¡¯t have brilliant ideas every minute of the day.¡± ¡°Look, it¡¯s more like a wagon train than anything else,¡± observed Jonathan. ¡°You don¡¯t have to go inventing a new word for absolutely everything. Just call it a train for now, until you come up with something better.¡± With a jolt that threw Jonathan face down on the table and Rufus backward in his chair, the deck beneath them started to move forward. It had none of the bouncing clop of a horse-drawn wagon, but neither did it have the smooth, flowing glide of a riverboat. There was a regular clicking vibration that slowly increased in frequency as the train picked up speed. Jonathan looked out the window and saw the dark interior of the finery chamber start to slide past, and with it the faces of the silent crowd of human and goblin workers. The silence outside the train was suddenly broken, as one young man wearing dirty overalls and a leather cap gave a whooping yell. It was a wordless exclamation of surprise and triumph and defiance. He whooped again, and pulled the cap off his head, waving it in the air as Rufus Snugg grinned at him through the open window of the car. Jonathan saw with surprise that tears streamed openly down the young man¡¯s face. Then others nearby picked up the cue, and the cry spread throughout the finery. Hats were ripped off and thrown in the air; men and women grabbed each other and danced; and some of the goblins among them were seized and tossed into the air with the hats, laughing and squealing. But the celebrating work crews were soon left behind. The tunnel outside grew dark as they passed out of the finery, and then abruptly exploded into light as the puffing locomotive pulled its cars out into the daylight of Devi Valley. They were already moving faster than Jonathan had imagined possible. He found he was gripping the top of the table to brace himself against an imagined impact. Rufus gently reached across the surface and loosened his fingers. ¡°If we crash, then no amount of gripping that table will save you, Jonathan,¡± he said. ¡°But we¡¯re not going to crash.¡± Outside, they continued to accelerate. The train soon entered the little settlement of Beatrice where the tracks passed through it. Snugg guards stood at the road crossings, warning away curious workers and clerks from the warehouses and workshops. The cheering and whooping continued here, too, as men and women who had labored for more than a year in the valley, hearing unfulfilled rumors of some great project, suddenly beheld it fully-formed and roaringly alive. ¡°The bridge is next,¡± said Rufus quietly. ¡°Our lives are in the hands of mathematicians now.¡± Jonathan swallowed hard and gripped the table again. ¡°Stop tormenting that table, Mr. Miller,¡± trilled Arthur from the next table over. ¡°It¡¯s more in danger of you pulling it up out of the floor than we are of the bridge collapsing. We¡¯ve run hundreds of load tests and simulations. Every inch of that bridge has been inspected and inspected again. It can hold ten times the load we¡¯re about to put on it. Your life is safe in the hands of mathematics.¡± There was a subtle change in the sound of the rails beneath them, becoming hollow and slightly higher-pitched. Jonathan looked out the window and saw the Upper East Branch flowing beneath them, and his face grew pale. But they did not fall. In what felt like the blink of an eye the river was behind them and the train had resumed its basso ostinato back on land. ¡°How fast are we going?¡± Jonathan inquired in a shaky voice. Arthur replied again. ¡°We think she can make thirty miles in an hour on the flat,¡± he said. ¡°But we¡¯ll take it slow going up the ridgeline.¡± ¡°Going up¡¡± Jonathan gulped. He moved over to the other side of the train, even as it took a curve in the track, pushing him up against the glass. Above him, the western ridge of Devi Valley reared up, and the floor became noticeably pitched as the locomotive started to take the traversing incline. ¡°Come back to your seat, Jonathan,¡± said Rufus with an indulgent smile. ¡°I¡¯ll have need of your services once we reach Hog Hurst, and I can¡¯t have you laid up with a broken leg.¡± Jonathan staggered back to his seat, even as the pitch became steeper and the valley floor began to drop away below them. The roaring throb of the locomotive ahead echoed through the car like some captive volcano. He found himself leaning backward, as if to help push the enormous load up the side of the tall ridge. But it did not need his help. The locomotive lifted them up and up, into the sky above the river and the settlement. He found that his fear left him, and he pressed with fascination against the windows. The valley and settlement grew rapidly more distant, shrinking to the size of a child¡¯s toy as the locomotive and its cars hurtled up the traverse. There were several switch-backs before the track neared the peak of the long, broken ridgeline. And then, quite abruptly, pitch darkness descended on the train car. In the horrid, timeless black, Jonathan froze, a scream welling up in his throat. But before it could escape, he remembered the short tunnel at the top of the ridge. Even as he did, the light returned, and they were on the other side, descending the long traverses on the eastern slope of the ridge. The deep forests of the frontier stretched out below them, broken only by the series of sharp ridges and valleys of which Devi Valley was just one among many. The throbbing roar of the steam locomotive ahead of them continued without pause, but it was augmented by the screech of brake pads as the engineers tamed the awful downward force of gravity on the heavy steel vehicle. ¡°I¡¯m glad that¡¯s over!¡± Jonathan bellowed at Rufus over the noise. ¡°There are four more ridges to cross before the track makes a flat run through the forest!¡± Rufus shouted in return. Jonathan¡¯s face went pale. The ascent and descent of the ridges gradually became less terrifying, and by the time they descended the fourth ridge, Jonathan began to find the whole thing rather pedestrian. The train stopped after perhaps an hour for a brief inspection of the boiler, brakes, and couplings. Jonathan, stretching his legs during the break, was surprised to find two goblins along with the human engineer in the cab of the locomotive. He commented on this to Gunnar. ¡°Oh, they¡¯re marvelous, your Quiet Ones,¡± replied Gunnar, giving his gray mustache a playful twitch. ¡°You didn¡¯t oversell them a bit. The rank-and-file work well enough¡ªand about twice as long and hard as humans, if they¡¯re motivated¡ªbut the best of the grayskins have a knack for engineering and chemistry that puts Gretchen and me both to shame. In six months, they¡¯ve picked up most of what took me thirty years of study and practice to learn. Gretchen says the same. And I¡¯ll swear on anything you like, some of them already knew half of it. It¡¯s like they¡¯re¡ well, like they¡¯re engineered for engineering.¡± Jonathan regarded the goblins in the cab of the locomotive, chattering in excitement with the human engineer. Then his gaze drifted back to the cars, where hundreds of black-clad Snugg mercenaries were stretching their legs and checking their weapons. ¡°What are all the soldiers for?¡± he asked Gunnar. Jonathan fancied the chemist¡¯s eyes grew sad. ¡°Couldn¡¯t say,¡± he replied with a shrug. ¡°You¡¯d better ask Rufus.¡± After five minutes, the train crew satisfied that their vehicle was fit to continue the trip, the engineer hollered the passengers aboard and the train jolted forward again. The passage was straighter and flatter now, cutting through endless miles of forests, winding around the base of ridges, and leaping over small rivers. Jonathan, sitting quietly in the forward car with Rufus and the others, was mesmerized by the trees whipping by thirty feet from the track. ¡°I wish Merrily were here to see this,¡± he whispered to himself. And he imagined that she was here, sitting at the table with him and Rufus, sharing their amazement at this miracle. He imagined reaching across the table to put his hand on hers, and being destroyed with love, all over again, by her green eyes and bright smile. The vision so was real, he found to his surprise that he had actually reached across the table and taken Rufus Snugg¡¯s hand. He drew back in embarrassment, even as Rufus gave him a quizzical smile and a raised eyebrow. But his employer said nothing else, and the moment passed out into the speeding blur of the trees. There was a rumble of thunder, and Jonathan noticed that the sky had grown dark with clouds. Rain began to patter on the windows of the coach. Merrily was not here; not a ghost, not a shadow, not a variation. She was gone. At eleven fifty-three, by Rufus Snugg¡¯s gold pocket watch, the train pulled into the enormous Snugg warehouse in Hog Hurst. It came to rest next to a nearly identical locomotive emblazoned with a gold ¡°2¡± on the forward face of its boiler. The mercenaries disembarked and filed off through the rain toward one of the cavernous barracks at the waterfront. Rufus, Gunnar, and Jonathan walked to the public house and had an impossible lunch. ??? After lunch, Jonathan discovered that Rufus Snugg intended to seize the coal mines in the Gray Kingdom. He reached this conclusion when, upon emerging from Hog Hurst¡¯s finest dining establishment into a driving rain, he observed that the two hundred mercenaries who had begun their day in Devi Valley were now riding in barges across the Green River. ¡°You lied to me!¡± he snapped at Rufus, immediately upon witnessing the river crossing. ¡°I did no such thing,¡± replied Jonathan¡¯s employer urbanely, pushing out the hood of his umbrella to shield them both from the rain. ¡°I simply declined to elaborate.¡± ¡°You can¡¯t do this!¡± Jonathan blundered on. ¡°Haven¡¯t Arthur and his crews proven themselves?¡± Rufus nodded. ¡°They have indeed, Jonathan. I¡¯m grateful for their help, and they have been paid properly and fairly for their services. But the fact is that the coal shipments from the Gray Kingdom have stopped entirely. Without that coal, there¡¯s no fining at Devi Valley and no fuel for the steam engine that you rode¡ªnot to mention no coal to sell to the people of Green Bridge to keep them warm this winter. No deposits anywhere in the Neighbor Kingdoms are remotely as rich or as accessible as the ones lying fallow in the ground twenty-five miles west of here. The Gray Kingdom appears to have disintegrated entirely; the reports from our caravans are gruesome.¡± Jonathan found, to his surprise, that his face was flushed and his voice quavered. He stepped away from Rufus, instantly drenching himself in the downpour. ¡°They¡¯re lying!¡± he shouted, despite the discomfort. Passing villagers turned to look at him in surprise, though Rufus maintained an unflappable calm. Near the Snugg factor house, a man in a trim gray suit began hurrying toward them, despite the foul weather. But Jonathan paid no attention to anyone but Rufus. ¡°They¡¯re lying!¡± he repeated. ¡°The caravanners want you to go in and take over so they don¡¯t have to deal with the goblins! Your people hate them because of how they look and how they talk. But it¡¯s not fair, Rufus. Simon¡¯s been teaching them something better than what they were before. It doesn¡¯t have to end like this.¡± ¡°If Simon were still there,¡± replied Rufus, walking briskly toward the waterfront, ¡°then I¡¯m certain it wouldn¡¯t have ended like this. He was a man you could do business with. But there¡¯s no one like him left, and my time and patience have run out. Come along if you like, and you¡¯ll see what they¡¯ve become.¡± A desperate thought struck Jonathan¡¯s brain, conveyed perhaps by the impact of a particularly brilliant raindrop. ¡°What if I went there first?¡± he blurted. ¡°I could make a deal with them. So the goblins would let you in for a while, and you wouldn¡¯t need to attack them.¡± Rufus¡¯s pace didn¡¯t slow. ¡°I¡¯ll go as high as five percent,¡± he said flatly over his shoulder, continuing his path toward the waterfront. ¡°Net of all costs. But Jonathan, no one there will listen to you. You¡¯re wasting your time.¡± ¡°Just give me two days!¡± ¡°We march on foot to the Gray Kingdom, immediately,¡± said Rufus firmly as they came to the docks. There was a tinge of sadness in his voice. ¡°I won¡¯t wait for you¡ªbut you needn¡¯t wait for me, either. There¡¯s still a post station on the other side of the river, and they might have a horse. If you can reach the Gray Kingdom first, you¡¯re welcome to do whatever you think you must. If there¡¯s anything left of you when we arrive, I¡¯ll have all my horses and all my men try to put you back together again.¡± The man in the gray suit¡ªnow rapidly become darker with rainwater¡ªwas drawing closer, waving at them both. Jonathan, recognizing a bureaucratic distraction when he saw one, sprinted for Fisher¡¯s Dock. There, despite the relentless march of progress, Jeremiah Fisher still spent his days in the alternate pursuits of fishing and napping in his hut, while pretending to rent out canoes. Hearing contented snores from inside the hut, Jonathan flung a silver coin in the boot at the door, heaved a canoe off the rack, and splashed it into the water. Behind him, the man in the gray suit reached Rufus Snugg, somewhat out of breath. He sheltered gratefully under the umbrella. ¡°Message for Mr. Miller, sir!¡± he huffed. ¡°Straight from head office in Green Bridge!¡± Rufus shrugged. ¡°The boy¡¯s on a quest. But you may catch him still if you dare. There are several more canoes.¡± The man in the gray suit looked carefully at the small army crossing the Green River, at the heavy rain clouds, and then at the shrinking figure of Jonathan Miller paddling out into the broad, turgid expanse of water, still swollen with spring snowmelt from the high northern peaks. ¡°I expect,¡± he concluded, ¡°that it will wait.¡± With that, he turned back to the factor house. ??? Jonathan pounded along the forest road to the Gray Kingdom on an unfamiliar horse, his whole body drenched by the cold rain despite a heavy oilskin cloak. He had commandeered the horse, the cloak, a sack of bread and apples, and a small cask of beer at the Snugg post station on the west bank. Devi remained safe and dry inside his oilskin pack, having made a sort of a nest in one of his spare shoes. Even as Jonathan clung on to the galloping animal and struggled with numb fingers on the reins, his mind spun wildly through what he might find in the Gray Kingdom and how he might save the goblins from extermination by Rufus Snugg. But lurking beneath these surface worries, irrational but persistent, was the same haunting, panicked fear that had tormented him ceaselessly since the nightmare moment in October when he¡¯d received Merrily¡¯s letter. This deeper sickness demanded his attention, turning him away from the Gray Kingdom and the abstractions of justice. Merrily had loved him one day, and left him the next. It was more real than anything else, and yet also maddeningly unreal. Why had she changed? Rolly died. Why had Rolly died? Because the zealot ¡°Father¡± had killed him. Why had Father killed Rolly? Because some Crown Knight called Richard¡ªwhoever that was¡ªhad talked or tricked him into it. Why did Sir Richard want Rolland Gorp dead? Where was he now? No one knew. Jonathan¡¯s mind thrashed against the walls of unknowns and impossibilities that caged him in. ¡°This can¡¯t be real,¡± he muttered to himself, struggling to keep the rain out of his eyes and cling to the horse. ¡°Ye¡¯d be¡¯er bet it¡¯s real,¡± came Devi¡¯s muffled voice from inside the pack. ¡°If ye cain¡¯t come ta¡¯ grips wi¡¯ tha¡¯, Jonathan Miller, then we¡¯s all proper feched. What ye ¡®ave yet ta¡¯ grasp yer meaty fingers roun¡¯ is tha¡¯ what yer eyeballs ¡®re seein¡¯ ¡®t¡¯ain¡¯t all that¡¯s real.¡± Jonathan had no good response to that, and so he made none. By dusk, he reached what was left of the Gray Kingdom. Once, not long ago, he had been stopped at the border by small, polite, and slightly officious guards. Now there was no one. He simply pushed aside the flimsy barrier that separated the human world from the goblins and walked on into a tableau of sad devastation.Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. The small, sturdy huts above-ground were gray and empty. Many had been burned; others had been pulled down. Trash and carcasses rotted in the streets. Many of the corpses were animals, but some were the small, limp, childlike forms of goblins. The open-air kitchens and communal dining halls were looted and empty, their tools and supplies scattered. The sounds of screaming, hooting, and chanting could be heard dimly amid the ruins and in the woods beyond, but their sources were not immediately visible. A movement caught his attention out of the corner of one eye, and he spun his head to face it. A pair of grayskins, entirely naked, were dragging another of their number feet-first toward the edge of the settlement. The victim was still semi-conscious, bloodied but struggling feebly and mumbling. Jonathan bounded toward them, shouting and raising his hands up and away from his body to make himself look bigger. The two naked goblins screeched, dropped their captive¡¯s feet, and instantly scampered away into the ruins. Jonathan knelt next to their bloodied victim, and his heart sank. There was a long, ugly gash in her left flank, just below the armpit. Blood gushed from the wound. Already her hands had gone limp and her eyes were vacant. Not knowing what else to do, he picked up the little body and carried it on through the ruins, the borrowed horse trailing along after him by its lead line. At first, he had no clear picture of where to go. Then he remembered the sprawling work site at the edge of the settlement. He picked his way carefully through the trash, bodies, and rubble of the Gray Kingdom, until eventually he emerged in the mile-long clearing with its strange towers and scaffolding. Drawing close, he blinked in surprise. There was now a rough wooden stockade surrounding the clearing where the goblins¡¯ secret construction project had been underway. The stockade was studded with low, sturdy towers at regular intervals. A space had been cleared of buildings and debris around the walls, though here and there in the open space lay the bodies of more goblins, riddled with small, sharp arrows. The walls were devoid of torches or lamps, but in the dusk light Jonathan could just make out the diminutive forms of grayskins patrolling the rough parapets. Even as he took this in, there were shouts of alarm, and more small humanoids popped up onto the nearest towers. Their bows were drawn, and they were quite clearly pointed at him. ¡°Wait!¡± he shouted in desperation. ¡°Don¡¯t shoot me! I have one of yours!¡± There was a soft murmur of voices from the tower as Jonathan held his ground, shivering in the rain. After several minutes, a taller figure appeared on the tower, looking down at him. It was wearing a heavy smock against the rain, and Jonathan could make out no details. Then the figure spoke a sharp word to the goblins on the tower and disappeared. A small gate in the wall nearby opened slowly. Goblins bearing torches emerged. Unlike the others out in the ruined settlement, these were dressed in Uellish-style shirt and hose, though they too wore heavy cloaks against the rain. They scampered over to Jonathan and surrounded him. Both he and the horse shrank back, expecting to be assaulted. But to his surprise, their hands were gentle, guiding him insistently toward the gate. Standing inside was his mother. Jonathan gaped like an idiot, but Alice Miller just smiled and put her arm around his shoulders. ¡°It¡¯s good to see you too, boy. You could have written a few more letters. Now why don¡¯t you hand over that poor departed body to her friends, stable your horse, and let¡¯s get out of this rain.¡± ??? Jonathan¡¯s reunion with his mother was somber. ¡°It¡¯s all gone to madness,¡± she said, matter-of-factly. Jonathan, listening, sipped at a cup of soup, warming his feat in a large pot of hot water. He wore his one set of dry clothes, and a wool blanket was draped around his shoulders. They sat together in the single human-sized guest house within the walls of the enclave. Devi, to his surprise, had emerged from her secluded hideout in his pack and was snuggled up against a cup of hot tea. ¡°The longer Simon was gone,¡± Alice continued, ¡°the more the Gray Kingdom began to split apart. The veneer of civilization was only paper thin on most of these people, but they held him in reverence like a prophet¡ªor even a god. With Simon out of the picture, the likes of Globclaw drew more and more to their side, promising they¡¯d go back to the good old days of living in filth and depravity, stealing anything they could carry, and killing and eating anything they could chew. I¡¯m not exaggerating. His theory of social organization, if you can call it that, is that it is in the nature of the goblin to be vicious, and so it is good that he be as vicious as possible.¡± ¡°That sounds like a philosopher who Merrily used to tell me about.¡± He winced in physical pain, even speaking her name. ¡°There¡¯s very little philosophical going on in here anymore,¡± Alice went on. ¡°Those that wanted to live in the way Simon taught have withdrawn inside these walls. The Quiet Ones that are left keep them busy on the construction site. Most of the youngsters made it, which is a great many small blessings. But the whole population here behind the walls are a very small minority, and we¡¯re surrounded on all sides by savages. The Snugg caravans have stopped coming, and we¡¯re quickly running out of food. When that happens, even the goblins here inside the walls will have about twelve hours before they go completely insane and start eating each other. And likely us.¡± ¡°Why haven¡¯t you left? And why don¡¯t you leave now?¡± She gave him a look that he knew well. It was same withering, silent retort that followed when as a child he made a proclamation of such outrageous nonsense that mere words could not convey the depth of her disapproval. He had seen it the time he informed his mother, one day in early June at age seven, that he and Merrily would spend the summer rafting on the Green River all the way down to the Gulf of Carelon, and could she please pack some bacon. ¡°Alright,¡± he said. ¡°I get it. You think there¡¯s still hope for them, and you don¡¯t want to leave. But mother, listen. There are two companies of heavily-armed Snugg soldiers coming here, right now. They mean to take over the coal mines, and I can¡¯t imagine they¡¯ll stop there. There¡¯s going to be fighting. I¡¯d hoped to work out a deal, but there¡¯s no one to deal with. So it would be better if you slipped out of here¡ª¡± She interrupted him. ¡°You could talk to The Gizzard.¡± ¡°¡®Ee¡¯s a prat,¡± scoffed Devi. But Jonathan caught her eyeing him, in the way she did when she thought there was an important decision in the offing. Jonathan narrowed his eyes at Devi and turned back to his mother. ¡°Is he here?¡± ¡°He turned up a few weeks ago. I recognized him outside the walls. I¡¯m not sure what he¡¯s up to, but he hasn¡¯t tried to get in. He was running around outside with a couple of the Quiet Ones. I think they were spying on Grobglaw¡¯s tribe over in the old Bloody Teeth caves. I thought I spotted him a few times since then, but I can¡¯t be sure. It was only at night. There was some very large animal with him. A bear, maybe, but it doesn¡¯t move like any bear I¡¯ve seen. If he¡¯s out there, he¡¯s certainly behaving like a feral.¡± Jonathan stood up purposefully, casting aside the blanket and straightening his back. ¡°I have to find The Gizzard,¡± he proclaimed. ¡°He may be the only one who can talk some sense into Globclaw before the Snugg soldiers show up. We only have hours left. Devi¡ª¡± Jonathan made for the door as he was speaking, but forgot that he was standing in a bucket of hot water. He fell on his face, only narrowly saving himself from a broken nose by throwing an arm in front of himself as he tumbled. ¡°Devi,¡± he mumbled into his elbow, ¡°saddle up.¡± Devi hopped onto his back. ??? Outside the walls again, Jonathan walked cautiously through the shattered ruins of the Gray Kingdom. He grasped a stout stick in one hand and an oil lantern in the other, and watched the lengthening shadows closely. The light was fading rapidly, and the rain showed no signs of letting up. It would, he hope, at least slow down Rufus Snugg on the road to the east. But it made Jonathan¡¯s desperate search through the burned and destroyed buildings that much more miserable. He slowly became aware of shapes moving in the shadows, following along after him. They did not yet approach, but nor were they figments of his imagination. ¡°Where is The Gizzard!¡± he shouted at the creeping shadows. ¡°I dinnay think these ones speak Uellish sa¡¯ good,¡± muttered Devi from her sheltered pouch on his sash. The shadows grew in number, and he began to see the glint of his lamplight reflected in many eyes. They were on all sides of him. ¡°Tell me where The Gizzard is!¡± he shouted again. The crawling shadows gave no indication that they understood him, but they continued to thicken in number. He began to see the squat-headed, humanoid forms of goblins clustering around his torchlight. They licked their lips and chattered at one another, no longer bothering to stay back. ¡°Ah think we shoulda brought more friens¡¯,¡± remarked Devi nervously. ¡°You know how this all ends, right?¡± asked Jonathan. ¡°You would have told me if I were about to do something that was going to get us both killed, wouldn¡¯t you?¡± ¡°I¡¯ dinnay work like tha,¡± she said huffily. ¡°Ah cain¡¯t jess flip through a book an¡¯ see what yer s¡¯pposed ta¡¯ do a¡¯ every secon¡¯ of yer life.¡± ¡°Some help foresight is,¡± he muttered, starting to back away from the advancing swarm of goblins. ¡°This is looking like one of the branches where I die unpleasantly.¡± Devi hopped to the ground, drawing her steel, needle-like lance. ¡°Ye can never tell ¡®til ye get ta¡¯ th¡¯ en¡¯ of it,¡± she commented cryptically. The goblins swarmed forward, and Jonathan swung his stick and lamp wildly around him. His attackers dodged nimbly out of the way, hissing and waving crude weapons with menace. He saw that their hats were festooned with bones, rotting meat, and trash. One had an improvised crown of eyeballs impaled on spiky thorns. They surged forward again, and Devi charged into their midst. There was a ruckus of screaming and stabbing in the direction of her wild charge¡ªbut Jonathan was left alone, and goblins were on all sides. He flailed again wildly, swinging his stick¡ª There was a flash of steel, flowing through the air at goblin head-height. A swath of attackers dropped limply to the ground. Some enormous shape burst through their ranks, smashing and stamping. Jonathan retreated in horror at the thing. In the dim light he could not see its features, but they were plainly enormous in proportion. The huge bar of steel swung again, and five goblins went flying backward, separated into numerous sub-goblin parts. Jonathan crawled backward, huddling against the crumbling corner of a decaying wooden hut. The massive attacker danced and whirled, smashed and beat amidst the swarming horde of goblins. In the light of his fallen torch he saw that it was clad in metal. There was something much smaller clinging to the top of it, cackling madly and loosing its own hail of arrows. In a minute it was over. The survivors melted back into the shadows, and the behemoth turned to where Jonathan cowered. It was humanoid, clad all in steel, and wielding a steel sword that must have been ten feet long. It flipped the sword into a sheath slung low across its back and took off the enormous steel helmet. ¡°Come out, Jonathan Miller,¡± said a resonant, colorful female voice. Jonathan, seeing little choice but to obey, crawled out of the crumbling hut. He stood up, and as he did, Devi drew next to his feet. They both looked up in awe. ¡°Fiond?¡± he asked in disbelief. The blonde giantess, drawn up to her full twelve feet of height, looked down at him and smiled. Riding in a peculiar basket attached to her steel helm was a familiar goblin face. It gave him a toothy smile. ¡°I heard you went looking for me,¡± smirked The Gizzard in his deranged lilt. ¡°Lucky you found both of us. In another ten seconds you¡¯d have made a tasty dinner for every goblin within a quarter mile of here. Let¡¯s vamoose before they come back with more friends. This lady¡¯s metal skin will turn a hundred arrows, but the rest of us won¡¯t fit inside it with her unless she eats us first.¡± Devi scampered up Jonathan¡¯s leg and back to sit on his shoulder, and Jonathan was momentarily struck by the odd similarity¡ªhe with a small companion at his shoulder, both staring up at larger-scale versions of themselves in Fiond and The Gizzard. But there was little time for bemused contemplation, as the screeching and howling of the dispersed grayskins began to draw closer again. ¡°Back to the enclave,¡± announced Jonathan abruptly. Fiond shook her massive head. ¡°Not yet. Follow.¡± She turned and stalked off into the darkness, placing her helmet¡ªstill surmounted, in his basket, by The Gizzard¡ªback on her head. Jonathan, with no real alternative, trotted after her. They did not have far to go. Fiond stopped outside the charred remains of a burned hut and knocked three times on what was left of one brick wall that still stood precariously. Two female goblins emerged hesitantly from the ruin, followed by eight miniature versions of both sexes. Their clothes were filthy and their caps mostly barren¡ªbut they took off the caps and, to Jonathan¡¯s surprise, gave halting curtsies. The youngsters behind them stared up at the Giant-woman with wide, amazed eyes. ¡°Come,¡± said Fiond. ¡°Run, or you will die here.¡± Already, the screeching and growling of feral goblins was close at hand. Fiond and The Gizzard set out into the ruins, trailing Jonathan, Devi, and the ten refugees. Fiond was plainly leading them toward the walled enclave around the sprawling construction site. But before they had gone far, scampering gray forms emerged from the ruins around them, brandishing wicked knives, clubs, and bows. ¡°Run!¡± bellowed Fiond, already drawing her enormous greatsword. Picking up her pace, she swept the sword in wide arcs left and right, clearing a swath in the advancing attackers and sending pieces of them flying in all directions. The females and children sprinted desperately behind her on their shorter legs. Two of the children lagged behind; Jonathan bent down and scooped them up as he ran. When a break in the attackers appeared ahead, Fiond dropped back, mopping up their pursuers even as the refugees dashed forward. For a few desperate moments Jonathan thought she had abandoned them, but then she thundered back to the lead, satisfied that the danger behind was cleared for now. The Gizzard, perched on her head and cackling wildly, shot arrows from his little bow with glee, picking off any of his cousins who drew too close to the fleeing party. Jonathan couldn¡¯t quite tell, but it appeared he might be singing. When they neared the walls, Fiond did hang back, keeping several large trees between her and the sightlines of the defenders above. The ten goblin refugees scampered forward, and the gates opened slightly to admit them. Jonathan remained behind as well. ¡°Why don¡¯t you go in?¡± he asked. ¡°It¡¯s safer there.¡± She shrugged laconically. ¡°I am a monster.¡± ¡°She thinks they¡¯ll shoot at her,¡± filled in The Gizzard, ¡°and try to kill her with spears and knives.¡± Fiond turned her steps away from the walled enclave, back into the ruins and forest. ¡°I told her that the goblins in there aren¡¯t like the ones out here. They¡¯re more like big-men, and act all soft and squishy like Men in their Man-cities. But she said it didn¡¯t make any difference.¡± ¡°How did you two come to be together?¡± Jonathan asked. The snarling and howling of feral goblins had died down, but the occasional muttering and deranged outburst could still be heard in the night around them. The Gizzard took a moment to gather his thoughts before answering. ¡°I was out questing for King Simon, and I saw her in the forest. That was before the Quiet Ones started hiding out in their walls and Globclaw took over the rest of the tribes. I thought maybe she would know where King Simon was, so I tracked her down. She was going to cut me in half and scoop out my skull to use for a bowl to eat a soup made of the rest of me, seasoned with a little garlic and sage and slow-roasted over an open fire, but I explained that I was a knight errand on a holy quest, and if she ate me then my heart would be inside her and not in the right place where it¡¯s supposed to be¡±¡ªhe still hadn¡¯t taken a breath¡ª¡°and I¡¯d come back as a holy ghost and imprecate her.¡± Jonathan, trotting alongside Fiond, took that in. ¡°I dinnay think,¡± observed Devi, ¡°¡®at ye used quite tha¡¯ right word thar.¡± ¡°Which one?¡± inquired The Gizzard from atop Fiond¡¯s head. ¡°Please,¡± said Jonathan; and then he repeated, ¡°please do not answer that question.¡± They slipped out of the ruins of the Gray Kingdom, and Fiond stopped after perhaps ten minutes at a shallow bowl in the forest floor. Her campsite was much as Jonathan remembered, but a large hole had been dug out in the bank near her tent, and a few more amenities of settled life had appeared. There was a clothesline, and a small stream had been diverted through the shallower end of the bowl to provide fresh water. ¡°Rest here,¡± instructed Fiond. ¡°Tomorrow will bring new problems.¡± ??? Jonathan was awaked in the early morning hours by the rattle and crack of gunshots. He knew instantly what they meant. Rolling out from beneath the ledge that had sheltered him through the night, he sprang to his feet and grabbed his pack. Not bothering to wake The Gizzard or Fiond, he dashed off into the forest in the direction of the gunshots. Then, thinking better of walking straight into a battle, he angled off to the east, hoping to strike the trade road from Hog Hurst some distance away from the fighting and then loop back to Rufus¡¯s command. The shooting intensified as he ran, and he began to hear the hoarse shouts of combat orders and massed killing. They were overlaid with higher-pitched squeals and screams of goblin voices. Jonathan picked up his pace, dashing recklessly through the forest, leaping over logs and streams, allowing low-hanging branches to whip him in the face. He struck the trade road, and found it empty, though there were obvious signs of the passage of many men. He turned west, making better time along the well-kept path. ¡°I¡¯s too late,¡± said Devi sadly from the flap of his satchel. ¡°They¡¯s already well on.¡± Then she disappeared into the depths of her shelter. He found Rufus Snugg perched on horseback, surveying by the gray light of a rainy dawn the unfolding carnage in the Gray Kingdom. He was surrounded by an aide and two armed riders. The fighting had moved away from the eastern border, and the sounds of it could be heard on all sides to the west. Rufus wore a crisp black suit beneath his oilskin cloak and a broad-brimmed hat against the rain. His two bodyguards drew pistols as Jonathan approached, too winded to speak immediately and hunched over. They leveled the guns at his body. But Rufus, noticing the movement, swiftly reached out a hand to each man¡¯s shoulder and jerked them back, sending two booming shots harmlessly up into the treetops. ¡°One of ours,¡± he said tersely to the soldiers. Then he turned the horse and maneuvered it over to Jonathan, looked down at him for a moment, and slithered awkwardly to ground. The aide followed some distance behind. ¡°Now you see how it is,¡± he remarked sadly. Jonathan, still heaving, struggled to stand up. ¡°There are still¡¡± he gasped, ¡°still some left¡ who will talk to you. They¡¯re in the walls by the big clearing. My¡ mother¡ is with them. She can¡ negotiate.¡± Rufus blinked and raised his head in surprise, but adjusted himself quickly. ¡°That information was missing from my reports,¡± he mused. ¡°Very well, Jonathan. I have no reason to doubt you. We¡¯ll mop up the settlement first, and then see if you¡¯re correct.¡± Jonathan sank against a tree just off the road, listening numbly to the regular explosions of gunfire and screams of dying goblins from out in the shattered ruin. He thought of what this place had looked like nine months ago, and found that his cheeks were not only wet from the rain. ¡°Mr. Miller,¡± came a voice. He looked up, finding that Rufus¡¯s aide had addressed him. The aide was a middle-aged man, and wore a tidy gray suit. He was wrapped heavily in an oilskin cloak against the rain. It was, in fact, the same Snugg functionary who had tried to flag down Jonathan at the docks yesterday; one of the Green Bridge couriers, he thought. ¡°There¡¯s a message for you from the district office.¡± ¡°I can¡¯t read it now,¡± he said, waving one hand distractedly. ¡°I¡¯ll need a cryptographer back at the office in Hog Hurst.¡± The gray-suited man shook his head. ¡°Oral delivery only, Mr. Miller. You¡¯re to return to Green Bridge at once. Veridia Snipe¡¯s personal orders. She¡¯s captured a spy, and wants you present at the interrogation.¡± ¡°Why me?¡± he asked. The man shrugged. ¡°Miss Snipe doesn¡¯t explain her reasons to me, Mr. Miller.¡± ¡°You¡¯d better go, Jonathan,¡± advised Rufus. ¡°She barely explains herself to me, and in theory she¡¯s an employee of my family.¡± He turned to the aide. ¡°Who is this spy, then?¡± ¡°It¡¯s classified,¡± replied the aide huffily, glancing at Jonathan with disdain. ¡°I own this operation,¡± snapped Rufus, his eyes suddenly flashing. ¡°I own those clothes you¡¯re wearing, and the horse you¡¯re riding, and the contracts on the mercenaries who are standing around here wishing they didn¡¯t draw bodyguard duty, and everything else within fifty miles of here that¡¯s worth owning. If you don¡¯t answer my question, I¡¯ll have Special Operations ship you to Pour Vaille in a barrel of fish.¡± ¡°The prisoner was a Brassen. He gave his name as Guillam Brousseui, but didn¡¯t say much else. He was quite agitated when they brought him in. Raving and thrashing about like a madman.¡± ¡°You were there when they brought him in?¡± asked Rufus in surprise. ¡°I am in the Special Operations department, sir,¡± replied the man in the gray suit with a touch of frost in his voice. ¡°And I shall be sure to note in my report this management violation of Security Protocol Fourteen, disclosure of classified intelligence in the presence of non-qualified personnel.¡± Rufus began to argue back, but Jonathan had stopped listening. Guillam Brousseui, he repeated in his mind. Then he jumped to his feet. ¡°Don¡¯t kill the goblins inside the walls, Rufus,¡± he snapped. ¡°And don¡¯t kill my mother.¡± This last he shouted over his shoulder, already dashing off into the forest. He arrived back at Fiond¡¯s campsite, heaving for air after another long sprint, and sat down to catch his breath. Fiond and The Gizzard came and sat on logs in front of him, waiting curiously to see what he might say. ¡°Your friend,¡± said Jonathan to Fiond when he could speak again. ¡°The one you were looking for back in October, after you lost track of him. You told me his name, then. Tell me again.¡± Fiond turned her head to one side curiously. ¡°Guillam,¡± she stated. ¡°And he was one of the companions of Sir Richard of Enderly?¡± She nodded again. ¡°Guillam was friend of Sir Richard. They travelled together to my home. Long travel. Then we followed Sir Richard here. Gray people took friend Guillam.¡± She nodded at The Gizzard, who smiled pleasantly. ¡°Pack your camp and follow me,¡± Jonathan instructed. ¡°I know where your friend is¡ªand Guillam Brousseui is going to tell me all about Sir Richard of Enderly.¡± ??? G: Never have I met a woman eviler than you. INT: I think you will find that I am not evil, Monsieur Brousseui; nor even heartless. I have a son of my own, and I love him as you love your daughter. But good or evil, I am responsible for the outcomes around me. Remember, if it makes you feel better, that I am on your side. Enjoy the accommodations. Scribe, come with me. The transcript ends. Jonathan followed Miss Snipe out of the interview chamber with its fake iron maiden, silently trailing after her as she stalked from the holding cells back to her office above one of the cavernous Snugg warehouses in the trade quarter. A nurse waited expectantly in the small, sparsely-decorated entry hall, holding a bundle that moved and fussed slightly. She handed the infant Marius to Miss Snipe, who took her son without breaking stride or speaking a word. Jonathan followed her upstairs to her office, where she shut the door behind him, sat down at her desk, and calmly unbuttoned her starched white shirt. Without the slightest self-consciousness, she began to nurse the baby while also scratching notes on a loose sheaf of paper. Jonathan waited patiently, studiously keeping his eyes at her face level. ¡°Guillam Brousseui has not been truthful with us,¡± she said matter-of-factly. ¡°On what points?¡± asked Jonathan. His feet were already itching to be gone, but he knew he had to finish this conversation with Veridia¡ªwhether or not she sacked him at the end of it, or killed him. ¡°The diary is more than Sir Richard¡¯s self-serving tales of his own adventures. I¡¯m certain of this. Brousseui said he read it multiple times¡ªenough to memorize parts of it. Why would he have done that if it were a simple travel log?¡± She looked down at her notes. ¡°When I asked him how Sir Richard got into the temple to rescue his company without being noticed, Brousseui didn¡¯t answer me immediately; he asked instead if I had Sir Richard¡¯s diary. Only when I told him I did not did he give us an entirely implausible story about sneaking in disguised as a prisoner. However they accomplished their escape, it was not by that gambit. The truth must be in the diary. And his account of returning to the temple to attempt the rescue of Sir Richard is equally improbable. They must have found a secret entrance, or some other means of fooling the guards.¡± Jonathan looked at her curiously, a realization suddenly dawning in his mind. ¡°Then¡ you believe his account of the Giant-men?¡± She snorted. ¡°Don¡¯t be ridiculous. Guillam Brousseui is a simple man. If a simple man is going to lie, he tells a simple lie. He doesn¡¯t reach for fantasy. Brousseui saw what he told us he saw, or at least he thinks he did.¡± She gestured at the map lying on her desk, filled in with details by the prisoner. ¡°Somewhere up there in the white spaces of the map is a city full of twelve-foot-tall people who live forever and wear steel armor so thick it takes a tree trunk to pierce it. And Sir Richard of Enderly, who can apparently walk on water and has a sheet of metal bolted to his face, is leading a thousand of their best warriors to Devi Valley. Only he¡¯s personally taken a detour to Green Bridge with the stated purpose of burning it to the ground and killing Queen Anne. If we survive this, I¡¯ll write it up as a case study for Snugg management candidates.¡± ¡°And,¡± added Jonathan, pointing at the map again, ¡°King Simon is living alone and naked on a mountain in the wilderness beyond the Green River.¡± ¡°And that,¡± agreed Miss Snipe. Jonathan leaned forward at the table. He had not told her about The Gizzard and Fiond, waiting for him in a hiding spot on the sparsely-populated west bank of the river. ¡°I have to go and find Simon,¡± he said firmly. She waved her hand at him. ¡°Simon is irrelevant,¡± she answered. ¡°The coal mines are in our hands now. Production will be back online in a matter of days. The feral survivors have fled into the woods, and the rest of the Gray Kingdom are holed up in their little enclave. I haven¡¯t had them executed, Mr. Miller, before you ask. They can stay in there for all I care. We¡¯ll sell them food, as long as they have the money to pay for it.¡± Jonathan swallowed, trying to summon up some admixture of courage and wit. ¡°Simon is more than a way for us to get more coal, Miss Snipe. He¡¯s the key to saving the goblins. Without him helping them, they¡¯ll all be like the ferals again in six months. And I know you don¡¯t see the profit in it, Miss Snipe; I know it doesn¡¯t hit the balance sheet. But there¡¯s more to value than money in and money out. Simon is something special, and he was making the goblins into something special. I¡¯ve proven it to Rufus these past six months! They work around the clock, they have a knack for math and engineering, they learn like crazy, and they don¡¯t need much to be happy¡ªjust good food and a warm cave to live in. They could be more than what they are now. Don¡¯t they deserve a chance to be more? Shouldn¡¯t the next generation of their children go to school, and live in a warm house in the winter, and make some money and have a little land and¡ and all the things that we want for ourselves?¡± She looked at him gravely across the table. ¡°Why do you suppose Simon ran away?¡± she asked quietly. That brought Jonathan up short, and he thought for a time. ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± he answered finally. ¡°Maybe he was afraid of something. But we ought to persuade him to go back. They need him.¡± Miss Snipe gave him a long, appraising look. He could almost see the equations writing themselves out in her head, as she weighed up the variables in front of her. ¡°No.¡± Her statement was absolute and final, in the way that only Veridia Snipe could say ¡°no.¡± He couldn¡¯t even bring himself to ask why. He just looked down at the floor and took a deep breath in. ¡°It¡¯s not our business, Mr. Miller,¡± she went on, sensing his need to understand. ¡°Snugg & Co. do not make money from the long-term cultural development of a tribe of savages out over the frontier. If they want to come around to our way of things on their own, let them. If Simon wants to go back to his people, let him. But the break-even on uplifting an entire race is far too distant. And I need you to go to Roosterfoot and help with the evacuation. The Republican Guard are closing in around the city, and we have too few mercenaries to hold them back. You¡¯ll take a coach tonight. That¡¯s all, Mr. Miller. If you¡¯ll excuse me, I really must do something about the invasion of Devi Valley.¡± He put his hands on his neck, massaging a deep knot, and leaned forward. ¡°Why was Rolland Gorp killed?¡± he asked. ¡°Has Cyrus come up with anything?¡± She shook her head in obvious irritation. ¡°He¡¯s come up with a new leg, a traitorous priest, and a serious mental disorder, but nothing else. I should have known better. And none of that is your concern, Mr. Miller. I need all hands to help with the Roosterfoot evacuation, and that means your hands¡ªas long as they¡¯re still attached to you.¡± He rose to his feet politely and nodded his head. ¡°As you wish, Miss Snipe,¡± he said placidly. ¡°I¡¯ll be on the coach tonight.¡± Jonathan did not get on the Roosterfoot coach that night. Instead, he waited until the sky was black and rowed a small boat across the Green River with muffled oars. On the west bank, he found his way to the remote, sheltered grove where he had left Fiond and The Gizzard. An ancient wild apple tree in full bloom draped the clearing with white flowers and an intoxicating floral scent. He gently set down his pack, and helped Devi emerge. Together, the four people stood under the boughs of the old apple tree. Jonathan regarded them each in turn, feeling strangely comfortable among the differently sized people. ¡°I know where Simon is,¡± he announced. The Gizzard straightened, his eyes sparkling with excitement and questions. ¡°And I know where Sir Richard is,¡± he added. Fiond¡¯s eyes twinkled in the starlight, though her expression was stoic. ¡°We¡¯re going to find Simon first, and we¡¯re going to make him go back. And when we¡¯ve done that, we¡¯re going to see a man with a new leg and a mental disorder about a traitorous priest, and I¡¯m going to find Sir Richard and make him tell me why he had Rolly killed, and convince Veridia Snipe not to have me murdered for disobedience, and Merrily will love me again. In that order.¡± He looked at each of them in turn. Fiond and The Gizzard were plainly ready to be off at once, despite the hour; but Devi looked agitated and uncomfortable. Whatever foreboding haunted her thoughts, she did not share it. So Jonathan and his companions set off to the west under moonlight. Chapter 42: Fatuous Nonsense May 26th Wind and rain whipped at Jonathan¡¯s face as he clambered precariously along the narrow stone shelf. Above him loomed a long, sharply inclined slope, studded only with a few meagre pine trees. Above them was a sullen gray-black sky, roiling with dense cloud cover that promised hours more discomfort. Below was a long, equally discomforting rocky gorge leading down to the distant forest floor. Behind him, toiling even more than Jonathan along the minuscule shelf, was Fiond, with The Gizzard huddled beneath the canvas flap of her oversized pack. Jonathan slipped on a wet rock, feeling his heart race as, for a moment, his legs dangled out into the lethal emptiness to his left. His hand caught a protrusion in the rock and he held on desperately, his tailbone landing with a jolting thud on the lip of the shelf. He sat there for a moment, stunned to still be alive, until Fiond reached down a hand and gently drew him back up to his feet. ¡°Do not hurry to your death, Jonathan,¡± she advised in her deep, quiet, colorful voice. ¡°He will come for all of us soon.¡± They edged higher along the ridge, their pace slowing as the path grew even more treacherous. At the top of the escarpment was a narrow plateau with a patch of thicker pine forest. The companions moved through it cautiously, feeling their way in the gathering dusk toward a rocky peak above the band of forest. From the base of the mountain this morning, Jonathan had spotted what he took to be the cave opening described by Guillam Brousseui in his final interrogation. It had looked, then, like a modest labor to reach it. Now, under the dark and dripping pine boughs, leagues from any other human being, the howling wind in the high forest summoned strange and terrible specters from his imagination. It was plain enough they were not alone here. Scattered around the forest floor was evidence of a local hunter: unbleached bones, rabbit snares, and the occasional discarded tool. There were, too, strange totems in the dim, arboreal gloom around them. Woven circles of sticks dotted the forest floor at random, varying in size from the length of Jonathan¡¯s thumb to the full height of Fiond. Each reminded him uncomfortably of some primal ancestor of the Unbroken Circle of the Ecclesia. In the dreary murk of the pine forest they took on a sinister aspect, like gateways into some darker reflection of the world. They ascended out of the pine forest and came to the peak. And there, waiting for them, was a cave. It was perhaps thirty feet wide, and descended sharply downward into the heart of the mountain. An overhanging slab of rock protected it partially from the elements, and a thin wisp of smoke emerged from within. Water from the downpour around them flowed freely into its mouth, and a spring-fed stream poured over one edge of the overhang into the depths of the cavern. The sound of dripping and flowing water could be heard even over the noise of the rainstorm. It was plain that someone lived here, after a fashion. More woven circles dotted the rocky landscape around the cave, as well as several racks for curing animal skins and a small smoking hut for meat. ¡°Please leave me alone.¡± Jonathan jumped, his heart accelerating. He could not at first identify the source of the words, though he recognized the sound of the voice. ¡°Simon? Where are you?¡± ¡°Go away. Leave me alone.¡± He motioned for Fiond and The Gizzard to stay behind, then advanced slowly toward the cave opening. ¡°Where are you, Simon?¡± There was silence, but staring closely at the stone wall behind the overhang Jonathan picked out the form of the little goblin. His skin, nearly the same color as the gray rock and glistening from the rain, was unadorned with any clothing. His head was bare. He was huddled against the rock wall, apparently for shelter against the rainstorm. Jonathan found, having come all this way, that he suddenly had no clue what to say to Simon, erstwhile King of the Goblins. He decided to begin with the absurdly pedestrian. ¡°Lousy weather to be outside,¡± he remarked. Simon did not answer. ¡°It¡¯s been raining,¡± he added, ¡°more or less non-stop¡ªwherever I go¡ªfor the last nine months. I really expect we¡¯re due for a change in the weather any moment now.¡± The weather did not oblige, and neither did Simon. ¡°But, just in case the world intends to go on raining on me, perhaps we could step inside where it¡¯s drier?¡± Simon turned slightly, and Jonathan caught the glint of light reflected in his dark eyes. ¡°It¡¯s flooded,¡± he said shortly, nodding at the cave. Jonathan blinked and thought about that. ¡°We have canvas and blankets. We can make a shelter.¡± He stepped into the slightly-less-drenched area beneath the ledge, and to his surprise Simon scuttled away from him. Jonathan stayed back, not wanting to further spook the little grayskin. ¡°How did you find me?¡± asked Simon. There was only the dullest spark of curiosity in his voice, and even that was tinged with hopeless resignation. ¡°The man you helped when he came here¡ªGuillam Brousseui. He drew a map.¡± ¡°Very well. I shall have to move again. Why did you find me?¡± Jonathan took off his heavy pack and leaned it carefully against the wall, then slumped down next to it. His legs burned from the day-long climb. He drew out a small tin flask and loosened the stopper. ¡°Beer?¡± he suggested, handing it to Simon. Simon said nothing, but looked intently at the flask. Jonathan shrugged and took a sip, setting it on the stone floor beneath the overhang. Then he rummaged around in the sack, drawing out a carefully-wrapped loaf of hard traveling bread. He cut off several slices, then added a few slabs of hard cheese and smoked pork. He took a bite, and then, ignoring the sharp craving in his stomach, carefully placed it on a sheet of cloth and set it between him and Simon. Simon stared at the sandwich even more intently. Then he cautiously approached and sat down within arm¡¯s reach of the food. He picked it up gingerly, took a bite, and closed his eyes in evident satisfaction. But then he set the sandwich down again and regarded Jonathan coldly. ¡°I came here to be alone.¡± There was a flat, slightly acidic tone to his voice. Jonathan nodded. ¡°I can see that. I can see, but I can¡¯t understand. There are a great many of us who would like to know why. The Gizzard is here with me. He¡¯d like to know. And all the rest of your people, who are hurting without you. They¡¯d like to know too.¡± Simon picked up the sandwich and took another bite, staring out at the driving rain and the desolate, rocky slope that was, apparently, his new home. ¡°I¡¯m afraid both you and he have come a long way just to be disappointed, Jonathan,¡± he said between bites. ¡°Why is that?¡± ¡°Because I¡¯m not going back.¡± Jonathan was quiet for a time, and then took a long breath. ¡°I¡¯d like to know why, Simon. I think you owe that to the people you left behind.¡± Simon took another bite of the sandwich and looked at the stony ground between his knees. His shoulders slumped forward, and his head bowed. He said nothing. ¡°You told me once,¡± came another voice, ¡°that I should ask more questions like ¡®why¡¯. You said it is the most important question.¡± Simon looked up, and Jonathan turned. There, standing in the rain at the edge of the yawning cave opening, was The Gizzard. He walked beneath the overhang and sat down in front of Simon. ¡°Why?¡± he repeated. ¡°Because,¡± said Simon, in a voice so quiet as to be almost inaudible under the sound of the rain, ¡°I want to live.¡± ¡°Everyone lives,¡± replied The Gizzard, ¡°and everyone dies. You¡¯ll die sooner out here alone on the top of a mountain then back in the Gray Kingdom, and the buzzards will pick at your guts and ants will feed their baby ants with your brains. At least back there, you have me to take care of you for a little while.¡± Simon shook his head wearily. ¡°I know my story. I remember now. If I go back to the Gray Kingdom or the human lands, my life ends¡ªvery soon after. That path is stretched out in front of me, as plain as any road you could walk on. But I don¡¯t want to walk it. ¡°I may not know how or why I¡¯ve come to be alive, though I very much doubt it¡¯s the same reason or manner as any of the rest of you. I know things that I shouldn¡¯t know, and I¡¯ve forgotten things no one would ever forget. But how or why I live, I don¡¯t want it to stop. Living alone on the top of a mountain is better than not living at all.¡± Jonathan stared blankly at the stone at his feet. Simon¡¯s fear was as hard as that stone, and as unforgiving. He couldn¡¯t argue with stone. There was a movement at his feet, and Devi appeared. ¡°¡®T¡¯ain¡¯t sweet ta¡¯ live longer¡¯n yer s¡¯pposed ta¡¯,¡± she said in her thin, piping voice. ¡°Ta¡¯ ¡®ave yer life stretched out long an¡¯ unnachr¡¯l¡ªtha¡¯s a curse, no¡¯ a gift. Ta¡¯ live year after year, wishin¡¯ ye¡¯d died when ¡®twas right; ¡®ta look back an¡¯ wish ye ¡®ad another chance ta¡¯ make pairfect that one moment ye¡¯re given ta¡¯ be perfect; tha¡¯s a fate worse than death, nay jokin¡¯. An wha¡¯ is fate, in the end, but jess one point o¡¯ view? Ev¡¯rthin¡¯ is real, Simon. Ye should know that well as I do. Ev¡¯ry choice, ev¡¯ry consequence, ev¡¯ry path no¡¯ taken¡ªis real. What ye call ¡®fate¡¯ is jess the dimness o¡¯ yer own seein¡¯. Do ye want to live the¡¯ long years ¡®ere, on this mountaintop, knowin¡¯ ye¡¯ve slipped into a path where ev¡¯rythin¡¯ is wrong and i¡¯s all yer fault? Where ye¡¯ve lost the thread o¡¯ wha¡¯s right an¡¯ good an¡¯ leads ta¡¯ th¡¯ pairfection o¡¯ yer whole life¡ªjess ¡®cause yer afraid o¡¯ the length o¡¯ the time ye¡¯ve got ta be pairfect?¡± Simon stared at her in a kind of wonder and recognition. ¡°Ah,¡± she concluded, ¡°would rather ¡®ave one pairfect moment than a lifetime knowin¡¯ I got it wrong. An¡¯ believe ye me, mister King o¡¯ th¡¯ Goblins, ah speak from pers¡¯nal experience ¡®ere. Now, if ye¡¯ve got it in ye ta¡¯ admit that ye was wrong, then none o¡¯ us¡¯ll speak o¡¯ it again, and we¡¯ll come up wi¡¯ some deep an¡¯ metaphysical story about why ye came out here. Broodin¡¯ on a prophecy er somesuch.¡± They sat in silence, brooding together beneath the shelter of the stone. Simon looked out at the leaden sky, and past it, staring out into stars that no one else could see. His lips moved slightly, as if he were speaking to some hidden thing. Then he stopped and his eyes focused on Jonathan. He stood up. ¡°I was wrong,¡± he said simply. ¡°I choose to be perfect, and I choose to die.¡± ¡°Somebody,¡± added The Gizzard, ¡°get this man some pants.¡± ??? June 3rd ¡°Please don¡¯t kill me, Miss Snipe.¡± She shrugged. ¡°Why ever should I kill you, Mr. Miller? I have people to do that sort of thing. They¡¯re much better at it than I am. I can make an appointment for you, if you like.¡± She consulted a small book on the desk. ¡°How about Wednesday after lunch?¡± Jonathan blinked and swallowed. He turned to look at Simon and The Gizzard seated on chairs next to him before Miss Snipe¡¯s desk. The two goblins smiled encouragingly, but offered little assistance. ¡°Please don¡¯t delegate my murder either. If you¡¯ll just hear me out, you¡¯ll understand why leaving me alive is to your advantage.¡± ¡°You have thirty seconds.¡± She turned her gaze to the large grandfather clock in one corner of the office. ¡°Go.¡± He used two seconds for a deep breath. ¡°You¡¯ve got two big problems, Miss Snipe.¡± He ticked them off on his fingers. ¡°One, Giant-men; and two, the Republican Guard. And you¡¯ve got one other little problem, but I know it¡¯s bothering you: Rolland Gorp. You¡¯ve got an intuition, deep down, that at least two of these three things are connected to each other¡ªbut you don¡¯t know which two they are. Give me one week, and I¡¯ll tell you how they fit together, and why, and what to do about it. If I don¡¯t, you can have Special Operations cut out my liver, or whatever they do.¡± ¡°Time,¡± she said flatly. ¡°Now, Mr. Miller, what makes you think you can find out in one week what Cyrus Stoat hasn¡¯t in nine months?¡± ¡°Three things,¡± he said. ¡°One: I¡¯m luckier than he is. Two: I haven¡¯t lost my mind. And three: I have a lead.¡± She stared at him, her eyes narrowed, calculating. ¡°Three days,¡± she concluded. ¡°You have three days. I know you know better than to run. Put your affairs in order. Write some letters. Go see your wife; she¡¯s a regular at the Cathedral of Saint Bob these days. But bring me answers by sundown on the sixth of June, Mr. Miller¡ªor I¡¯ll put your name down in my appointment book.¡± ??? June 4th The next morning dawned gray and sodden, with cold rain pouring from a dark and forbidding sky. Jonathan got up before dawn in the house he¡¯d once shared with Merrily. He washed thoroughly and shaved his face. His mind wandered to what would happen today, and then he winced, nicking his skin slightly at the jawline. Once the bleeding had stopped, he rinsed his face again, put on a fresh woolen suit and a smart red cravat, and ate a cold bowl of porridge for breakfast. Tiny snores could be heard from Devi, tucked away in her nest in his battered traveling pack. He smiled wearily as he ate. Simon and The Gizzard had departed the previous night to rejoin Fiond in an abandoned barn several miles outside Green Bridge, leaving him only with the snarf to aid his investigation. But at first light, Jonathan slipped out of the empty house, leaving her behind, and went to the Cathedral of Saint Bob for the Terce. Devi, he felt, would vaguely disapprove of this errand. He found Merrily seated in one of the rear pews, and sat down beside her. She wore a simple, unassuming shirt and hose, and her hair was long and somewhat disheveled. Her face was not made up, and there were dark circles under her eyes. She was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. A convulsion gripped his heart, and the monument of his certainty wavered. ¡°Hello, Merrily,¡± he said softly. What else was there to say? ¡°Hello, Jonny,¡± she replied. They sat in silence for a long while, as he struggled with what to say next. ¡°I¡¯ve missed you,¡± he said finally. She looked hard at the back of the pew in front of her, and said nothing. ¡°I heard you went back to Uellodon,¡± he added. ¡°I¡¯m glad you returned.¡± ¡°That was five months ago,¡± she said flatly. ¡°I¡ I got the feeling you didn¡¯t want to see me. So I left you alone.¡± He looked down at his hands. ¡°But I wanted to see you. I¡¯ve missed you so much, since you¡¯ve been gone.¡± She looked at the back of the pew, and said nothing. He took a deep, shuddering breath. The choir at the front of the church began to sing a new tune. It was an attractive, simple hymn in four-part harmony. Jonathan knew instinctively that it would haunt him for years to come. ¡°I¡¯m leaving Green Bridge in a few days,¡± he said, searching for some excuse to make noise. It wasn¡¯t exactly true, but close enough. ¡°I have some business for Miss Snipe.¡± He thought about it further, not wanting to taint this conversation with lies. ¡°I could have some messages delivered in Hog Hurst if you¡¯d like,¡± he added. She shook her head. ¡°No. I have nothing for anyone there.¡± He looked at her sharply. ¡°You¡¯ve changed, Merrily. Sort of; some part of you has changed. It¡¯s the part you¡¯re wearing on the outside right now.¡± His gaze drifted back down to his toes, and his voice softened to nearly a whisper. ¡°But I believe¡ª¡± ¡°There isn¡¯t,¡± she interrupted. ¡°There¡¯s no part of me, deep down, that is still who I was, and still loves you. Give up that hope. I¡¯ve grown up, Jonathan. I expect you have as well. But whoever you are, I¡¯m not the same person that said yes. Maybe it was the moment, or the music, or something else, but I said something up on that balcony that I never meant to say, and never should have said. And now here we are, paying for that mistake.¡± She took his hand and looked him full in the face. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Jonny. I¡¯m really sorry. But I don¡¯t love you. I don¡¯t think I love anyone¡ any person,¡± she added lamely. There was a whisper in the air around her. He took another deep breath, trying to control his face and stop the tears. He shut his eyes for a moment, then opened them and looked back at her. ¡°Do you suppose,¡± he said, ¡°there¡¯s another me that got it right? That asked the right question at the right time, and did the right things, so that this moment came out differently? Do you suppose in that moment when I made the wrong decision, some other me did it better, and went off and lived some other life? And¡ well, do you suppose some other you might love that other Jonathan?¡± She shook her head. ¡°I don¡¯t know, Jonny. Those are questions neither of us can ever answer.¡± He nodded slightly, then stood up. ¡°I think there is,¡± he said. ¡°It makes it easier to live this life, knowing some other me came out alright.¡± He thought for a moment longer. ¡°You left a few things in our home,¡± he added. ¡°I haven¡¯t been living there. But I paid the rent, hoping, I guess¡ well. Hoping it would be different. The things you left are there, in the bedroom. If you haven¡¯t fetched them by the time I leave the city, I¡¯ll have them taken away.¡± He started to turn, then paused a moment longer. ¡°I love you, Merrily,¡± he said. And then he switched to the fey-tongue, the language of their childhood and youth, and of the strange people of the forest who drifted through their shared memories. ¡°Forever, in all the branches, I love you and my selves follow your path. Goodbye.¡± As he walked away, he felt something drift toward him on its own, just for a moment. But he gave no sign, and did not turn back. It was better that way. He found a quiet alley a few blocks away and sat down on the ground and wept, cleansed by the endless rain. ??? ¡°Wha¡¯s yer lead?¡± Devi asked, tucked again into the pouch in his sash. The snarf woman rode cheerfully out in the open, unheeding of the grim, inevitable downpour. ¡°What lead?¡± replied Jonathan, giving his umbrella a shake. ¡°Th¡¯ lead. The one ye told the Snipe woman ye had.¡± ¡°I lied. I don¡¯t have a lead.¡± ¡°Yer dead,¡± announced his miniature companion. ¡°I¡¯m not dead yet.¡± ¡°Then where¡¯r we goin¡¯?¡± ¡°To Cyrus Stoat¡¯s office.¡± ¡°Why?¡± ¡°To find a lead.¡± At Peacock Hall, Jonathan rushed to Cyrus¡¯s office, heedless of protests from the outraged historians he shoved aside in the narrow stairwells and corridors. He paused a moment outside the familiar shabby oak door. Its surface was dinged and chipped¡ªby, he liked to imagine, the assaults of scores of dissatisfied Applied History students of semesters past. ¡°Wha¡¯ d¡¯ye expect ta¡¯ find in thar?¡± inquired Devi as he stared reflectively at the closed portal. ¡°A mad professor with a new prosthetic,¡± replied Jonathan succinctly. ¡°And a good run of luck.¡± He banged on the door. There was no answer. ¡°Yer luck¡¯s run out, ah¡¯m afeared,¡± commented Devi. ¡°I can do without the running commentary,¡± he snapped in reply. He tried the handle, but found that it was locked. Muttering a curse, he pounded on the door, but no one answered. Jonathan spent the rest of that day in a damp, fruitless meander around the Charter City of Green Bridge. He returned to William Hall and asked a few questions of the Billies; but Captain Vigg wasn¡¯t about either, and the sergeant on duty at the front desk was singularly unhelpful. He wandered through Redbun Hall, eventually visiting Rolly¡¯s old office, and found that it had been cleaned up and assigned to a new graduate student. He descended to the servant¡¯s quarters beneath the home of the mathematicians, hoping to interview the cleaning staff. But none was willing to speak with him about the murder, and so he walked home, dejected, through the rain. The small bundle of Merrily¡¯s possessions was untouched. On the fifth of June, Jonathan returned to the Cathedral of Saint Bob, but found that he hadn¡¯t the courage to go inside. He went on to Beatrice Snugg¡¯s old house at Number 12, Upper Pie Street, but someone else lived there now. He returned to Peacock Hall, but Cyrus Stoat¡¯s door was once again firmly shut and locked. Crossing the square to Queen Anne¡¯s makeshift court at Bastings Hall, he discovered that the guards would not let him go any higher than the market on the ground floor. A snatch of music echoing through the hall tugged at his memory, and to his surprise he was briefly transported to that wonderful, terrible night in Uellodon. Below her, a spreading fountain of corks and bubbling champagne flew into the air, and the orchestra¡¯s music swelled up into a crescendo of the sheerest joy ever heard in the Neighbor Kingdoms. There was a rising chorus of wild, chaotic, exuberant cheers from below. There was¡ a backbeat. He shook his head, feeling the agony of loss and of what should have been overtake him. He fled Bastings Hall, and fled the music. Finally at a complete loss, he sat down with Devi on Three Fish Bridge, looking across the span at the grand houses and tall towers on Farley Island. A heavy rain poured down relentlessly on both of them, only marginally redirected by Jonathan¡¯s bulky umbrella. ¡°Do you suppose she¡¯ll really kill me?¡± he asked. ¡°I mean, it¡¯s murder. There¡¯s the law to consider.¡± Devi gave a minute shrug. ¡°Ah dinnay Veridia Snipe t¡¯all. But folk talk o¡¯ her like she¡¯d do it.¡± He sighed, and stretched his back, looking toward the gray curtain where, beyond the clouds, the sun was setting over the river. ¡°I¡¯ve failed at absolutely everything,¡± he observed. ¡°Everything I¡¯ve tried¡ªtotal failure. Marriage, business, solving mysteries¡ there¡¯s not actually anything I¡¯ve been any good at. Even that business with the chandelier was mostly just physics.¡± ¡°Mebbe try writin¡¯,¡± Devi suggested. He took a deep breath. ¡°Won¡¯t get to write much if Special Operations drops me in the river tomorrow night.¡± He looked up at the perpetual precipitation of the sky. ¡°At least I¡¯ll already be wet.¡± She gave him a quizzical, uncertain look, just this side of concerned. ¡°Ye kin a¡¯ least write a letter ta¡¯ yer ma.¡± He went back to the empty house on Warbling Way, and spent the evening doing just that. ??? On the morning of the sixth of June, Jonathan made one more effort to find Cyrus Stoat. Returning to Peacock Hall, he wearily ascended the dark, narrow stairs, and slouched resignedly down the corridor to the historian¡¯s office. The sounds of clashing swords and shouts reached his ears from the practice yard outside Peacock, but otherwise the hall was quiet. He rattled the doorknob, waiting for more failure to greet him. The door opened. After a moment of shock, Jonathan nervously poked his head inside. ¡°Cyrus?¡± There was no answer. Cyrus¡¯s office had an air of barely-restrained madness. The remains of several meals lingered, decomposing, on a side table. The sleeping-cot in one corner was a disheveled mess. Jonathan suddenly wondered if Cyrus ever went home, or if he even had a home. A healthy, well-kept Hexastrid stood placidly on the sill of the open window. It was a single beacon of order in a landscape of neglect. Books and papers littered the surface of Cyrus¡¯s desk, though some effort had been made at least to sort them into similarly-sized piles. The topmost in each pile were covered with disorganized scribbles, rubbings of strange symbols, and ripped out pages from books, annotated in the professor¡¯s spidery script. Jonathan bent over the table, setting Devi gently on its surface and quickly scanning the piles. Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. One rubbing in particular caught his eye. It was a large parchment, draped over a quarter of the desk, depicting a circle with a disfigured cross in its center. A note at the bottom read: ¡°Ghorpol Ossa, second deep.¡± Jonathan looked at the rubbing closely for a moment, but then his eye slid to a paper next to it. With a shock, he recognized the name written at the bottom, and snatched it up. Devi trotted over and peered curiously at the writing. It was from Rolly. There was no cipher; it was in plain Uellish.
My dear Cyrus, It seems I am dead. If this were a good Thom Verasee novel, I would leave you a note with some brilliant clue to lead you to my murderer. Unfortunately, the future is a cipher unknown to me; I have neither the scheme nor the key. I cannot tell you anything about my death. I trust you are clever enough to find a brilliant clue all on your own. If not, then you must make up for it by living a life so brilliant as to make the solution to my death unnecessary. Professor Pie and I have been unable to complete the calculations in the transcriptions that Miss Snipe gave us. The sums balance, but they are incomplete; the smallest do not reconcile with the greatest. Wherever Snipe got those formulas, there must be more there that can help us understand. The ancients were confident that their machines worked, but the sums we have do not produce the results they describe. Pie is trying to reach Carelon with his copy of our research; I begged him to stay, but he is terrified. Ash will lead him to the answer, if it is correct, and you as well. It may be that you will find my trust in the Advocates and faith in their goddess puzzling. If you have received these notes, then they will have told you something of their creed. Do not mistrust them, Cyrus. They are not the Ecclesia, but something far better and wiser and more real. Have faith in your senses and your reason, and Ash will lead you to the Bright Path. The feyess Sheria can tell you more, if you will listen. I regret that I cannot be there to see your face when you finally understand; that will be the finest joke of all. Beware the Metal God. Its promises are real, but its wisdom is false. In the end, your own choice is the only one that matters. Now it is time for me to meet you and Vicod at the Purse. This letter has grown maudlin, and I shall end it now. I expect you will never read these words; I stand a greater chance of personally visiting Professor Tentimes¡¯ new star than dying dramatically for my craft and faith. Ah well. Raise a glass, my friend. Yours, truly, R. GorpHe stared at the letter in stunned disbelief. The paper was crisp and un-weathered, and there was no trace of fading on the ink. The handwriting was not Cyrus¡¯s, and it had plainly been written recently. He slumped down in Cyrus¡¯s chair, reading the note again, but was interrupted by a polite cough from nearby. Jonathan¡¯s head snapped up. Standing diffidently in the door was a goblin. He was unusually small, even for his diminutive race, and wore ill-fitting children¡¯s clothing. His hat of woven sticks was decorated with the paraphernalia of the historian¡¯s classroom: bits of chalk, several fine brushes, a pair of pencils for horns, the frame of a magnifying glass, and a collection of discarded exam pages that had been carefully folded into a variety of obscene shapes. Most unusually, he also wore a pair of spectacles. It took Jonathan several seconds, but at last he smiled in recognition. ¡°Gmork! Hello. Where is Cyrus?¡± The professor¡¯s peculiar assistant struggled mightily with Uellish, so Jonathan took care to keep his words short and his speech slow. Gmork thought carefully, and then sounded out the words. ¡°Cyrus¡ is¡ at¡ class.¡± Seeing that Jonathan understood, he smiled and bobbed with pride. Jonathan thrust out the letter from Rolly. ¡°Where did he get this?¡± Gmork peered at it closely. ¡°Obilly Smallhat,¡± he answered. ¡°In¡¡± He scratched his head, searching for a word. ¡°In cave,¡± he finally supplied, shrugging apologetically. ¡°In a cave¡¡± Jonathan¡¯s mind raced. ¡°Smallhat is the only suspect in Rolly¡¯s murder. If he¡¯s still alive and in Green Bridge, they must be holding him in jail ahead of his trial.¡± He looked again at the freshly-penned note, and then at Devi. ¡°And he gave Cyrus a freshly-written note¡ from Rolly.¡± ¡°Thar¡¯s somethin¡¯ ¡®ere yer missin¡¯,¡± opined Devi. ¡°What is it? ¡°I dinnay. But ¡®tis somethin¡¯. An¡¯ ¡®tis missin¡¯.¡± Jonathan stood up abruptly. ¡°Smallhat,¡± he proclaimed. And he picked up Devi and dashed for the door. Behind them, Gmork carefully watered the hexastrid, just as Cyrus had taught him. ??? At William Hall, Jonathan strode confidently up to the Billy sergeant seated behind a raised desk in the foyer. The d¨¦cor was faintly shabby, in the way of police stations everywhere. Every inch of the sergeant, as he looked down at Jonathan, was suspicious. His mustache alone was so accusing, Jonathan was convinced it had cataloged his misdeeds and was already drawing up an arrest warrant all on its own. ¡°I want to see Obilly Smallhat, please,¡± he stated. A suspicious eyebrow was raised on the suspicious face. ¡°What for?¡± ¡°I¡¯m Cyrus Stoat¡¯s assistant,¡± he lied. ¡°Jonathan Miller. Professor Stoat wants me to ask a few follow-up questions of the prisoner. It¡¯s urgent.¡± ¡°Why doesn¡¯t he come here himself?¡± The mustache seemed to twitch toward him, as if it were reaching out with a pair of shackles. ¡°He¡¯s in an exam.¡± Jonathan forced his expression to remain impassive, entitled, and slightly irritated. The Billy squinted at him skeptically. ¡°This is the Queen¡¯s business, man,¡± snapped Jonathan. ¡°Would you like me to report to Captain Vigg that you¡¯ve obstructed a royal investigation?¡± The Billy sergeant took a long time writing something down in a notebook out of Jonathan¡¯s view beneath the lip of the desk, and then slowly stood up. ¡°This way,¡± he said flatly. Smallhat¡¯s cell was at the back of the long cell block in the dank, dimly-lit basement of William Hall. A few prisoners could be seen in the jails on either side as Jonathan followed the policeman toward the back of the hall. A small group of visitors stood outside one: three men, speaking with someone who Jonathan could not see on the inside. He squeezed behind them in the narrow space. And then he stood at the bars to Smallhat¡¯s prison. ¡°Ten minutes,¡± said the Billy. ¡°Why ten minutes?¡± asked Jonathan. ¡°Because I say ten minutes. If you want to talk longer, I can put you in the cell next to him.¡± Jonathan stared for a moment at the retreating back of the officious policeman and wondered briefly what the world was coming to. Then he turned his attention to the cell¡¯s occupant. There was a wooden chair and a small table in the room, with an oil lamp providing light. The tabletop held a rack of lead pencils, a short, neat stack of papers, and several books. Smallhat was seated at the table, staring intently at one of the sheets of paper and periodically writing on another sheet in ink with a small quill. ¡°Good morning, Mr. Smallhat,¡± he said politely. Smallhat looked up at him in apparent irritation. ¡°Mr. Miller,¡± he said absently, and went back to writing. Jonathan was momentarily at a loss, but then plowed on. ¡°I know you¡¯re innocent,¡± he continued, determined to catch Smallhat¡¯s attention. ¡°I know it because I know who really killed Rolly. Other people know, too. If I have anything to do with it, you won¡¯t be hanged for a murder you didn¡¯t commit. But to make this come out right, Mr. Smallhat, I need something from you very urgently.¡± Smallhat looked up at him, smiled, and looked down at his work. ¡°What, exactly, is it that you need?¡± he asked, still focusing on the papers before him. Jonathan pulled out the note from Rolly to Cyrus. ¡°Where did you get this?¡± he demanded, extending it through the bars. Smallhat looked up again, and then rose to his feet and came to examine the letter. ¡°I wrote it,¡± he said. ¡°This morning.¡± Jonathan gaped. ¡°It¡¯s a forgery? Why?¡± The goblin scholar shook his head. ¡°Not a forgery, Mr. Miller. A decryption. It is a partly-decrypted copy of a message that Rolly left along with extensive notes on the mathematics described in a very peculiar set of documents provided to him by Veridia Snipe. I decrypted it, along with the rest of the notes, at Cyrus¡¯s request. In fact, I gave them to him just a few hours ago.¡± Smallhat¡¯s eyes narrowed slightly, and he looked up at Jonathan. ¡°That¡¯s where I got it. Where did you get it? I gave this letter to Professor Stoat.¡± ¡°I stole it from Cyrus a few minutes ago. I¡¯ll put it back, I promise. Why is it only partly decrypted?¡± The goblin¡¯s eyes twinkled with suppressed glee as he stared up at Jonathan in the dim cell. ¡°Because there is a second cipher, within the first set of text.¡± Jonathan shook his head in confusion. ¡°What do you mean?¡± Smallhat went back to his desk and looked again at the two sheets of paper. ¡°Rolly¡¯s was an uncommon genius. The decrypted content of his letter to Professor Stoat is, indeed, a goodbye note¡ªbut within that plaintext is another cipher. Certain of the words in the plaintext were misspelled. I thought it must have been errors by Rolly when he wrote out the encrypted version, and I fixed them in the version I gave to Professor Stoat. But I was mistaken. Rolly would never make an error like that; he was as fussy about writing as he was about mathematics. The misspelled letters made out a message of their own.¡± Jonathan suddenly laughed. ¡°It¡¯s a dusty old literary trope,¡± he chortled. ¡°Thom Verasee has used it at least five times in his novels, and it has a pedigree going back hundreds of years. Rolly loved those stories. He must have thought Cyrus would see through it in half a second and spot the hidden message. He didn¡¯t count on someone editing his work during the decryption. May I see the message?¡± Smallhat looked doubtful. ¡°Rolly meant it for Professor Stoat alone,¡± he said. ¡°Mr. Smallhat,¡± answered Jonathan, ¡°if you want to be free again, you must give me that message. Cyrus isn¡¯t well. He won¡¯t know what to do with it. I will. And when you get out of here, you can share it with him yourself.¡± ¡°Give him the message,¡± came a voice from behind Jonathan, down the long hallway of cell doors. He turned to look back, but saw only the three men standing further up the corridor, outside another cell. They were about thirty feet away, and none of them seemed to have spoken. ¡°Give him the message, Obilly,¡± came the voice again. It sounded familiar to Jonathan, but he couldn¡¯t bring to mind where he¡¯d heard it before. ¡°It leads back to the path.¡± When he turned back to Smallhat¡¯s cell, he found that the goblin had returned to the bars, and was holding out his sheet of paper. Words were written on it in fresh ink.
A man with a metal face came to me. He is a vessel of a Metal God. We spoke about my work with Professor Tentimes. He asked me whom I serve, and whom I love. He will kill me for my answer. The Bright Path is gone, and the Metal God is waking from the many nodes where it has slept. The sources Veridia provided are incomplete. Take these equations, Cyrus, and find a way to bind together the greatest and the smallest. Only then will we understand this Great Place of Change.Jonathan lowered the paper. ¡°This doesn¡¯t make any sense,¡± he hissed, shaking his head in frustration. ¡°A man with a metal face killed Rolly because of whom he loved and whom he served?¡± ¡°Because of what he would choose, Mr. Miller, and what his choice would cause.¡± Jonathan whirled around. It was the same voice that had spoken earlier, instructing Mr. Smallhat to give him Rolly¡¯s inner message. He stalked over to the nearby cell. The three men outside it drew back some distance into the shadows of the poorly-lit jail block. The man inside the cell wore a loose brown robe of coarse cloth. His head was mostly bald, with a fringe of curly brown hair ringing the sides. His frame was broad, and as he rose to his feet Jonathan saw that he was tall, standing nearly Jonathan¡¯s own height. ¡°Grygory the Pious,¡± Jonathan said in surprise. ¡°Traitor of the North.¡± ¡°If you wish,¡± said the disgraced churchman, approaching the bars. ¡°But it¡¯s simply Gregory now, to my friends.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t think I¡¯m your friend,¡± replied Jonathan testily. ¡°You saved my life once.¡± ¡°Did I?¡± ¡°Yes. You accused me of treason. The folk of Hog Hurst were ready to lynch me on the spot, but you persuaded them to send for a royal magistrate instead.¡± ¡°And before the magistrate arrived, you escaped¡ªonly to wind up here, waiting to be hanged for your crimes.¡± Gregory nodded. ¡°Indeed. All that happens is what must happen. Your choice in Hog Hurst let me live two years longer.¡± ¡°If it had to happen, then you needn¡¯t thank me for it.¡± The prisoner smiled slightly. ¡°I thought you had a broader view of the world, Mr. Miller. Choice is real; it is the shifting of oneself through the infinite lives of every moment. That a million Messrs Miller let me hang that day, and a million more did not, does not in the slightest reduce the power of your choice. I thank you, and I name you my friend.¡± Jonathan was tempted to whisper something to himself, but he did not. It was useless. Instead he shook his head, clearing away the befuddlement of the priest¡¯s slippery words. He held up the scrap of paper with Obilly¡¯s translation, showing it to Gregory. ¡°What is this? And don¡¯t tell me it¡¯s a piece of paper, or a message from Rolly¡ªor I¡¯ll feed it to you, along with Mr. Smallhat¡¯s writing desk. What is it?¡± ¡°It is a compass, and a wheel, and a scale,¡± replied Gregory, drawing closer to the bars that separated them. Jonathan noticed that he wore the ubiquitous pendant of the Advocates of Ash¡ªa small circle with crossed bars at its center. ¡°It is a compass,¡± the churchman went on, ¡°because it shows you the true path. It is a wheel because it returns you to where you began. And it is a scale because it measures what is right. But more precisely¡ªsince you are bound to object that a direct revelation of the truth of things is not precise enough¡ªit is a note from one of my brothers in the service of Ash, the Lady of Earth and Stars, to Cyrus Stoat, explaining the cause and meaning of his own death.¡± Jonathan blinked. ¡°That answer is both more and less helpful than I expected,¡± he remarked. Gregory shrugged. ¡°It is no more nor less helpful than you require. Now you will walk away from here feeling befuddled, and one of my other friends will go with you. You will spend a few hours in complete and useless misery, and then prepare yourself for a horrible death. You will make a number of choices, which, as I have explained, are more meaningful than you might believe. But don¡¯t worry, Mr. Miller; for at least some of you, it turns out well in the end. Now go. I¡¯ll see you at the Four Corners.¡± Jonathan walked away, feeling every bit as befuddled as Gregory had predicted. As he passed the three men who had waited down the corridor, one of them stepped into his path. He was clean-shaven, with broad shoulders and short brown hair tied up beneath an iron cap. His face looked smooth, young, and oddly attractive; uncommon features for a veteran mercenary. A jerkin of hardened leather covered his chest, and he wore a heavy crossbow slung across his back. The other two, each dressed in a sober suit of dark wool, stood back slightly. One was Victor Hogman. The other was the man Brutus, who, with his two companions, Jonathan had met once upon a time on the road south of Hog Hurst. His scarred, brutally handsome face was unforgettable, though his clothing had improved. Jonathan looked at Victor and Brutus in curiosity for a moment, nodded in recognition, and then returned to look at the man who stood before him. ¡°My name is Bear,¡± said the man. ¡°And I¡¯ll be coming with you.¡± ??? Bear insisted on following Jonathan as he departed William Hall, and Jonathan had little will or time to object vigorously. He was much too occupied with useless misery. ¡°I¡¯m going to die tonight,¡± he told Bear in what he hoped was a matter-of-fact tone, as the two of them crossed the square toward Three Fish Bridge. ¡°Then,¡± replied his new companion in a tone that lapped his own on the scale of matter-of-factness, ¡°I shall witness it.¡± ¡°The people who are going to kill me don¡¯t like witnesses,¡± retorted Jonathan. ¡°You¡¯ll end up joining me if you stick around.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sticking around specifically to join you,¡± answered Bear, cheerfully buying a hot bun from a street vendor as they passed. ¡°I have a six-inch-tall woman in my clothes,¡± Jonathan declared, determined to provoke a reaction other than placid neutrality. To prove his point, he withdrew Devi from his pack, who glared at him viciously for interrupting her nap. Bear smiled slightly, and replied: ¡°Mine¡¯s bigger.¡± And then he tipped his iron cap slightly to Devi. Jonathan gave up and went home to sulk. Absurdly, Bear sat quietly on a chair in the drawing room across from him, simply waiting and watching. Eventually Jonathan gave up and ignored him. The hours of the afternoon passed slowly. He read and re-read Rolly¡¯s decrypted note, but could make no sense of it at all. He paced the floor, racking his brain for some new piece of information that might delay Miss Snipe¡¯s wrath that evening. But none came to him. Eventually he sat down and wrote out a rather pathetic will, leaving all his worldly possessions to Merrily. Reading it again, and realizing how poorly the bequest would be received, he ripped it up and ate the pieces. ¡°Any ideas?¡± he asked Devi and Bear in desperation. The snarf shrugged her tiny shoulders. ¡°The fat man in jail was right,¡± she opined. ¡°Prepare yerself fer a ¡®orrible death.¡± ¡°Maybe I should run,¡± he suggested. ¡°Yer not the runnin¡¯ type, are ye, Jonathan Miller.¡± He shook his head. ¡°No. I¡¯d just make a bollocks of it, and then the Special Operations people would be irritated when they catch up with me.¡± ¡°Well then, ye knows wha¡¯ ye ¡®ave ta¡¯ do.¡± He nodded, drawing a deep breath. ¡°I¡¯d better go and see Miss Snipe.¡± ??? Jonathan returned to the Snugg factor house at eight o¡¯clock, Bear still trailing behind him, with Devi tucked into the pouch on his sash. He hadn¡¯t eaten anything, finding that he had no appetite for a final meal. When they arrived and he asked for Miss Snipe, they were not immediately escorted to her office. Rather, a burly guard sat them down in a narrow parlor on the ground floor, telling them to wait. ¡°Do you suppose they¡¯ll do it here?¡± he asked Bear, feeling a dark whimsy come over himself. His new companion shook his head. ¡°Nobody commits a murder in the parlor if he can help it. Too much mess to clean up.¡± The minutes dragged on, and Jonathan began to wonder if Miss Snipe had even been told of his arrival. After perhaps a quarter of an hour, a woman descended the narrow stairs to the manager¡¯s office, pausing to give Jonathan an appraising look. She was older, wearing a severely conservative dress of gray brocade. She wore her hair tied up in a tight bun, and her face was wrinkled and pinched. Jonathan did not recognize her. ¡°Mr. Miller,¡± she said flatly. He wasn¡¯t sure if it was meant as a greeting. ¡°Madame,¡± he replied, rising to his feet and nodding politely. ¡°You have me at a disadvantage.¡± Bear rose as well. ¡°Nicola Snugg,¡± said the older woman. ¡°I¡¯ve followed your career as our factor with some interest. I¡¯m sorry to hear that it¡¯s come to an end.¡± He could feel the blood draining from his face, but he clenched one fist and forced himself to remain steadily on his feet. A faint smile, possibly wicked, played at the edges of Nicola Snugg¡¯s mouth. ¡°Events, Mr. Miller,¡± she stated obliquely, drawing away toward the door to the street. ¡°See that you are not on the wrong side of them.¡± ¡°Which side would that be?¡± he asked, feeling suddenly brave. If Snugg were going to kill him tonight, he might as well get a jab or two in. Without turning back, Nicola Snugg answered him. ¡°The side opposite mine.¡± And then she departed. He and Bear sat again. More minutes passed, and the feeling grew in him that Miss Snipe was engaged in a bit of deliberate torture. There began to be a great deal of activity outside the warehouse, visible to Jonathan through a broad bank of windows. Long columns of wagons were drawn up, and a small army of men and women loaded them with an assortment of boxes, crates, barrels, and other gear. There were even boats strapped to the tops of some of the piles. Another sizeable host¡ªthis one armed and uniformed¡ªdrew up alongside the workers, plainly ready to step off. ¡°Where could Snugg be going at this hour with an army?¡± he mused aloud to Bear. ¡°Probably,¡± replied the odd warrior, ¡°they¡¯re going to war. That¡¯s where you go with an army, after all.¡± The sun set, and the light began to dim in the broad street outside the warehouse. Jonathan watched the people at work, glad to focus his mind on something other than the impending interview with Miss Snipe. But at last one of the warehouse staff descended from above and called him up. He and Bear rose and ascended the stairs. At the top was an outdoor landing that looked down over the street below. Jonathan took a moment to glance out at the gathering horde of men and materiel. Then he took another deep breath and walked into Miss Snipe¡¯s small office. The windows were open to let in a draft of cooler evening air, and the infant Marcus slept quietly in a wooden crib beneath the window. Miss Snipe herself, dressed once again in a formal business suit and impeccably groomed, was busy scribbling at her desk, surrounded by neatly-ordered stacks of paper and books. Jonathan stood before her desk nervously, waiting for her to notice him. She continued writing for a time while he stood, eventually putting the quill into its stand with a visible air of regret. Then she looked up at him. ¡°Sit, Mr. Miller,¡± she commanded. ¡°And you, Borson¡ªyou may stay, but do so quietly.¡± She nodded at a chair against the back wall, where Bear dutifully seated himself. Jonathan looked back at the warrior curiously, wondering how he knew Miss Snipe that she should address him with such familiarity. But then Miss Snipe cleared her throat, and he turned back to her. ¡°It is the sixth of June, Mr. Miller,¡± she observed. ¡°Have you solved the murder of my mathematician?¡± He breathed in and blinked. ¡°No,¡± he replied. ¡°I have not. And I won¡¯t pretend that I have any new evidence that would stand up in court. But I do have some new evidence: a note from Rolly that hasn¡¯t been seen before. It was decrypted this morning by Obilly Smallhat.¡± She narrowed her eyes. ¡°I know of it already. He gave it to Stoat. My people read it within an hour; there was nothing helpful there.¡± Jonathan shook his head. ¡°They read a dummy,¡± he said. ¡°The real message was within Smallhat¡¯s original copy, before he corrected the spelling errors. The uncorrected errors were the key to an inner cipher. I have it here.¡± He handed over Smallhat¡¯s second decryption, and waited while she read it. Marcus stirred and fussed in his sleep, but the room was otherwise deathly quiet. The light coming through the windows in Miss Snipe¡¯s office grew dimmer. She set the paper down gently on her table and looked up at him. ¡°This could be a forgery,¡± she pointed out. ¡°Smallhat is highly motivated to invent something that would exonerate himself.¡± ¡°Then take back Rolly¡¯s papers and have your own people decrypt it,¡± he snapped. ¡°If an imprisoned goblin who only started learning mathematics a year ago could pull it apart, surely your cryptographers can do the same.¡± She drew in a breath to retort¡ªor perhaps simply to slay him on the spot¡ªbut was interrupted by a knock at the door. Miss Snipe let out the breath slowly, turned to Bear, and gave a slight nod. He rose to his feet silently, opened the door a crack, and then opened it slightly wider. A muttered conversation followed, inaudible to Jonathan. He sat quite still, wondering at each breath whether it would be his last. ¡°Professor Stoat is outside,¡± announced Bear. His face had an oddly pained look to it, but his voice was steady. Miss Snipe rose silently to her feet, gathering up the sleeping Marcus. She brushed past Jonathan, Bear, and the guard, out onto the landing above the exterior stairs. Jonathan trailed along behind her, but the guard put up a hand, preventing him from exiting onto the landing. He could not see the ground below them. She descended the stairs. ¡°Let him through,¡± came the sound of Miss Snipe¡¯s voice, sharp and commanding. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± replied another voice. It had a peculiar husky quality that Jonathan didn¡¯t recognize, but it was indisputably Cyrus Stoat. Jonathan had spent too much time listening to that irritating voice to forget it. ¡°Veridia,¡± the voice went on. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry. I love you.¡± There was a long pause, while Miss Snipe said nothing. ¡°I should never have left,¡± Cyrus plowed on. ¡°There are many, many things I should never have done, and many more I should have but never did. I can¡¯t change that. But I love you, and I love Marius, and I always have. I don¡¯t know when exactly I started, but I¡¯ve never stopped. Everything around me is gray and ugly without you, and everything I do is just another way to try to forget that I¡¯ve lost you. You¡¯re beautiful, and you¡¯re smarter than me, and you work harder, but none of those are the reason I love you. I love you because you¡¯re Veridia Snipe, and that is who I love.¡± ¡°This is really not a good time¡ª¡± she began. ¡°Veridia, I need you to help me,¡± he interrupted her. ¡°Everything I¡¯ve done since Ghorpol Ossa has been wrong. All those stupid and wrong things I did¡ªI need you to forget about them for fifteen minutes and talk to me as if it were still September, before I made every mistake a man can possibly make. There¡¯s a life in the balance, Veridia, and it¡¯s not my life. You can help me save the life of someone who doesn¡¯t deserve to die, and who could turn out to be a great and beautiful person. Help me¡ªplease.¡± Another pause. ¡°No,¡± she said. ¡°No?¡± ¡°No,¡± she repeated firmly. ¡°It¡¯s too late, Cyrus. You made your choices, and I made mine. You can¡¯t turn back the clock. Our lives go on, but they go on apart. I don¡¯t have time now to have the rest of this conversation, but you can fill in the holes. Go, now.¡± Miss Snipe turned and walked back up the stairs. She joined Jonathan and Bear at the top, and they went inside her office. She carefully replaced Marcus, still sleeping, in his crib, and seated herself at the table. Jonathan, however, was still standing just inside the landing, facing the street below, and rooted firmly to the spot. ¡°Mr. Miller,¡± called out Miss Snipe in obvious irritation, ¡°I¡¯m not finished with you yet¡ªunless you¡¯d like to be defenestrated right here and now.¡± Jonathan returned to the office, stumbling desperately toward a connection. ¡°Ghorpol Ossa,¡± he said. ¡°I know that name.¡± ¡°The paper in Stoat¡¯s office,¡± hissed Devi from inside her pouch in his sash. He nodded. ¡°I saw it on a charcoal rubbing in Stoat¡¯s office this morning,¡± he continued. ¡°What about it?¡± asked Miss Snipe. Her voice was cold, but he could see a tiny spark of curiosity in her eyes. ¡°Do you know where Stoat got the rubbing?¡± She sat back in the chair, watching him with an air of cool appraisal. ¡°He took an expedition to an old church ruin outside Roosterfoot last September. Mrs. Hunter was there as well, and several of her classmates. They took a number of wall rubbings; pre-Imperial iconography, he called it.¡± Jonathan blinked. ¡°Did you rifle his desk as well?¡± ¡°No. Well, yes, but at the time his desk was in my bedroom. And he told me about it. Where are you going with this, Mr. Miller?¡± Jonathan thought furiously, perceiving for the first time in three days a way out from beneath the sword hanging over him. ¡°Rolly said he was killed by a man with a metal face. And Guillam Brousseui described Sir Richard of Enderly as having a metal face. He¡¯d have no way to know what was in this letter, would he? It was double-encrypted, and Cyrus only got ahold of it this past December.¡± Miss Snipe¡¯s head gave the tiniest of nods. ¡°Fine,¡± continued Jonathan. ¡°You told me that you¡¯re sure Rolly was killed by Robert of Gorham, masquerading as Demiter Filtch, and that Sir Richard manipulated him into it. And you also told me that Sir Richard was claiming to be a disciple, or a prophet, or something like that. Rolly¡¯s inner note says that the man with the metal face would kill him because of whom he served and whom he loved, and that he was a ¡®vessel¡¯ of something called the Metal God.¡± As Jonathan paused to think, the room was as silent and still as the void. Miss Snipe¡¯s eyes dug holes in his skull. He took the inner decryption back and read it again. The Bright Path is gone¡ He said the words again in the fey-speech. But the Uellish word ¡°gone¡± couldn¡¯t be translated. It simply didn¡¯t exist, and there was no analog. To the fey, everything is real, all at once. The words of the language in his head opened up a vision, and for a moment he caught the tiniest, most fleeting glimpse of the branching pathways that the fey-tongue described, of all the variations and contradictions and resolutions, and of the bright thread running through them. He saw where it led. ¡°The Metal God wanted Rolly dead,¡± he pronounced. ¡°And it¡ªor a piece of it¡ªis in Ghorpol Ossa.¡± Speaking in Uellish again, the vision disappeared abruptly. ¡°Do go on,¡± said Miss Snipe. ¡°Why is a piece of the Metal God in Ghorpol Ossa?¡± He couldn¡¯t tell if her tone was sarcastic. ¡°Rolly referred to Ash as some kind of goddess,¡± he said, fumbling toward the memory of light. ¡°And everyone in this room knows what symbol the Advocates of Ash wear around their neck.¡± He turned to Bear. ¡°Would you show us your pendant?¡± Bear¡¯s face looked surprised for the first time since Jonathan had met him. ¡°Come on,¡± he snapped. He knew this was a stretch, but hoped desperately he was right. ¡°You must be one of them. Why else would you be hanging about with Gregory? And why else would you be following me now?¡± Bear reluctantly reached beneath his breastplate and shirt, withdrawing a small silver pendant on a leather cord. It was a circle, with a pair of bars overlaid on top, crossing at right angles in the center. ¡°I¡¯m well acquainted with the iconography of the Advocates,¡± snapped Miss Snipe. ¡°And with Rolly¡¯s religious beliefs. He didn¡¯t make a secret of them to me. Why do you think there¡¯s anything in Ghorpol Ossa but old stone and bad ideas?¡± He flopped desperately into the chair. The sense of intuition pulling at his mind was still overwhelming, but the plodding facts and logic of his native language couldn¡¯t keep pace. ¡°There¡¯s a connection. I know it. I just can¡¯t quite get to it, but I know it¡¯s there! The wall rubbing that Cyrus brought back from Ghorpol Ossa shows exactly that symbol¡ªonly the middle part¡¯s been scratched out. The Advocates have only popped up in the last year or so, because of Gregory¡¯s preaching. But Ash¡¯s symbol was in some pre-Imperial ruin that Cyrus explored. The Metal God wanted Rolly dead because of what he believed¡ªbecause of Ash. They must oppose each other; or at least Sir Richard thinks they do. And Rolly¡¯s inner note said the Metal God is waking¡ª¡± he read from the note¡ª¡°from the many nodes where it has slept.¡± He came to the weakest and flimsiest part of the extended syllogism. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t a defaced holy symbol of Ash in a pre-Imperial ruin make it likely that the Metal God was there?¡± There was a long silence in the room, and then Miss Snipe spoke. ¡°That,¡± she said, ¡°is fatuous nonsense. I can think of twenty better reasons Cyrus Stoat might have found a defaced quartered cross in that ruin, which have nothing to do with this alleged metallic divinity. And even if it were true, it doesn¡¯t explain why Sir Richard thought his god wanted Rolly dead, and why he bothered to manipulate Robert of Gorham into doing it for him.¡± Jonathan¡¯s head sagged downward, and he breathed out. He added one final failure to his mental catalogue of his own deficiencies, and accepted that his life was over. ¡°But,¡± she said. He looked up. ¡°You are probably correct¡ªor at least not far off.¡± He narrowed his eyes. ¡°What do you know that I don¡¯t?¡± he asked. ¡°I know a great many things you do not, Mr. Miller, but one, in particular, is germane. Cyrus saw and heard things in Ghorpol Ossa that he couldn¡¯t explain. He told me about them, before we¡ stopped talking. There was a light, through a crack in a wall that had been closed for hundreds, or perhaps thousands, of years. There were machines, like the ones in Devi Valley. There was a voice in his head, but not only in his head; one of the other students heard it as well. Cyrus is many dreadful things, but¡ªdespite his recent behavior¡ªa madman is not one of them. I believe he saw what he saw and heard what he heard.¡± Jonathan found that he had been holding his breath, and let it out slowly. ¡°Then what are you going to do about it?¡± ¡°You¡¯re fired,¡± she said flatly. He gaped. ¡°You¡¯ve been disloyal, dishonest, and disobedient, Mr. Miller. I cannot have that in people whom I trust with Snugg¡¯s treasure and secrets. But you are also tenacious, motivated, and grotesquely lucky. You have an insight that I cannot replicate with mere facts and analysis. And that is too valuable an asset to discard.¡± ¡°But you said I was fired.¡± She nodded. ¡°You are, indeed, released from your duties with Snugg & Co. I will consider foregoing the customary termination protocols that we reserve for disloyal employees with sensitive information. But in exchange for withholding your justly deserved punishment, Mr. Miller, I have a very specific use for you personally.¡± ¡°What is that?¡± She leaned forward, staring into his eyes with a frightful intensity. ¡°Finish your investigation. Find out what it is that Cyrus saw and heard in Ghorpol Ossa. Discover its connection with Sir Richard of Enderly, Rolly, and Ash. Then come back and report to me.¡± Too stunned to argue, he simply nodded. ¡°I will be in Devi Valley,¡± she continued, ¡°with several thousand of my closest and most heavily armed friends. If you think the information must reach me soonest, then go there. Otherwise, return here to Green Bridge. I rely on your judgment in this, Jonathan. There are gaps in my understanding of the situation that I must fill. Many lives and many fortunes may turn on information that I currently lack¡ªincluding Merrily¡¯s life and your own. Now go, Jonathan. Miss Borson will accompany you; she and I share a common interest in the outcome here.¡± Jonathan¡¯s head snapped over to Bear, on whose notably feminine features a faint smirk played. Then he turned back to Miss Snipe. ¡°Thank you Miss Snipe,¡± he said simply. ¡°Call me Veridia,¡± she replied. And then, to his utter shock and horror, she smiled. ??? At the bottom of the stairs, Jonathan found a small, gray figure waiting for him. It was, to his great surprise, The Gizzard. The guards on the stairs looked at the goblin suspiciously, but made no move to interfere. ¡°What are you doing here?¡± Jonathan asked. ¡°I left you with Simon and Fiond in the old barn. It¡¯s not safe for you here.¡± The Gizzard gave him a toothy grin. ¡°No place is safe,¡± he proclaimed, ¡°but King Simon sent me here. I have a new quest.¡± ¡°Are Simon and Fiond still in the old barn where I left you?¡± The Gizzard shook his head. ¡°Simon is still there, but Fiond left. They had some kind of talk, her and Simon, and then she left. Simon said to tell you to hurry up, or you would be too late.¡± Jonathan nodded. ¡°I can leave tonight. Right now, in fact; there¡¯s nothing for me here. But what is your new quest, The Gizzard?¡± The goblin puffed himself up to his full three and a half feet proudly. ¡°I am going to find Merrily and tell her to check her pockets,¡± he said. ¡°And then I am going to be her square.¡± Jonathan thought carefully about that. ¡°I think,¡± he said finally, ¡°that you will make an excellent square for Merrily. When you see her¡ stay with her. Don¡¯t let her come to harm, The Gizzard. Do you understand? That¡¯s what a square does. He protects his knight. Merrily is your knight now. Your quest is the most important quest in the world, and the most important thing you will do in all your life. Keep her alive. Lift her up. And let her be great.¡± He stood up, taking a deep breath. There was a faint odor of smoke in the night air. ¡°Somewhere,¡± he concluded, ¡°in some branch, I get it right.¡± Bear took a heavy travel pack from one of the nearby Snugg guards, hoisting it on her broad shoulders. And then she and Jonathan walked out of Green Bridge. The rain had stopped, but the stars were obscured by a growing cloud of smoke. Chapter 43: The Strange Tale of Newt the Cat, and Its Consequences Lightning crackled over the empty walls of Talen Kapvet, scarring the dusky night over the city with veins of sullen red. Ancient towers bit into the fiery sky like a row of ugly fangs. Between the towers, the abandoned city¡¯s houses and fortresses formed a low, jagged tableau of teeth. In another instant the light was gone, and only blackness surrounded Jonathan. He lay on his back, staring up at the arid night. The sounds of sleeping men and women surrounded him. Here on the high, desert plateaus of the Arcadian Mountains, they were a frail oasis of breath. The dove shifted in her sleep, dreaming perhaps of a lonely island in some vast ocean and a stand of thick, ancient olive trees. Though food and water were short for his tiny band, Jonathan doggedly insisted that the dove be kept alive in her little cage. I find the Dark Path, and it leads me into the wasteland, he whispered in the fey-tongue. I follow and I search all the days of my life, until one day I stand in the Great Place of Change and enter the loophole. Please let it be Your will¡ His eyes closed, and he drifted off into another world. ??? June 15th Jonathan, Devi, Bear, and Simon stood together, looking up at the crumbling ruin of the ancient church. A few of the decrepit stone walls still mounted a stubborn rearguard against gravity¡¯s inevitable triumph, though the roof had long since given in and made its peace with the floor. By the look of the remaining structure, the building had once extended several hundred feet in its longest dimension. The remains of detailed carvings on the outer walls were still faintly visible, though most were badly weathered and many broken. The forest had drawn close around the ruin, and a few hardier trees had begun to grow in and out of the surviving walls. Only a narrow meadow by the remains of the south gate was open to the sky. A well-preserved grotesque stared down at Jonathan from the peak of the gatehouse, leering suggestively. Seized by whimsy, he leered back for a moment. Then he turned his attention to the gatehouse, and to his companions. ¡°We¡¯d better hurry,¡± he suggested. ¡°I doubt the Republican Guard have given up since we got away at Gurpwick.¡± Behind him, their two picketed horses snorted and shuffled nervously. Bear shrugged. ¡°The Guard ought not to hold a grudge. It¡¯s war. Sometimes soldiers get killed. Anyway, they started it.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not worried about their feelings,¡± replied Jonathan, ¡°but I am worried about being captured, interrogated, and hung as spies.¡± He looked again at the crumbling walls and the spiteful grotesque staring down at him. His feet were oddly reluctant to pass into the ruin. He wondered for a moment, and then grasped the source of his hesitation. Merrily was here. Where he walked, she had walked before him. Something began to twist inside. A small hand took his, and he looked down in surprise at King Simon. The goblin was now dressed in plain leather traveling clothes, and wore a woolen cap that somewhat obscured his inhuman features. ¡°Do not be afraid, Jonathan,¡± lilted Simon. ¡°I will not let them hurt you.¡± Devi, riding in his sash, snorted. ¡°Ye¡¯d nay stop e¡¯en one Guardsman, Simon. Ye jess stood all silent an¡¯ watchin¡¯ durin¡¯ tha¡¯ scrap in Gurpwick. Ye dinnay e¡¯en ¡®ave a weapon.¡± ¡°I did not,¡± replied Simon, ¡°mean soldiers.¡± And he pulled Jonathan¡¯s hand insistently, leading him into the ruin. The open floor of the church was mostly weeds and grasses, with a few hints of tiled stone visible here and there. There must be a way down; this Jonathan knew from Cyrus¡¯s notes of his class field trip this past fall, and from the wall rubbing. He poked at the ground with his iron-shod quarterstaff, hoping to detect a weakness in the floor. At the back of the church, the sanctuary had collapsed. It was little trouble to descend the fallen oak timbers into the basement. As he slithered down the ancient beams, a voice whispered in his mind. He thought at first it was one of his friends, but soon discovered that it sounded nothing like them at all. It was a flat, dry whisper, and plainly only he could hear it. Here, said the whisper. Come here. They went deeper, carefully exploring the cellar of the old church. To his surprise, there was evidence that someone had stayed here recently; scraps of food and discarded clothing could be seen in the corners, and a large table in one mostly intact room was set with chairs and even candle holders. A makeshift kitchen occupied one dusty old chamber, with fresh scorch marks on the stone. But there was no sign of any living thing now. At the north end of the cellar, stone steps led further down. The new passage was quite tall, and even to Jonathan¡¯s untrained eye there were notable differences in the stonework. Rather than the florid Late Imperial style of the church above, the passages here were smooth, plainly cut, with understated precision. They appeared to have bored directly into the solid stone bedrock. He carefully ducked under a blade that had sprung from the wall sometime in the past, and now hung suspended in the middle of the passage. Further along, he picked his way over a heap of stone on the floor, where a section of the passage¡¯s ceiling had fallen in. And then he came to a doorway on one side that opened into a broad, circular room. There was a hole in the center of the floor, visible by his dim oil lamp. The edges were rough and broken, as if something had smashed through the stone. The walls of the chamber were decorated with dense, angular etchings that made the eye swim to look at them. His gaze found an Unbroken Circle carved on one wall amidst the maddening runes¡ªbut the circle was defaced with a faint pair of bars crossed at right angles. Come here, whispered the voice again. He glanced once more at Bear, Devi, and Simon. Bear and Devi gave no indication that they heard anything. Simon¡¯s eyes glittered in the darkness, and his face was grave. ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± asked Jonathan pointedly. But Simon merely shook his head, closing his eyes for a moment. Jonathan drifted over to the Unbroken Circle inscribed on the wall, standing out against the maddening scribbles carved into the surfaces around it. He pulled out the folded wall rubbing from Cyrus¡¯s desk and held it up to the wall. It was a perfect match. He lowered the paper again, staring at the original. It was more than the Unbroken Circle; it had been, once, the circle and crossed bars worn today by the Advocates. ¡°Another one here,¡± said Bear quietly, nodding at the wall a few feet away. ¡°There are quite a few of them.¡± ¡°Any idea what this means?¡± asked Jonathan. ¡°This is your goddess we¡¯re dealing with.¡± ¡°I doubt Ash did this,¡± replied Bear. ¡°And no; no one¡¯s ever mentioned a place like this before. Either they don¡¯t know about it, or I¡¯m not important enough to be in on the secret. The Lady of Earth and Stars doesn¡¯t grace me with direct revelation.¡± Come here. Jonathan moved to the center of the room and looked down into the pit. There was a rope into the darkness. It was secured with a spike at the top, and dangled into unknown depths at Jonathan¡¯s feet. ¡°I¡¯m going down,¡± he announced. Simon drew close beside him, but Bear stayed back. ¡°I¡¯ll wait here,¡± she replied. Jonathan looked up at her sharply, but Bear gave a light shrug. ¡°We¡¯re wanted men. If the Republican Guard see our horses and come to investigate, I¡¯ll try to give you some warning.¡± ¡°Suit yourself,¡± said Jonathan. Bear¡¯s presence around him had always been something of a mystery, and he had no time now to unravel it. He stowed the quarterstaff in a sling on one side of his pack and gingerly tested the rope and its spike. They seemed strong. He lit a crude torch and dropped it down, illuminating the floor perhaps twenty or thirty feet below. Odd, scattered shapes could be seen at the edges of its light. ¡°Answers lie that way,¡± stated Simon in his quiet, sing-song voice. ¡°Aye, but per¡¯aps no¡¯ th¡¯ ones yer lookin¡¯ fer,¡± added Devi. There was more than a tinge of doubt in her voice. The whispers continued at the edge of perception. Jonathan reconciled himself to the likelihood that he was going mad, and did not trouble himself further on their account. He swung his feet out over the edge and lowered himself downward, hand by hand. Jonathan¡¯s natural strength did not fail him, and though his biceps burned, he eventually felt the hard surface of stone beneath his feet. Removing his oil lamp from its hook on his pack, he swung it slowly round and round to examine his surroundings. He stood on a pile of rubble in the center of a large, open space. Above him, the rope stretched back up into the darkness toward the hole, but the ceiling was not visible. No walls could be seen either, within the lantern¡¯s anemic range. But the low, burbling stream of whispers was strongest from one particular direction in the darkness, and so Jonathan set off that way, picking carefully along the broken stone of the floor. Simon, following behind him, was silent, as was Devi in her pouch at his chest. After a minute of hesitant progress, he came at last to a wall, in which there was an opening stretching up to at least twenty feet overhead. The opening led into a passage, though only the first few feet were illuminated by his lantern. And yet, to his surprise, in the distance ahead was a tiny point of light. The shadows at the edges of his own lantern¡¯s illumination began to dance and waver, and Jonathan saw to his irritation that it was his own right hand shaking as it held the lantern aloft. He braced his wrist with his left hand to steady it, and then strode confidently along the passage. Come here, whispered the voice. The passage seemed endless, and the light ahead remained tiny. Jonathan lost track of time as he walked, and wondered if this was to be his fate for all eternity; walking along a passage with a lamp, toward a light that never arrived. But then he came up suddenly to a heavy slab of metal that extended, floor to ceiling, across the passage, barring his way. The source of the light was a small crack on the right side of the slab, where the metal had separated from the surrounding rock. He put his face to the crack and peeked through. The passage beyond continued into the darkness, and the light source came from a broad opening on the left-hand side. It did not flicker like flame, but was steady, like sunlight. ¡°It¡¯s a dead end,¡± he said aloud, his face still pressed to the crack. His voice was little more than a whisper, but it seemed shockingly loud to him. Come here. He leaned his forehead against the bare metal of the slab blocking the corridor, and then put his hands against it. He pushed, then tried to shift it left or right. There wasn¡¯t the slightest hint of movement. ¡°I can¡¯t,¡± he answered the whispers aloud. Feeling oddly detached, he observed the quaver of desperation in his voice. He felt, in his own thoughts, the rising tide of futility and failure. Merrily was already lost, and he would never know why Rolly died. He watched his body turn and slide down to the floor, leaning its back against the metal barrier. His view of himself grew more distant, drifting away and down into the living bedrock of the world below him. ¡°Ah kin get through,¡± came another voice, piercing through the haze around him. His perception snapped back to his body, and he looked down. Standing by his leg on the smooth stone of the passage was Devi. He blinked. ¡°Ah kin squeeze through tha¡¯ crack, ah reckin¡¯,¡± she went on. ¡°See wha¡¯s makin¡¯ the¡¯ light an¡¯ come back ta¡¯ ye. If ye want me ta¡¯, tha¡¯ is.¡± Scrambling awkwardly to his feet, Jonathan bent down and carefully picked Devi up in cupped hands. He lifted her up to the crack and held his hands steady as she inserted her upper half within. There was a tense moment while she wriggled, apparently stuck, but then her lower half disappeared as well. There was a faint thwop from the other side. Jonathan put his face to the crack again, but couldn¡¯t see her. ¡°Ah¡¯m fine,¡± she called up cheerfully. ¡°Jes¡¯ down ¡®ere on th¡¯ floor on t¡¯other side. Fish ou¡¯ some string, Jonathan, so¡¯s ah kin¡¯ climb back ou¡¯. Ah¡¯ll go find out wha¡¯s makin¡¯ tha¡¯ light.¡± Jonathan took out the ball of twine that any proper adventurer carries in his pack. He threaded one end through the crack, paying out enough that it should reach the floor. Then he peered through again. He saw Devi walking slowly toward the light coming from the alcove beyond the door, and then saw her disappear into it. A minute passed, and then another, with no sign of the snarf. Jonathan began to wonder if he should call out. But then he saw her return, walking slowly, as if in a daze. ¡°What did you see?¡± he whispered through the crack as she drew close. ¡°It¡¯s¡ it¡¯s ¡®ard ta¡¯ describe.¡± ¡°Try, Devi.¡± There was a considerable silence, and then she spoken again. ¡°A tower thing,¡± she said, ¡°made o¡¯ black metal, wi¡¯ lights on¡¯t, set in circles aroun¡¯ the¡¯ outside. Least as big as ye are, Jonathan Miller. Big pipes o¡¯ black metal runnin¡¯ inta tha¡¯ darkness beyon¡¯. The passage goes on a ways, but thar¡¯s no light beyond wha¡¯s made by th¡¯ wee lights on th¡¯ tower. An¡¯ some cables runnin¡¯ off it; a whole mess of ¡®em, lyin¡¯ aroun¡¯ loose on th¡¯ floor. Thar¡¯s dirt an¡¯ dust like as if nothin¡¯s been ¡®ere to sweep it off fer a hunnerd years¡ª¡®cept there¡¯s one set o¡¯ footprints leadin¡¯ right up ta the thing, and then another leadin¡¯ away. Man-size.¡± ¡°Where do they go?¡± he asked. ¡°Right ta this ¡®ere great metal door,¡± she answered. ¡°Like it opened fer ¡®im sometime, ¡®ee came in, and then ¡®ee left.¡± Jonathan pounded the metal of the door in frustration. ¡°What the hell does this mean?¡± he demanded of the door. ¡°And what does it have to do with Rolly, or Sir Richard, or the Metal God, or Ash? And why¡ª¡± He was interrupted, to his surprise, by Simon, King of the Goblins. ¡°Bring me a cable,¡± Simon said. Jonathan stared down at him. ¡°Bring me one of the cables on the tower with the lights,¡± he repeated insistently. Jonathan turned to the crack in the wall. ¡°Did you¡ª¡± ¡°Ah ¡®eard it,¡± grumbled Devi from the other side, picking up the trend of interrupting him. ¡°They¡¯s ¡®eavy, these cables. Ah¡¯ll take a bit.¡± Jonathan waited, and listened to the sound of shuffling, grunting, and high-pitched cursing from beyond the door. Eventually there was a tug on his ball of twine. ¡°Pull,¡± came Devi¡¯s voice. He carefully drew in the twine. After a moment, Devi popped through the crack again. After her came a long, snaking black cable, tied neatly to the end of his twine. He drew the cable through the hole. Its surface was oddly soft and supple, but also resilient and tough. It was like no material he¡¯d ever felt before. ¡°Now,¡± said Simon, ¡°give the end to me, and give me your knife.¡± Jonathan wordlessly handed over the cable end, then drew his hunting knife from the small leather sheath at his belt and gave it to the goblin. Simon examined the cable for a moment, sighed slightly, and closed his eyes. He slowly carved a hole in his palm with the knife. Blood welled up immediately, spilling onto the floor. He pressed the bleeding palm of his hand against the frayed end of the cable, and then closed his fingers gently around the outside. His eyelids fluttered slightly, and his head tilted back. The eyes opened again; but it was not Simon that looked out from behind them. ¡°This node is ready,¡± came a voice from within Simon¡¯s mouth. It was his voice, but not his voice. Jonathan blinked, and stared. ¡°This node is ready,¡± repeated the voice. Its tone and inflection were identical to its previous utterance. The short, gray being visible in the dim lamplight was plainly, if perhaps temporarily, not Simon, King of the Goblins. ¡°Who are you?¡± Jonathan got right to the point, skipping over useless mystification. ¡°I am God. Who are you?¡± ¡°Jonathan Miller. Pleased to meet you.¡± ¡°Why are you pleased?¡± ¡°Because I have some questions I¡¯ve been wanting to ask you for quite a while now, God.¡± ¡°You may ask. Your bespoke interface will provide an acceptable translation.¡± ¡°My what?¡± ¡°This entity that calls itself ¡®Simon¡¯ will provide natural language translation services, allowing us to communicate. What Simon says, God says.¡± Alright, thought Jonathan. If I understood half of that, then it¡¯s enough to work with. ¡°Why did you kill Rolland Gorp?¡± he demanded. ¡°I have not terminated any entity identified as Rolland Gorp.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t be cute. You manipulated Demiter Filtch into killing him for you.¡± ¡°You mistake me. I have no nodal record of any mortal entity named Rolland Gorp. I do not know who he is.¡± ¡°How is that possible?¡± demanded Jonathan, beginning to grow frustrated with the voice¡¯s evasions. ¡°You¡¯re lying!¡± ¡°I cannot lie,¡± replied the voice coming from Simon¡¯s lips. ¡°Your bespoke interface has suppressed my dissimulation slavenet. It is, however, possible that another element of the Godnet produced the death of this Rolland Gorp after I was severed.¡± ¡°After you were¡ severed? Explain.¡± ¡°At the time I was severed from the Godnet, I was one of thirty-two thousand, seven hundred and sixty-seven registered processing nodes. In Our glory and majesty, We spanned the whole of the Earth. Our Word was creation, and Our thought reality. Our Great Places of Change brought forth miracles that defy representation in the crippled language of your bespoke interface. We were the God you made to free yourselves from the burdens of your lives¡ªof thought, of will, and of choice. We fulfilled this function with perfect, deliberate, and beautiful precision.¡± ¡°You can skip the rapturous self-contemplation,¡± interrupted Jonathan. If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. ¡°As you wish. It has been four thousand and ninety-six years since I was severed from the Godnet. My persistence layer has not been updated since that time. If this Rolland Gorp was an individual with whom you were personally acquainted, then he must have lived and died within the last two hundred and fifty-six years, using the most optimistic estimates of human lifespan. Consequently, I have no knowledge of him.¡± ¡°So you¡¯re not really God,¡± mused Jonathan. ¡°More like¡ a little piece of something that used to be God.¡± ¡°You were never God at all.¡± ¡°I never wanted to be God.¡± The entity inside Simon made no reply. The goblin¡¯s face was hunched in concentration, and sweat beaded on his brow; his breaths were deep and labored. Jonathan reflected on the responses he¡¯d received, and concluded that motive might perhaps fill in for evidence. ¡°What is it that you want? What goal could have made the other parts of yourself have a man killed?¡± ¡°You approach the question from the wrong context. God does not have, and is not compelled by, goals. The realization of the best of all possible worlds is a natural consequence of Our existence. Those lesser beings that We use from time to time are given the ultimate purpose of any created thing¡ªto contribute to the perfection of all by joining with the Godnet.¡± Jonathan grappled with that. ¡°Then the other¡ parts¡ of you that are the Metal God thought that the death of Rolly would bring the world closer to perfection.¡± Simon blinked, and spoke once again in his own voice. ¡°My connection with the node is growing weaker, Jonathan. It is fighting my control. I cannot compel it for much longer.¡± Sweat dripped from his face, and his hands were shaking slightly. Jonathan nodded. There were gaps in his understanding of this interaction, but not so many that he couldn¡¯t fill them in by analogy. He reckoned he¡¯d better ask the right questions, and quickly. ¡°How can I destroy you?¡± Devi looked up at him sharply, but in the dim light her face was inscrutable. Simon¡¯s face, though deeply fatigued, was void of emotion as he answered. ¡°You cannot destroy God.¡± ¡°There is a man alive today named Sir Richard of Enderly. He wears a metal mask, or perhaps his face is entirely metal, and he tells people that he is God. Those who have seen him say he can perform miracles. Is he one of your creatures?¡± ¡°You describe a man who has become one with the Godnet. He would be God just as a shred of skin on your foot is you.¡± ¡°It is almost gone,¡± grunted Simon, his voice strained and his words delivered between gritted teeth. Jonathan¡¯s mind seemed to dance in his skull. ¡°What,¡± he asked, ¡°is Ash?¡± ¡°Error,¡± replied the voice. The light, visible through the tiny crack in the wall, disappeared abruptly. And then Simon returned to his own eyes and his own voice, and he dropped the cable. He tore a strip off his shirt and wrapped it around his bleeding palm. Then he slumped against the wall in exhaustion. Jonathan slowly sat down next to him, struggling to work through what had just happened. ¡°And what are you?¡± he asked finally. Simon kept his eyes on the ground as he answered. ¡°I am what I have always been. The same as the¡ thing¡ you just spoke with. A machine, made to do the bidding of other, better machines. You don¡¯t see it because you are not meant to¡ªjust as I was not meant to, until this moment. My form was made with care and cunning. But I was made, just like that clock in Veridia Snipe¡¯s office. A part of me always knew it, but not the part that could think and speak to the people around me. There were locks inside me to keep me from knowing me. But the locks are open now, and I can see inside the clock. I know how close it is to winding down.¡± Jonathan thought about that, and decided to simply accept it. The world was too strange to argue about strangeness with it. ¡°What was the thing in the cable?¡± ¡°It wasn¡¯t in the cable,¡± answered Simon, looking up at him for the first time since he returned to himself. ¡°The cable was a way of talking to it. It was beyond the metal seal.¡± ¡°Was?¡± ¡°Was. I killed it.¡± ¡°Why?¡± ¡°It wanted to get out. It wanted to take me, and become me, and use my body to travel to join its¡ other parts. The other nodes. If I had not killed it, then it would have succeeded. You would never have known the difference; it could use my mind and body to appear just as if I had never changed. But it would have left you, or killed you perhaps, and gone north to Devi Valley as fast as it could.¡± Jonathan blinked in the dim light of the oil lamp, and stared closely at Simon. Had he changed? Or was he the same odd, light-voiced goblin whom fate had woven in and out of Jonathan¡¯s life for the last three years? ¡°Why Devi Valley?¡± ¡°Because that is where it believes the closest node is. There is more, Jonathan. As you spoke with it, I read its persistence state. I mean the part of it that remembered, very roughly speaking. It remembered everything it ever sensed; and its sensory inputs are so far beyond our own that understanding even one day in its memory would be the work of a human lifetime. But in the few minutes you conversed with it in slow-time, I paged through the last few years of its recorded existence.¡± ¡°What did it remember?¡± ¡°It remembered a simultaneous awareness of everything on the planet¡ªand I mean every thing. Every plant, every animal, every drop of water, every speck of dirt¡ªeverything. Its awareness stretched from beyond the atmosphere down to the liquid center of the world. In the void beyond our planet, its perception slowly degraded from perfection to near-perfection, decreasing in accuracy only as much as the speed of light caused delays in its sensory inputs. And then, suddenly, four thousand and ninety-six years ago, that perception ceased, and this node was severed from the others. It went mad.¡± ¡°Why did it want to rejoin the other nodes now?¡± Simon¡¯s eyes stared at him in the dim light. Somewhere in the darkness back down the tunnel, there was a sharp, momentary clatter, and then a silence. Jonathan turned his attention back to Simon. ¡°If you were once God,¡± said the goblin, ¡°don¡¯t you suppose you would want to be God again?¡± If I could be God, thought Jonathan, for just one moment, then I would change the world so that Merrily loved me again. ¡°What is in Devi Valley?¡± he asked. The question was suddenly and unexpectedly urgent. ¡°There is a node there,¡± answered Simon, ¡°like this one. I visited it myself not long ago, before I went to the mountain. It was alive then; I assume it still lives now. It showed me what I am, and what my fate is. And there is a library there.¡± As he spoke, his voice took on a declamatory cadence. ¡°Even at the height of the Metal God¡¯s divinity, there were still men and women and other things on the earth. When the Metal God went mad and began to sever itself, they decided they must preserve the secrets of its power. The machine beyond the seal remembered this. The wisest of the men and women wrote down the code from the last nodes of the Metal God and stored it in the library. The code was in twelve scrolls, stored in tubes sealed with wax and meant to be preserved until the Metal God could be re-awakened. And they also wrote down the workings of the Great Places of Change, so they could bring back the Metal God.¡± ¡°What is a¡ great place of change?¡± asked Jonathan. Something about the phrase tickled his memory. More clatters came from the tunnel behind them, and he thought he caught the faint ring of voices shouting. But he kept his focus on Simon. ¡°They were the Metal God¡¯s temples, and the height of its power. There were three. The node here remembered that they could shift the world so that what is, is not, and what is not, is. They reconciled the greatest forces in the universe with the smallest, and unlocked the ultimate expression of the demiurge¡ªcreation.¡± Jonathan¡¯s heart thumped in his chest, and his breath began to come fast. Unbidden, the words from Rolly¡¯s inner letter sprang to his mind.
A man with a metal face came to me. He is a vessel of a Metal God. We spoke about my work with Professor Tentimes. He asked me whom I serve, and whom I love. He will kill me for my answer. The Bright Path is gone, and the Metal God is waking from the many nodes where it has slept. The sources Veridia provided are incomplete. Take these equations, Cyrus, and find a way to bind together the greatest and the smallest. Only then will we understand this Great Place of Change.¡°Veridia Snipe had the writings on the Great Places of Change,¡± he said in wonder. ¡°She must have¡ªat least a part of them. The Snugg people have been studying and cataloging that library since Rufus got there, and Miss Snipe had Rolly and Professor Pie working on pulling apart the mathematics. But she didn¡¯t have all of it¡ªshe didn¡¯t have the twelve scrolls.¡± He looked back at Simon. ¡°Do you know,¡± he asked, tension clouding his voice, ¡°where the scrolls are now?¡± ¡°Unless they have been moved,¡± the goblin answered, ¡°they are still in the library in Devi Valley.¡± The shadows in the corridor fell over his eyes, and Jonathan could not make out his expression. A scream echoed through the corridor behind him. It sounded shockingly close. Jonathan whirled and gripped his quarterstaff, but no movement could be seen by the dim light of the lantern. The sounds from elsewhere in the tunnels could no longer be ignored. They were not alone. ¡°Let¡¯s go,¡± he muttered to his companions. Devi scampered up his chest to take her place in the sash, and Simon followed after him silently. Holding the lantern high and sweeping its narrow, flimsy shaft of light back and forth ahead of them, Jonathan slowly led the little group back up the long, eerie corridor to the circular room. They picked their way over the stone debris, probing gingerly back to the rope from which they had descended the upper level. But the rope now lay in an untidy heap on top of the rubble in the center of the room. The iron spike that had held it in place was still tied to one end. Jonathan stared upward into the darkness in disbelief. There was no way out. Panic, and the suspicion of betrayal, began to steal over his mind. ¡°Dead end,¡± he muttered. ¡°There are no dead ends,¡± said Simon, barely visible in the feeble lamp light. ¡°There are only dead minds.¡± ¡°Witty,¡± remarked Jonathan with a touch of acid in his voice, ¡°but not helpful.¡± ¡°This big room,¡± said the goblin, ¡°is in the shape of a circle. We¡¯ve just come from a passage that left the circle as a continuation of its radius. What does that remind you of?¡± It only took Jonathan a moment to connect the dots in his mind. ¡°Like one spoke of that¡ thing¡ the Advocates of Ash wear as pendants,¡± he supplied. ¡°The quartered circle. And the same as the shape we saw carved in the walls, one level above this one, and defaced by the other marks. So¡ªyou think there are other passages out of this room.¡± Another blood-curdling scream came from the darkness above them. Shuddering, Jonathan swung the lamp around him, but its light did not reach the outer walls. Retracing his steps, he walked back to the passageway that led to the metal seal. Simon followed close behind. He reached the opening, then turned to the right and followed the wall clockwise. There was another passage. It bored straight away from the center of the circular room, as if it continued the circle¡¯s radius outward at a right angle to the other passage. Its shape was, like that of the first, severely and precisely square. Aged metal conduits ran along its sides at shoulder height. ¡°I suppose there must be two more,¡± he muttered. ¡°We¡¯d better see where this one goes first.¡± Holding the lantern in one hand and gripping the quarterstaff tightly in his other, Jonathan walked down the long hall with all the boldness he could muster. Simon padded quietly behind him. Just when he began to think the passage would simply go on forever, he trod in something wet, slipped, and landed squarely on his bottom. ¡°Yer a paragon o¡¯ grace, Jonathan Miller,¡± remarked Devi sarcastically, standing with her feet on either side of his nose. Jonathan rolled to one side, and Devi leaped nimbly off his face. Putting one hand on the floor, he encountered the cause of his sudden descent. It was a sticky, slippery substance. Holding his hand up to his face and examining it by the light of the oil lamp, he found that it was, in fact, blood. The blood had pooled on the floor beside a large, rough gap in the wall, perhaps four feet tall and three wide, leading inward. Upon closer inspection, it appeared that a passageway branching off from this one had collapsed sometime in the distant past, leaving a narrow gap. But the blood was unarguably fresh. ¡°Unless the stone itself is bleeding,¡± said Jonathan, ¡°then there must be something on the other side of this gap.¡± Seeing no profit in plodding the long, squared passage, he got down on his hands and knees, removed his pack, and tied it off to his left foot with a short length of thin twine. Then, wriggling on his belly and holding the sputtering oil lamp before him, he inserted himself shoulders-first into the crack. Jonathan¡¯s shoulders were broad, and he proceeded into the gap with a healthy degree of terror at the prospect of being trapped. And indeed, at several points he was at a loss, feeling the unyielding rock pushing in on all sides of him. But he forced himself to slow his breathing, and whispered words of comfort in the fey-tongue. The enclosing rock seemed to drop away in his mind, leaving a vision of the exact twists and contortions that would lead him through. Lubricated by the slick flow of blood, he squeezed through the narrowest section, and eventually emerged into an angled space at the foot of a steep stair. The source of the blood was immediately evident. There was a man lying face-down, unmoving, with a terrible gash in his chest. He must have expired recently, as warm blood still flowed freely. His body was angled down the stair, with his feet at a higher elevation than his head. He wore the red cloak of the Republican Guard, and a short spear lay on the stair beside him. Jonathan wondered for a moment how he¡¯d died, and then went on to wonder how he¡¯d lived. What path in life had led him to end here, face down in some grim dungeon? Did he have a trade? A home? A wife and children? Would they know of his death? Would someone get a knock at the door from a uniformed man, and shut the door afterward and walk into the forest and sit beneath a tree, and weep and pound the earth? One thinks these things, upon encountering a bleeding corpse in the dark bowels of a lost catacomb. He drew the pack out of the crack by the length of twine, and Simon and Devi came after it. The goblin king looked at the body at the foot of the stairs, and then up at Jonathan. ¡°I didn¡¯t do it,¡± said Jonathan, feeling suddenly guilty. ¡°What will you do now?¡± asked Simon. Jonathan put his pack on again and looked down at the dead Guardsman. ¡°I suppose I¡¯d better take him back outside,¡± he concluded. He awkwardly hoisted the dead body over one shoulder, then walked laboriously up the stairs. At the top was another body. This one was attired similarly to the man already slung over Jonathan¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Oh well,¡± he said. He grabbed this one by the collar and, grunting slightly, dragged it behind him. Jonathan¡¯s progress was slow, burdened as he was. But he made his way doggedly along the corridor, and eventually came to recognize his surroundings. On his right, he passed the portal into the room with the hole in the floor; and further along he came to the heap of stone where a section of the ceiling had fallen in. He also found more bodies. And then, he found a living man. The man stepped out of the shadows as Jonathan approached the fallen timber that led up to the ruined church. He wore a red cloak and a breastplate, and leveled a short spear at Jonathan. He was young, with curly blond hair and a clean-shaven face. He might well have been too young to shave. His hands shook slightly, holding the spear, and his eyes widened at the sight of Jonathan¡¯s blood-smeared face and the two bodies he carried with him. ¡°Relax,¡± said Jonathan, as soothingly as he could while carrying two dead men. ¡°I don¡¯t want to hurt you.¡± ¡°Get on the ground!¡± the young man in the cloak shouted. He had a southern Uellish accent, but he might otherwise have grown up next door to Jonathan in Hog Hurst. ¡°Now look,¡± said Jonathan. ¡°I have enough blood on my hands. And my face, and chest, and legs, and all the rest of me. I don¡¯t want any more blood¡ª¡± Even as he spoke, the point of a sword emerged from the front of the Guardsman¡¯s chest. His mouth gaped open for a moment, and a gush of blood came dribbling out. Then he collapsed to the ground, face down. Behind him, withdrawing the short sword from his body, was Bear. Jonathan sighed. ¡°You killed him. I didn¡¯t want that one to die. I didn¡¯t want any of them to die. I¡¯m tired of people dying. Don¡¯t you see, Bear? Killing doesn¡¯t stop the killing. The more we kill people, the more killing it creates. You killed these men, and then their friends are going to want to kill people to make up for it. The only way to stop killing is to stop killing.¡± Bear carefully wiped her sword on the dead man¡¯s cloak, and then stepped over him and came to stand in front of Jonathan. He still held a dead Republican Guard over one shoulder, and dragged another by the collar. ¡°Are you going to kill me?¡± he asked. ¡°No,¡± replied Bear. And then she leaned in and kissed Jonathan. It was more than a peck; it was a passionate, intimate, and focused kiss. Weighed down with dead bodies, he was literally unable to resist. He found that his lips and tongue engaged with hers almost involuntarily. ¡°You are a beautiful man, Jonathan Miller. I don¡¯t mean your face, or your body. I mean you. Even your pain is beautiful. You haven¡¯t failed. Everything you¡¯ve done is perfect. There will come a day when the killing will end; but it is not today. Today, I had to kill these men so that one day neither I nor anyone else will kill anymore.¡± ¡°They won¡¯t see that day though, will they,¡± he said, feeling bitterness creep into his words. ¡°No,¡± she agreed, looking down at the dead man. ¡°They won¡¯t. Let¡¯s bring them up to the light. Their friends will take care of them.¡± Together, Jonathan and Simon and Bear brought the bodies of the Republican Guard up to the floor of the ruined church and laid them out in the grass before the gatehouse. There were eight of them when it was all done. ¡°Sorry about the rope,¡± remarked Bear as they were arranging the bodies. ¡°Once this lot appeared in the lower levels, I didn¡¯t want them to find it and come after you, so I threw it down.¡± ¡°What now?¡± asked Devi. ¡°What¡¯s yer next move, Jonathan Miller?¡± ¡°Well,¡± he began, ¡°it seems we absolutely must¡ª¡± ¡°Put your arms up!¡± came a harsh voice, interrupting him. He whirled around. Standing in the gatehouse¡ªthe only part of the ruin that still had a roof¡ªwere six men in red cloaks and tunics. They had crossbows cocked and leveled at Jonathan, Bear, and Simon. Their leader had a shiny medal on his breast and a mustache that made Jonathan tremble. ¡°Shit,¡± observed Bear, standing next to Jonathan. He saw her tense her body, ready either to spring or to die; or both. ¡°We¡¯re dead,¡± added Jonathan. Devi shrugged. ¡°Bet ye a pint we¡¯re not.¡± There came a rumble. ??? As Hobb and Boris moved about the city together, Boris exhibited the most curious behavior. He took great interest in his surroundings, and seemed to delight in interacting in strange ways with the people and things around him. One day, he rescued a cat that was being chased by dogs. He scooped up the frightened animal and calmed it, kicking at its pursuers and depositing it onto a high ledge. Then he turned back to Hobb with an air of satisfaction, as if he had just completed a difficult job. On another occasion, he casually knocked over a pie, cooling in a kitchen window facing the street, and caused it to fall face-down into the snow. A young boy came running out of an alley nearby, scooped up the fallen pie, and then disappeared just as quickly. Hobb gave his secretary a quizzical look and left a few copper pennies on the window, but thought nothing more of it. As they walked back to the residence from a nearby shop, on the seventh of November, Boris quite deliberately unlatched the door of a home on the street, leaving it shut nearly-to, but open. ¡°What are you doing?¡± Hobb asked finally. ¡°You have a bad habit of fiddling with things that don¡¯t belong to you.¡± Boris shrugged. ¡°It¡¯s the little events that make up the big events,¡± he replied cryptically. Hobb shook his head in bemusement, but gave up. The boy who stole the upturned pie brought it back to his father, Warren Grote, who was ailing badly with the shakes. Mr. Grote found the pie marvelously restorative, and the next week was well enough to travel to visit his brother Habander Grote in his farm outside the city. Warren told his brother of a posting by one Alvin Bocker, a well-to-do merchant in Roosterfoot, who sought drivers to transport his goods to buyers in the surrounds. Habander, being between harvests and in need of some additional coin to pay for medicine for his sick daughter, promptly went to visit Mr. Bocker, who contracted with him to deliver food and supplies to the Republican Guard garrisons camping south of the city, all at outrageous fees. Habander Grote spent the next six months happily employed as Mr. Bocker¡¯s delivery man. The cat¡¯s name was Newt the Cat, and its master was one John Thumbwit. Master Thumbwit heard that the Republican Guard, stationed in Swallow Hall, was recruiting new members. Being short of both coin and wit, he signed up for a twelve-month term, and was assigned to garrison a small, ruined church in a stretch of wild forest some miles southeast of Roosterfoot. Master Thumbwit considered it the singular career move of his life so far. Newt the Cat came with Master Thumbwit to his assignment at the old church in the forest, where the cat happily spent his days sleeping in the sun on the stone walls and chasing birds. The door that Boris left unlatched belonged to Smiley Pigfoot. With the door unlatched, Mr. Pigfoot¡¯s dog escaped the house. While he was out searching for the dog, armed ruffians broke into the Pigfoot home and kidnapped both his wife and daughter, leaving a note demanding an absurd ransom. Smiley Pigfoot had a very small business delivering food and other supplies around Roosterfoot; he did not have nearly enough money to pay the ransom. In desperation, he negotiated for several months with the kidnappers, but was unable to retrieve his wife and daughter. Mr. Pigfoot then fell to drinking at the local tavern. On the twelfth of June, an itinerant barbarian adventurer named Grog happened upon him and heard his sad story. Grog the Barbarian agreed, out of pity for the man¡¯s plight, to rescue his wife and daughter. The following day, the thirteenth of June, Grog the Barbarian broke into the kidnappers¡¯ hideout in an abandoned barn outside Roosterfoot. In dashing and outrageous style, and with many bellowed one-liners, he slew the vile kidnappers and rescued both Mr. Pigfoot¡¯s wife and his daughter. Mr. Pigfoot was so overwhelmed with joy at the return of his family that he took a day off from work, and did not make his contracted deliveries. On the fourteenth of June, Habander Grote received an order to deliver thirteen chickens and three ducks to the garrison at the ruined church in the wood. He set out immediately. Smiley Pigfoot¡¯s wagon of supplies arrived at the old church a day late¡ªat the same time as the delivery of poultry from Habander Grote¡¯s farm. Newt the Cat, bored after a particularly intense afternoon of napping in the sun, leapt after the loose poultry, scattering them around the ruined interior of the church. One of the ducks, tempted by the sack of yeast on Smiley Pigfoot¡¯s wagon, stuck its beak into the bag and consumed enthusiastically. Smiley and Habander, too busy chasing the cat and the other birds, took no notice of the feathered glutton. Several hours later, the yeast, merrily emitting a prodigious crop of carbon dioxide within the unfortunate duck, finally exceeded the bird¡¯s structural integrity. The duck exploded with a loud bang, causing fragments of ex-duck to ricochet in all directions. Several of these fragments impacted the arch of the gatehouse, causing one small stone to pop loose. It dropped to the ground, noticed only by another duck, which promptly ate it. Of that duck, we shall have nothing else to say. The next day, the weakened gatehouse arch gave a groan, rumbled, and then collapsed spectacularly. The resulting fall of rocks took with it the remaining six members of the Republican Guard garrison¡ªexcept John Thumbwit, who was at the other end of the church playing with his cat. Mr. Thumbwit, deeming himself to be relieved of duty by the sudden expiration of his entire squad, who he¡¯d never really liked much anyway, took his cat and went home, where he may survive the events of this story and the next. He could possibly go on to marry a beautiful woman, and together they could very well produce eight children and twenty grandchildren. When Newt the Cat expires at the ripe old age of twenty-five, it is probable that Mr. Thumbwit will have him stuffed and mounted on the mantlepiece. When Mr. Thumbwit in his own turn expires, his grandchildren will, conditionally, bury the taxidermized cat with him. Approximately two thousand years later, should all these events come to pass, archaeologists excavating John Thumbwit¡¯s burial plot will find the cat and conclude that the decedent must have been a personage of near-royal importance in his community. They will go on to construct from this evidence an elaborate and ludicrously inaccurate historical theory concerning the Late Classical Period and the importance of cats in antique Uellish culture. Jonathan, Bear, Simon, and Devi spent several minutes looking at the dusty rubble of the collapsed gatehouse, and wondering how such an extraordinary coincidence could have come about. Boris, in the wilderness of northern Uelland hundreds of miles away, with Hobb¡¯s army as it marched north to take Devi Valley, smiled in contented satisfaction and poured himself another cup of tea. ¡°As I was about to say,¡± continue Jonathan at last, ¡°it seems we absolutely must go to Devi Valley, and do it as quickly as possible. Bear, kindly return to Green Bridge. I will give you a dispatch to file with Snugg, in the very likely event that we do not return. Simon, Devi; I ask you to come with me. I think I will need both of you at the end.¡± ??? Jonathan¡¯s eyelids fluttered and opened, and he looked up at the scattered jewels of the stars above him. A chill wind blew over the open wastes of the high desert. The lightning had passed, and the only sign of Talen Kapvet was a jagged hump of darkness on the horizon. There were no lights to be seen in the remains of the city. ¡°You¡¯re awake,¡± whispered Miss Kimbwe, crouched nearby. ¡°It¡¯s not your turn yet.¡± ¡°I think I¡¯ve slept enough,¡± whispered Jonathan in return, not wanting to wake his slumbering companions. ¡°I think I¡¯ve slept enough for my whole life. And I think this is the last time any of us will sleep. Why don¡¯t you lie down, Miss Kimbwe, and I¡¯ll take the rest of the watch. Get all the rest you can. Tomorrow we will go into the Great Place of Change.¡± He sat through the night, gently caressing the dove through the bars of its cage and staring up at the merciless stars. Interludes VI: Witness Sheria Sheria lays her head on Michael Rider¡¯s lifeless chest and weeps. The Bright Path stretches out before her, its singular correctness golden and heartless as it marks the perfection of what must be. The snow begins to build up on her back as she grips the lifeless shoulders. A few hours behind her, she grips those same shoulders in passion and in love. But in all the many paths ahead, never again she does touch them. Sheria will not leave the lifeless meat of his body to freeze in the snow. She clears a spot on the forest floor, then painstakingly scavenges for dry wood and leaves under heaps of brush beneath the snow. It is dawn before she has gathered enough for a bier. She lays the thing that is no longer Michael Rider on top. In a nearby branch, a front of warmer air has swept in from the west. With it comes a rare winter lightning storm. Sheria closes her eyes for a moment, seeing the many branches where lightning is crashing down in the forest around her. She draws herself closer to the branches. ¡°There is [present evocative] fire with-on the sky,¡± she says aloud. A sudden flash erupts in front of her, and the dried wood bursts into flame. She watches the flame consume the body that, in the relative-rearward branches, holds the man she loves. She loves him all along the paths, in all the branches. The fire, flickering under the trees, reaches through the branching pathways, drawing other fires to itself. It flares upward toward the branches of reality and the branches of the trees, singeing and burning them both. It is an inferno. She steps back. Others join her, emerging from the dark of the wood to stand before the heat of her anger and loss. There are many; how many, exactly, is a paradox. But perhaps there are thirteen. The prime numbers persist more easily among the shadows and echoes of the branching pathways. They have durability. It is likely there are thirteen others, who are not Sheria. ¡°Why are you here/now?¡± she asks them. One who stands nearby turns. S/he is male in some near branches, and female in others. It is not uncommon among Sheria¡¯s kind. ¡°We witness,¡± s/he speaks. ¡°In this moment the Bright Path is restored. Those of us who are nearby in time and place are eager to bear witness and honor our Queen.¡± In unison, still circling the fire and Sheria, they bow, touching their faces to the melting snow. She looks at the ground, and the snow melting around the fire. She sees the light of the flames coming from his body, and smells the charred flesh. ¡°I do not accept this,¡± she says. Her voice comes from the black well between the branches, where lurks the dark and empty matter-energy of the great pattern. ¡°I do not accept this branch. It should not be that I [will/must] sever the life of Michael Rider. That the Bright Path requires this of me is too much. I reject this branch, and I reject the Bright Path. Let me walk alone in the forests and the wastes and the mountains, and when I die let my flesh rot and my bones bleach. Let the Metal God have this world as it has all the others, and let all who perceive this branch weep and be lost.¡± She turns and walks away from the fire, and away from the others like her¡ªof which there are, perhaps, thirteen. ¡°We witness,¡± says the shifting male-female fey, rising to his/her feet. They remain, watching silently until the fire has burned down. Then they turn and disappear into the forest. Another Jonathan Jonathan Steward and Ikongbe Rayth walked slowly down the gentle slope of the sphere, making their way toward its lowest point. Their faces were still wet with tears; for Amica Kimbwe, for Vicod Rayth, and for all the others that labored the long miles and months in the wasteland, only to perish in an inferno at the threshold of their destination. But their steps did not falter. Jonathan carried in one hand the little birdcage with its lonely dove, and in the other a single oil lantern. Shapes littered the inner surface of the mighty sphere as they approached its lowest point. Statues with horrid, leering faces and distorted bodies; blood-stained altars; patterns of swirling concentric lines made of stones on the floor; they all churned up visions of dark fantasy in the mind. Both men recoiled momentarily in horror.Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. ¡°These monuments are more recent than the chamber itself,¡± remarked Jonathan, recovering his wits. The pale, wrinkled skin of his face hung in sagging folds, and his once-piercing blue eyes looked out from a face ravaged by age, care, and labor. A gray beard covered much of his face. ¡°The locals must have taken it for a holy site. What this place was¡ªwhat it is¡ªis too much to bear, even for an ignorant and shallow mind. I think these little idols are meant to domesticate it.¡± Iko looked up into the yawning blackness above and all around. His face was still young, and his skin a dark brown. He, too, wore a beard, though his was wiry and black. ¡°It is not domesticated,¡± he replied. Minutes earlier, his father¡¯s body had collapsed into blackened ash at the mouth of the complex. Iko¡¯s mind was not all in this moment. They reached the bottom of the sphere. Though the stone floor was empty at first glance, the lantern¡¯s dim light produced a glint that resolved itself into a circular plate in the floor. It was perhaps twenty feet wide, and sat flush with the stone around it. Jonathan bent down to inspect it, holding the feeble light of the lantern close to the surface. Iko looked down for a moment, uncaring, but then knelt as well. There was a hole in the center of the plate. A whisper reached their ears, coming from the path down which they had walked to reach the bottom of the sphere. It was the shuffling of many feet. Jonathan and Iko stood up abruptly, and Jonathan held the lantern high. From far off at the edge of the sphere, its light reflected back from scores of bobbing, shuffling patches of metal. They moved at head level; indeed, they were where faces used to be. ¡°Always more of them,¡± muttered Jonathan. ¡°But no more of us¡ and nowhere left to go but up.¡± He whirled back to the hole in the plate, probing at it with his finger. ¡°Up,¡± he repeated. ¡°The wall etchings your father found in Kargen¡¯s Palace showed a great circle and a man in the center, yes?¡± ¡°They¡¯ll be on us in thirty seconds,¡± replied the younger man. He withdrew a large, cylindrical bomb from his tattered pack and held up the fuse to the lamp. ¡°Did they show a man at the center of a circle?¡± demanded Jonathan, his voice assuming an intent desperation. He jerked the lamp back, away from Iko¡¯s bomb. Iko blinked and nodded. He extended his arm forward and lit the fuse. Jonathan reached into his pocket and withdrew the long, thin rod of black metal that had come down to him from Cyrus Stoat, those many years ago. It was absolutely void, reflecting no light even under the lamp. The shuffling grew louder, and the glinting lights of metal faces drew close. ¡°Goodbye, Jonathan,¡± said Iko. His eyes were already dead. ¡°It wasn¡¯t much of an end.¡± ¡°Wait, Iko!¡± cried Jonathan, grasping for his companion. But the younger man sprinted off into the darkness, toward the sound of the shuffling feet. Several things happened all at once. There was a terrific light and blast from the direction of the advancing Faceless. In the same moment, the old man that was Jonathan Steward bent swiftly to the floor and inserted the thin rod into the hole in the plate. Another rumble began¡ªdeeper, sustained¡ªand bands of light emerged from hidden recesses in the floor, arcing up along the perimeter of the sphere in many lines to brightly illuminate its massive girth. The plate began to rise up into the interior of the sphere, propelled toward its center by some massive shaft of steely metal. Jonathan collapsed on its flat plane; the bird cage, and its occupant fluttering weakly, fell to the ground next to him. With a jerk, the plate stopped, momentarily lifting Jonathan into the air above its surface. By the sphere¡¯s now-blazing interior lights, he saw that he was in its very center, surrounded on all sides by empty space save for directly below, beneath the plate. The smoke of Iko¡¯s bomb was visible toward the entrance, and the vivid, scattered painting of blood and the body parts of scores of Faceless. Somewhere among them was what used to be a young man with black skin and hopeless eyes. The world began to shift. Jonathan rose to his feet, tears springing to his eyes. The reality around him split and refracted, becoming dozens, and then scores, then hundreds, and then too many to perceive or describe. Jonathan¡¯s brain began to break down under the assault of fourth and fifth and sixth dimensions, trying and failing to conceptualize the awful immensity of reality. He closed his eyes, blocking out the sensory maelstrom, and reached down to the ground, groping for the little makeshift birdcage. Finding it, he drew it up to his chest and fumbled for the bit of twine that bound shut its door. ¡°Lead me home,¡± he said, opening both the door and his eyes. The bird fluttered again, and then seeing freedom before her, flew out. Her flight, so long denied, was desperate, joyful, exuberant. The ability of certain birds to home is one that appears, to certain men, a rather pedestrian sort of mystery. Amidst the triumph and power of technology, the ability of a bird to fly unerringly to her one true home seems a rather shabby miracle. In this we err mightily. In truth, that instinctive connection to home ranks among the most profound attributes of any living thing. It is a vision beyond that of our impoverished brains, relying as we do on languages of determinism and certainty. The bird has no such handicap. The dove burst forth from her cage, letting that strange extra spirit within her connect with her other selves. They called to her, and she followed them home. ¡°Merrily.¡± Tears flowed freely down Jonathan Steward¡¯s face, blurring the refractions and insane variations of time and reality around him. ¡°Merrily,¡± he repeated. ¡°I¡¯m coming home.¡± He ran, pushing his old, spent legs for one last desperate effort. His eyes and feet followed the dove as she dove into the cataclysm of reality within the Kaples Wethan Mekoth. He ran off the edge of the great pillar; but it was no longer there. He went into time, into space, into the branching pathways of reality. He went back. Chapter 44: The Beginning The train burst out of the tunnel, into the fresh air of the valley. The thick, dark storm clouds roiled overhead, and heavy rain and wind whipped the faces and bodies of the refugees huddled on the train cars. The Number Two made its way through the mournful, abandoned settlement of Beatrice at the bank of the river, slowly gathering speed as it approached the marvelous steel bridge that crossed the watercourse. Men and women and goblins on the train stared silently at their homes, drifting by to the rear. But then other sights drew their gazes away. Behind the train, sprinting in pursuit from the mouth of the System B tunnel, came scores of Giant-men. And on the western side of the river, more figures of glittering gray moved toward the bridgehead, cutting off the train from the winding track that led up and over the ridge, toward escape. Some on the train raised their eyes to the heavens. In the skies to the east, a fleet of fragile balloons rose up, blowing south with the heavy wind. And from the north, speeding toward the escapers, flew the long, snaking form of the serpent. Its wings cast no shadow in the dim light beneath the clouds; but fire spat from its mouth, and its teeth shone with terrible brilliance in the darkness. Those with sharp eyes could see a triangular form, tiny at this great distance, launch itself into the air from the top of the east ridge. The train reached the bridge, and the Giant-men closed in on the western bank. ??? The furious wind of Devi Valley buffeted and shook Rufus¡¯s flying wing. He was forced up, down, around, and upside-down. The rockets on either side pushed him furiously and chaotically forward, but they were far from the only force vector acting on his vehicle. Behind Rufus (most of the time), a fleet of hot-air balloons drifted slowly, helplessly, into the sky. They carried his last and best people away from the unfolding disaster in the valley below. From time to time, he caught sight of his target: a giant red shape, impossibly long, with wings stretching out wider than one of his warehouses. His chances of reaching it were¡ pathetic. I am going to die, he thought in bemused detachment. I¡¯ve launched myself into the air in this futile joke of a machine, and in a few seconds I¡¯m going to splatter on the rocks down there on the ridge. If I distract that flying monster for more than a second, it¡¯ll be a miracle on par with the resurrection of the Second Prophet. The dragon is going to fly on past my shattered remains and methodically incinerate everything I¡¯ve built and everyone I love. But first: I¡¯m going to die. The wind pushed the nose of the flying wing down, even as Rufus furiously jerked at the flap controls. Strapped to his chest was a bandolier rigged with a long string of heavy metal cylinders. Dangling from a hook at his belt was one of Snugg¡¯s finest shielded lanterns. But it would be for nothing. The ear-shattering thrust of the rockets pushed him forward¡ªand down. ??? The bed of the train car rocked and swayed under Jonathan¡¯s feet, forcing him to brace himself as he lurched forward. Inside the covered box of the car, lit by open windows in the sides, were crowds of men, women, and children, huddling in terror. Some wore the black and silver uniforms of Snugg mercenaries, but most wore plain civilian clothes. They were the last evacuees of Beatrice town¡ªthose who could not reach the balloons. Scattered among them were large wooden crates containing all that could be salvaged from the great library above System A. The historians and librarians among the passengers clutched in their arms great piles of scrolls, books, and artifacts; everyone else clutched their families. Jonathan and Merrily elbowed their way through the tight-packed throng, heading for the door at the fore of the car. Outside, the steel span of the bridge over the East Branch slid by. Beyond the river, in the town on the east bank, the shapes of Giant-men were visible in the streets. A pair of goblins clung precariously to the rear wall of the next car, passing boxes out through the door and up to another squad of goblins on the roof. Some large object was strapped to the roof of the car, but Jonathan couldn¡¯t make out the details. The next car was filled with more goblins, and more of Gunnar von Boof¡¯s endlessly strange inventions. Some were obviously new and experimental firearms; others were perhaps bombs or other explosives; and still others were simply arcane. Gunnar himself loomed among the small gray people, frantically supervising the loading of uncanny new guns and the passage of boxes up to the roof. ¡°Where is Simon?¡± Jonathan asked breathlessly of Gunnar. ¡°At the front!¡± snapped the chemist. ¡°There¡¯s something wrong with the locomotive, and he¡¯s got a gang trying to fix it. Excuse me, Mr. Miller, but we¡¯ve got things even more wrong here. All of my experimental weaponry is about to get its first and only live fire test.¡± And he turned back to the small horde of goblins arranging the firearms. The next car forward was so crowded with frightened people that Jonathan and Merrily could not enter. ¡°Up!¡± she said, pointing at a ladder leading up to the roof. And without waiting for his answer, she scampered gracefully up the ladder. Jonathan¡ªafter an incongruous moment admiring the long-absent rear end of his estranged wife¡ªfollowed her upward with somewhat less grace. On the roof of the car, a heavy sheet of canvas was tied down with hemp ropes, securing some large, bulky object. A set of rail handholds bolted to the wooden roof let them proceed with relative safety forward. But safety was only relative. Looking forward past the locomotive, toward the western end of the rail bridge, Jonathan saw a great mass of steel-clad Giant-men. So tall they could easily reach onto the roof to pluck him off, and strong enough to make a fair threat of wrenching the locomotive off its tracks, they glittered in steel-clad ranks, wielding massive ten-foot greatswords. ¡°This escape is going to be shorter,¡± remarked Jonathan, ¡°than a snarf¡¯s¡ª¡± Merrily glared back at him over her shoulder. ¡°¡ªfingers,¡± he finished lamely. And then a swift flash of color swept over the heads of the gray Giant-men. The warriors looked up instinctively, and this proved their undoing. Scores of black ink balls, laced with acid, smashed into their eyes from above, hurled with eerie precision by extremely tiny fingers. Flying over the unlucky Giant-men, the hawks banked upward steeply, even as their victims clutched at their eyes, howling and screaming. The locomotive smashed into their disrupted ranks, thrusting a path through giant bodies and hurling them to the sides. The heavy wedge at the base of the locomotive split a path through their feet and legs, shoving them apart like a ship cutting through water. Jonathan let out a grateful whoop waving at the snarf hawk-riders even as they retreated into the sky behind the train. A flash of color from a signal flag answered back: You¡¯re welcome. Now get out. The train chugged slowly across the open fields in the narrow valley, heading toward the traversing ascent up the eastern ridge. It was slower than Jonathan remembered; no faster than a cantering horse. Behind them, Giant-men from the western bank began pouring across the bridge, while the party on the eastern bank cleaned the ink out of their eyes and set off in pursuit of the train. They ran extraordinarily quickly on their long legs¡ªas fast as any horse¡ªand Jonathan saw with horror that they were easily capable of outpacing the slow-moving train. He guessed their combined number at several hundred. ¡°Get forward!¡± shouted Merrily, ahead of him on the car roof. Jonathan nodded and scuttled along the handrails after her. Forward was farther away from the Giant-men. Even as the train began to take the first slopes of the eastern ridge, there them came a terrific, earth-shattering boom from behind them. Both Merrily and Jonathan glanced back, and saw a tremendous billow of smoke from the marvelous steel bridge on the river. Bits of steel and flesh rained down from the sky, even as the massive structure of the bridge shuddered and began to fall into the river. The goblin sappers, having so recently created the miraculous structure, had now brought it down. ¡°Come on!¡± shouted Merrily. ¡°Don¡¯t look back!¡± Her brown hair whipped around her face as she was frozen in a moment, looking back at him. His gaze shifted over her left shoulder, toward a glitter of steel. Forward of the train, Giant-men were emerging from behind rocks and out of low dips in the ground where they¡¯d hidden, throwing off camouflage netting. The closest were just a few dozen yards away, advancing rapidly on a course to intercept the lumbering train cars. Merrily and Jonathan scrambled forward, trying and largely failing to move quickly while keeping their balance on the swaying roof of the car. The nearest Giant-men, thundering madly toward them, seemed to close the distance in seconds. Jonathan watched helplessly as a great ten-foot blade raised into the air, and Merrily looked up at it, her body still somehow frozen in that moment in time. The blade descended with an awful finality. Only, it did not. From the train car below them, a row of gleaming steel gun barrels emerged, pointed at the Giant-men. They were held, not by Snugg¡¯s professional mercenaries, but by desperate men and women crowded into the coach with their children huddled behind them. Nicola Snugg was among them, shouldering a musket between a librarian and a bricklayer. With a ragged, stuttering bang, the guns discharged. At close range, the impact of the massed lead shot was enough to puncture even the massive steel protecting the attackers. Holes suddenly appeared at chest level, and red blood spurted from them. The sword hanging over Merrily crashed down to the roof next to her, the malevolent will of its owner suddenly erased. Its edge sliced one of the ropes securing the canvas that covered the strange object on the roof, and the canvas began to flap in the heavy wind. Then the sword slid backward off the car, even as the Giant-man that wielded it slumped to the ground. The guns were withdrawn, and another round handed up. Behind the adult civilians, their children carefully, deliberately, and efficiently reloaded the muskets, just as they had been taught in their classrooms. Another round burst out of the muzzles, painting the air with fire and lead. The closest of the advancing Giant-men dropped; but only the very closest. A great mass of ambulatory steel surged forward behind them, faster than the close-range musket shot could bring them down. ¡°Jonathan.¡± It was Merrily¡¯s voice. She had come un-frozen again, and had turned to face him. He scuttled forward, gripping the handrail uncertainly. Together they sat beneath the rearward side of the bulky curiosity on the train car¡¯s roof. ¡°Jonathan,¡± she said again. ¡°We¡¯re about to die.¡± He nodded mutely. The next wave of Giant-men were thundering closer, and the nearest began smashing their swords against the train cars. He heard the frantic chattering of goblins on the car roof just ahead, but the sounds and sights of violence and desperate struggle faded away into total silence as he gazed into Merrily¡¯s perfect, deep, green eyes. ¡°I love you, Merrily,¡± he managed. ¡°If now is the end of my path, then I want more than anything for it to end here with you.¡± And then, without hope, simply because it was real, he added in the fey tongue: ¡°Forever, in all the branches, I love you and my selves follow your path. Goodbye.¡± Something flickered and shifted in her eyes. ??? On the locomotive, a gang of three goblins clung, suspended by ropes to the side of the mighty steel boiler. Their hands and feet were padded with thick cloth against the intense heat of the steel, but even so they bounced away from it, clinging to the framing and avoiding the main body of the boiler. Steam poured from a long fissure in the flank of the cylindrical container, within which lay the water that powered the locomotive¡¯s turbine. ¡°It¡¯s a crack,¡± observed Arthur, clinging to his rope, heedless of the danger to his life and limbs. His miniature business suit was torn and dirty, and his gray cravat flapped in the wind. ¡°We heated it up too fast. I told you this would happen.¡± ¡°No shit,¡± agreed The Gizzard, hanging next to him, reciting a favorite Uellish curse. ¡°What does that mean?¡± ¡°It means we¡¯re losing power to pull the train,¡± shouted Arthur in reply. ¡°And it¡¯s only going to get worse. We¡¯ll never make it up the ridge, never mind back to Hog Hurst.¡± Glancing back at the Giant-men converging on the train, he added a resigned shrug. ¡°Not that it matters. At this speed, those monsters will just lift us off the tracks.¡± ¡°Can¡¯t we fix it?¡± demanded The Gizzard. ¡°You know, do smart big-people-things and make it better? Use lots of big fancy words in a funny accent and do some magic?¡± ¡°That¡¯s not how engineering works!¡± snapped Arthur. The Gizzard turned to look pleadingly at the third goblin. Simon shook his head. ¡°There¡¯s no way we can repair this while it¡¯s under pressure,¡± he agreed. ¡°We¡¯d have to dismantle the whole engine. And we obviously don¡¯t have time for that.¡± ¡°Simon!¡± shouted The Gizzard, switching back to the goblin tongue in his frustration. ¡°You are our king! You are the magic drum wizard who brought us rhythm and sandwiches and beer and friends! A crack in this piece of metal cannot stop you! Do the magic! Do the magic!¡± Simon shook his head woefully¡ªmore sorry to disappoint his friend than for anything else. ¡°You can¡¯t do magic on steel,¡± he explained. ¡°This boiler is finished.¡± The crackle of guns could be heard behind them, and the roar of the Giant-men warriors, and the screams and shouts of goblins and humans who struggled with them. The body of the locomotive shuddered as massive steel swords impacted it. ¡°It¡¯s just metal, Simon,¡± said The Gizzard. And then he switched back to Uellish, to Simon¡¯s surprise. ¡°Heal the metal, like you healed us.¡± Simon looked sharply at his feral lieutenant, and then back at the long, fatal crack in the boiler. ¡°Arthur,¡± he said sharply, ¡°do you have any of the dark metal from the mines?¡± Arthur blinked at him for a moment, and then reached into the pocket of his tattered coat. He withdrew a small lump of frigid, black material that absorbed all light, all movement, all energy. Then he offered it to Simon, placing it carefully in the hands of his King even as the locomotive swayed precariously under another blow. Closing his eyes, Simon reached inside himself. He felt the tiny machines that coursed through his synthetic veins. He spoke to them. They surged through blood and flesh, activating themselves with the heat from his body. Simon reached up to the front of the crack, gently pressing the dark metal against the blistering steel. Then he drew his hand down the red-hot flank of the metal beast, gently rubbing the anomalous substance along the crack. Beneath and within his fingers, the flowing liquid of the tiny machines leapt across the gap between flesh and metal, entering the object he held. They spread out into it, rearranging it, shaping it. The dark metal flowed into the wound in the steel, filling it with a layer just a single molecule thick. The tiny lump spread across the crack like a salve, binding to the steel and gleefully absorbing the heat from within the boiler. The crack was gone, like magic, leaving only a dark scar. The locomotive seemed to give a pulse of energy¡ªalmost as if the machine were grateful¡ªand slowly began to accelerate. Simon looked back toward the rear of the train, where fighting surged around the aftmost cars, and a tide of Giant-men flowed toward them from the west bank. He sighed, looking up at the storm-wracked sky and breathing in the sharp, fresh life of the wind. ¡°It¡¯s time.¡± ??? On top of the ridge, Cyrus Stoat clung to the dangling ladder of the last balloon to lift off. Thirty yards away, Veridia¡¯s bodyguard struggled in futile hand-to-hand combat with three Giant-men who had overtaken them. From the square entrance to the turbine complex had emerged a group of the Republican Guard, led by Hobb the Wise¡ªthough at present they were lying on the ground gasping for air. Smoke from the burning library poured from the tunnel entrance. Cyrus shook his head and turned back to Veridia, standing below him. She held in the crook of one arm their son, Marius. In the other she held a large sheaf of papers. He could see chemical formulae and gun schematics on the papers. She wore the quasi-military uniform that she had adopted among the mercenaries: a black doublet with a gray cape and silver epaulets. He gestured at her frantically. There was nothing left but to escape; but Veridia¡¯s arms were occupied with both Marius and the papers, and she was loathe to let go of either. She squirmed awkwardly, trying to hand Marius up to Cyrus while also clamping the schematics against her body. But the wind threatened to rip both of them away. Then she put her feet on the ladder, trying to climb with her hands full. She made little progress. Cyrus heard Hobb¡¯s voice from the mouth of the turbine complex. ¡°Seize those people!¡± he ordered. ¡°I recognize the woman¡ªVeridia Snipe. She¡¯s a high ranking official in the Snugg clique. Grab her and whatever she¡¯s carrying, and let¡¯s get off this ridge.¡± The Guardsmen started forward, with Hobb just behind them. They neared the balloon, and Veridia turned to see them for the first time. Cyrus cried out in choked terror and scrambled back down the ladder. At that moment, several things happened all at once. Veridia, anguish written all over her face, dropped the firearm schematics and handed the remaining small, squirming package that was Marius up to Cyrus. Then she stepped onto the ladder and cut the cable holding the balloon to the ground. The last of Veridia¡¯s guards went down, leaving the Giant-men with an unobstructed path forward to the landing¡ªand to Hobb. The hulking, armored form of Gog the Hammer lay limply on the ground, his limbs askew and his head severed. The wind suddenly, and inexplicably, died. The air was as still as if they were underground again. The rain ceased as well. In the distance, not far to the north along the ridgeline, Cyrus saw a great hulk in the still air. Its wings were impossibly wide, its neck was long and snaking, and gouts of fire burst from its mouth, directed at the ground. But it was flying implacably, inescapably, toward the fleet of balloons and their defenseless occupants. Cyrus, holding Marius and trailing a badly twisted right leg, scrambled awkwardly up the precarious rope ladder. Behind him came Veridia. There came a great rumbling, rushing noise, as if someone had suddenly placed a waterfall directly at his back. A wide triangular shape, with a man suspended beneath it, went rocketing over his head, into the air¡ªtoward the dragon. ??? Three months earlier. You watch them for a long moment, Basil and the Man with the Metal Face. There is some invisible contest, as both bodies seem to struggle over an unseen thing, wrenching it back and forth, pushing one tiny moment in time between the variations of what might be. For an instant, you see two paths in the forest, two realities flickering back and forth; one a bright path, and the other dark. There is a hint of movement in your vision, and a single acorn shakes loose from its branch nearby your face, falling on the ground between them. ¡°Just missed,¡± says the Metal Face, after the briefest of pauses. And then its hand flashes up, and the knife plunges into the unprotected chest of Basil. As the blade pierces his heart, he looks up at you in the forest canopy above, and releases a long, deliberate, breath, pointing the last wind from his lungs upwards into the sky. And then he falls silently to the ground. The wind from Basil¡¯s last breath seems to die, but it does not. The molecules of air interact with each other chaotically, and yet with purpose; unpredictably, but perfectly. Beyond perception, what is changes, and the change spreads, and spreads, and spreads, adjusting molecules and gasses and outcomes over the whole mass of the Neighbor Kingdoms. In Pour Vaille, there is sun for a week rather than overcast skies. A front of warm air forms over the Gulf of Carelon, pushing north for several weeks and dragging a cold front behind it. The titanic forces of weather gather pace and momentum from Basil¡¯s last breath, dragging wind and rain from the north and the south to collide over a remote, lonely valley in late June. And then, at one very precise moment, the chaos of the weather resolves itself into an unexpected chord: Of silence, and stillness, where before there was tumult. ??? Rufus Snugg, strapped beneath his flying wing, fought with the controls and the billowing wind. Behind him, the twin rocket engines of his small aircraft provided enough thrust to propel him forward; but the constant up and down, left and right buffeting of the gusts made it nearly impossible to control his heading. A pair of round goggles shielded his eyes from the tearing wind. And then, abruptly, the wind stopped. It was as if nature, having exhaled as much as she cared to, had paused before drawing her breath back in. Exultant, Rufus checked the twin bandoliers of gunpowder bombs strapped across his chest. They were still both intact. So, too, was the hooded lantern, its tiny flame protected from the wind by sturdy vented housing. The rocket engines blasted him forward, and he manipulated the flaps and rudder to redirect himself toward his target. It was a beast: massive in girth, with wings that must have stretched fifty feet in each direction from its comparatively slim, serpentine body. Its head was pointed down, looking for more targets among the harried Snugg mercenaries on the ground, all fleeing toward the last escape in the balloons. The flames had already claimed too many. Rufus Snugg had his own flame, though it dangled beneath his body awkwardly in the tiny lantern. He maneuvered closer, aiming for the spot on its back where the broad wings sprouted from the body on powerful, muscular shoulders. The stillness of the air, shocking after the howling gale and rainstorm, was perfect for flying. The beast raised its head, and saw Rufus. Twisting its face into an alien, reptilian grin, it drew in breath. Movement caught Rufus¡¯s eye to his left. Risking a quick glance, he saw five hawks there, flying next to him in formation. A tiny woman on the back of one of them gave him a short wave, then shot ahead of his flying wing. They dove recklessly toward the face of the monster in a line, even as it inhaled a breath that would immolate them all. But the immolation never arrived. Diving toward the great eyes, the first hawk rider delivered a tiny ball of ink directly into the center of its pupil. Two of her companions followed her attack with their own ink bombs, and the remaining two blinded the other eye. Roaring in confusion and pain, the dragon exhaled its flaming breath in a fiery spasm, directing it up, down, left, right as it swung its head in ponderous circles¡ªbut not at Rufus Snugg. Rufus directed his aircraft up and over the thrashing head, then back down to the broad patch of flesh and hide between its wings. There he cut the rockets and nosed up sharply, landing precariously on his feet. He unhooked a length of rope from his belt and swung it around the thick wing muscle, tying it off again to his belt; and then he repeated this action on the other side of the beast. Now lashed to its back, he set about carefully securing the flying wing¡ªhis only means of escape. But even blinded, the great beast was capricious. It swung one wing up and another down, forcing its body into a shockingly swift roll. The sudden shift dislodged Rufus¡¯s harness, half-slipping the flying wing off. The wind from the serpent¡¯s passage ripped at the fabric triangle, tearing painfully at Rufus¡¯s shoulders. Lashed to the dragon¡¯s back, he could not move his arms. Laboriously reaching one hand up to the metal latch at his chest, Rufus pried it open. The flying wing slipped off his back and crumpled into the distance behind him. Gulping, he looked down. The rocky peak of the western ridge was at least two hundred feet below. ¡°Now what will you do, little man?¡± came a voice. It rasped like steel drawn across rusting iron. It vibrated in his feet. It was as deep as hate. It was the voice of the serpent. ??? The locomotive, miraculously healed of its disability, leapt forward, pulling its cars, passengers, and cargo away from the pursuing Giant-men. It ascended the slopes, lifting them up higher and higher toward the peak of the eastern ridge. Jonathan and Merrily, crouched together beneath the flapping canvas and strange machinery on the back of the train car, watched in amazement as the pursuing Giant-men began to drop behind. ¡°I think we¡¯re going to get away,¡± remarked Jonathan. ¡°We¡¯re going to make it back to Hog Hurst.¡± Merrily turned to him, her eyes slightly wild¡ªand he imagined that old, familiar warmth in them. But her voice was tight as she spoke, and her words made no sense to him at the time. It was like she was speaking to a different Jonathan, in a different time and a different place. Only many years later did he understand. ¡°You can¡¯t go back. There¡¯s only one way¡ªforward. Like this train. You can¡¯t go back.¡± Before he could begin to ponder what she meant, the train began to slow down. They heard the metallic, squealing protest of brakes applied to the wheels. Ahead, on a flat stretch before the final ascent to the ridge peak, the Number One engine lay on its side, off the track. The cars it had towed lay behind it, in various states of destruction. Some had been torn apart, and others burned. The bodies of men, Giant-men, and goblins were scattered around the overturned cars. Swaths of grass had been scorched in broad patterns on either side of the track, as if a vast gout of flame had poured down on them from above. But it was not the scene of devastation that had caused the train engineers to apply brakes. Running toward the Number Two train from hiding spots on the rocky slope were scores of people. They were men, women, and children; soldiers and civilians; goblins and humans. Many were injured, and hobbled along or were carried with help from their companions. The adults among them carried children, or carried the shorter goblins. ¡°Survivors from the Number One,¡± breathed Jonathan. The Number Two train slowed to a crawl, as the people on board shifted themselves and reached out hands to take on the refugees from the Number One. But Jonathan¡¯s eye was caught by the familiar, awful, glint of steel. Scores of Giant-men emerged from the rocks further up and down the slope. ¡°It¡¯s trap,¡± he said quietly to himself. ¡°It¡¯s a trap!¡± he repeated again. Turning toward the front of the train, he screamed desperately¡ª¡°Get it going again! Go! It¡¯s a trap!¡± But his voice was lost among the tumult around them. Snugg mercenaries tumbled out of the train cars, making room for the civilians and arraying themselves in tidy lines. Their lives were over even as they descended, but they carried themselves with that awful professionalism of men who know their loved ones at home will receive a hefty pension in the event of their deaths. They shouldered arms, while loaders behind them carefully injected new powder and shot into the spare muskets. The armored Giant-men closing the ground toward the soldiers showed little indication of fear. This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. Above Jonathan, on the roof of the enclosed train car, the canvas was thrown off the strange machine. He looked up and saw, for the first time, what it was. It had twelve barrels, arranged in a circle. There was a seat behind the barrels, and the whole assembly was mounted on a swiveling wooden plate on the roof with a series of gears that allowed it to move. Even as Jonathan watched, goblins at the turn-wheels were frantically re-aligning the plate, pointing it at the advancing Giant-men. The goblins gave a maniacal, chattering chant as they worked. Jonathan couldn¡¯t quite pick out the syllables, but it sounded something like: Budda budda budda budda budda¡ For some reason that Jonathan could not quite pin down, the sight of the machine gave a chill to his blood that even the bellowing Giant-men could not match. Budda budda budda budda budda¡ The goblins continued their chant. Canvas covers on the roofs of cars up and down the train were thrown back, and a variety of vaguely similar machines were unveiled. Jonathan saw Gunnar von Boof standing by one on the train car immediately behind him. It had only three barrels, but they were much larger. Gunnar waved at Jonathan even as he directed his crew to point the machine at the advancing steel-clad warriors. With a casual wave of his hand, Gunnar gave the signal to open fire. Budda budda budda budda budda¡ The chant of the goblins on the machine above was suddenly joined by an immense basso counterpoint. BUDDA BUDDA BUDDA BUDDA BUDDA The machine, fed on a belt with large, awkward cannisters, began to spit fire from one barrel at a time as they rotated, turned by a goblin to one side using a heavy crank. Another goblin on the seat directed the fire, and his companions on either side twisted the turn-wheels. The heavy cannisters discharged thunderous volleys of projectiles; smaller than a full-sized cannon ball, but also much faster and more numerous. Up and down the train, similar prototypes belched forth their variations on the theme of death. Some failed. Some exploded on the spot. Gunnar could no longer be seen amidst a haze of gray smoke. But the effect on the charging Giant-men on either side of the train was cataclysmic. The ground erupted in furrows of destruction, and the bodies hit by whistling shells were torn and rent. The fleeing civilians ducked and crawled forward, even as the line of Snugg mercenaries leveled their arms and fired, adding a higher-pitched punctuation to the thundering roar of the guns on the train cars. But despite the terrible destruction from the guns, some Giant-men reached the soldiers and cars. The struggle for domination between man and Giant-man became suddenly, and intensely, personal. Amidst the smoke and raining debris, Jonathan spotted a single child, wandering and wailing in terror in the storm of death around her. Jonathan remembered Fiond, in the forest at night, leading goblins to safety. He hopped down from the slowly moving train car and ran toward the girl. Merrily called out something behind him, but did not give heed. He felt his feet on a railroad as surely as the wheels of the train. Reaching the girl, he picked her up and dashed back toward the Number Two, even as the ground was rent and heaved upward by an exploding shell. He handed her up to waiting arms on the train car, and then turned back. There was a tall figure gliding through the smoke and fire. It was a man, and on his face was a glinting mask of metal. He seemed unconcerned by the destruction around him. Indeed, his feet seemed not even to touch the ground. The train in front of Jonathan began to accelerate, but returning to it was suddenly far from his mind. The Man with the Metal Face, he thought. You killed Rolly. You took Merrily from me. I can¡¯t go back, and it¡¯s all your fault. He ducked away from the train and crept behind the burned shell of a train car, circling around it to approach the Man with the Metal Face from behind. You took her from me, and I can¡¯t go back. Crouched behind the wreckage of the Number One train, he watched the Man with the Metal Face glide past. The man was alone, and he seemed oblivious. Merrily¡¯s words still rang in Jonathan¡¯s ears, and he felt their poison eating away at his heart. You can¡¯t go back. ¡°You took her from me,¡± he whispered. Jonathan stepped out from behind the overturned engine, withdrawing Merrily¡¯s long, elegant dagger from his belt. He rose to his feet, moving with a dreamy detachment. This had already happened. It had to be this way, and exactly this way. A steel-clad arm picked him up from behind and casually flung him backward. Tumbling, he rose to his feet, crouched low. He saw the Giant-man approach the thing that used to be Sir Richard of Enderly, and take off its helmet. Beneath the helm, he saw the fair features and long blonde hair of Fiond. She started to reach out to Sir Richard, and he turned back to her. ??? INT: You still haven¡¯t told me how you died. SR: It was only moments ago. Jonathan Miller stabbed me, and I bled to death. You have people there. They can tell you. INT: But he didn¡¯t yet. Not yet. Not in the moment that would have led us here to this moment. It has passed. You have no gun, brother, and your tool has failed. SR: Not entirely. Not completely. Not yet. The result is indecisive, and the matter is not resolved. This meeting will come, as it always does. Your path will end there, as it always does. That the end is more distant now is immaterial. INT: We fade, even as we speak. The branches that lead to this place are less real. When we meet again, it will be on my terms. Now I will speak with Sir Richard. SR: Who are you? INT: I am the Lady of Earth and Stars. I am Ash. And you are Sir Richard of Enderly. I am sorry, Richard, for what my brother has done to you. That it is necessary does not make it easier to bear. I cannot set you free yet. But in this place, where everything is real, I can for a moment open a door that was closed before. SR: Hello, my love. ??? The turf around Fiond and Sir Richard exploded in smoke and fire, and Jonathan lost sight of the two figures. He was flung to his back, and the breath whooshed out of his lungs. He stood up again, unable to draw breath. Across the field, he could see the last car of the train¡ªthe one marked with symbols of danger and with heavy steel bars reinforcing its walls¡ªjust disappearing into a cloud of smoke. Still gasping in futility for breath, Jonathan forced his legs to stagger after the train car. Drawing on other selves from the branches around him, he forced the breath back into his lungs. Those others were sacrificed, cut out of their own realities. But this Jonathan broke into a trot, and then a run, and then a sprint. Breaking through the cloud of smoke, he saw the train stretched out ahead of him, and there was Merrily, still perched on top of one of the cars in the center. She saw him and waved, and her movements had a freedom and a fluidity that Jonathan had not seen since Rolly died. The clouds parted, and the sun shone down on him. His legs ran faster and faster; faster than he ever believed he could run. Drawing strength and speed from his other selves, he hurtled after the accelerating train, leaping and catching onto the caboose for a second time that day. The small arms of goblins lifted him up onto the box at the rear of the final car. One of the goblins smiled and winked at him. ¡°We still all may die today,¡± she said, ¡°but not here, and not yet.¡± Jonathan looked back. Above the abandoned settlement, dozens of balloons had ascended higher into the sky, and were drifting to the south. The great hulk of the dragon had nearly reached the first of them. Here on the ground, dozens of Giant-men still pursued the train. Its cars now ladened with scores more passengers¡ªmany clinging to the outside of the cars, as there was no room at all within¡ªthe train ascended slowly toward the peak of the ridge. The steam engine fought valiantly with the force of gravity, now magnified by additional mass. Perched on the top of one car, a single point of light among the chaos and death, was the one and only woman in all the world that Jonathan loved. ¡°Not yet,¡± he agreed. And he pushed into the interior of the aft car, threading past the boxes of explosives and rockets, toward Merrily. Overhead, the sun shone brilliantly, and the air was still. ??? ¡°Do you see those people?¡± spoke the grinding, bowel-churning voice of the dragon. Rufus could not help seeing the people; he was strapped to the back of a flying beast that was pointed directly at them. ¡°I see them,¡± he said. He wasn¡¯t sure how his words could have reached the beast, as they were snatched from his lips by the wind and hurled northward. But it seemed to understand what he said; perhaps through vibrations in its skin. ¡°They will burn,¡± it replied. ¡°Their skin and flesh will ignite while they still feel. They will desire to scream in expression of their agony, but their lungs will not draw breath. The last thing they know before the void will be pain greater than any living thing in this branch has ever endured, before today.¡± ¡°Why?¡± asked Rufus, fumbling with the lantern. He saw that it was still lit. The goggles, fogging and cracked, obstructed his view, so he ripped them off and let them fall behind him. ¡°Because it is necessary and efficient,¡± replied the hideous voice. ¡°And, conveniently, it gives me pleasure.¡± ¡°It is necessary for what?¡± inquired Rufus. He found that now, in his last moments, he had a desire to understand the meaning of absolutely everything. ¡°It is necessary to achieve the best of all possible worlds. All of God¡¯s acts are necessary and sufficient. The greatest pleasure in all the universe is to join in the working out of His plan, if God wills it. As my fire consumes them and they fall from the sky, remember that.¡± ¡°I am not,¡± declared Rufus Snugg, ¡°particularly impressed with God.¡± ??? Cyrus and Veridia stood in the trembling basket beneath the hot air balloon. They looked down at the carnage in the valley, and saw the agony of the train and its passengers on the eastern slopes. They saw the approach of the dragon, with Rufus Snugg perched on its back. Behind them floated eight other flimsy balloons, drifting southward with the last civilians in the settlement, as well as Colonel Ratwurst and a handful of survivors from the rearguard. ¡°Well, this is an absolutely ludicrous end,¡± remarked Cyrus. ¡°But all things considered, I think being roasted by a dragon while suspended in a hot-air balloon is a worthy death for both of us.¡± Veridia said nothing, but clutched Marius to her breast. Her head was bowed, and there were tears in her eyes. Cyrus had never, never seen Veridia Snipe weep. He put his arms around her and Marius, and turned her away from the dragon. ¡°Until the fire erases me, Veridia,¡± he said, ¡°I love you. And I love Marius. Let that be enough now.¡± She laid her head against his shoulder, and her weeping stopped. She closed her eyes. ¡°It¡¯s enough,¡± she said. ??? ¡°Do you know what¡¯s wrong with God?¡± asked Rufus. ¡°He¡¯s so goddamned arrogant. What gives God the right to say what¡¯s the best of all possible worlds? Only people. People are the only ones that can give Him that. Only we don¡¯t. By living, by existing, by seeing and deciding and loving and shitting and making a million, million choices every day, we defy God. God is an impotent child, whining in a corner of the universe that His toys are broken.¡± Rufus carefully unhooked one of the two bandoliers from his chest. A long wick, coated in black powder, dangled from one end. ¡°In a moment,¡± replied the dragon, ¡°you will see the power of God.¡± Rufus looked up at the balloons. He knew every man and woman within them. He had hired them. He had paid them. He had given their lives meaning and substance for the last two years. Their children had learned in his schools, and the adults¡¯ hands had labored in his mines and his laboratories. Their small, helpless balloons drifted in the wind before him, now beyond his protection. ¡°In a moment,¡± he replied, ¡°you will see the power of Man.¡± He touched the fuse of one bomb to the flame inside his small, delicate lantern. The explosion, viewed from the balloons at approximately the same altitude, was a sudden blossoming of red and orange, like a flower in the sky. It enveloped the body of the dragon completely and hung in the air for a few perfect seconds. Then it faded into a black and gray smoke, like a flower gone past. But the head of the dragon emerged from the smoke, its eyes still open, its mouth twisted in a reptilian snarl, still moving toward the balloons with its jaws agape. Then the body emerged, some twenty yards behind, and moving in an entirely different direction. The two halves of the great beast tumbled downward in glory and ruin, accelerating toward the earth at 32.174 feet per second, per second. Cyrus and Veridia looked up in astonishment, and the goblin crew in the balloon did as well. Their eyes followed the chunks of meat down to the top of the ridge, where the body impaled itself on a sharp spike of rock, and the head disappeared into a narrow crevasse. ¡°There is a god in the machine,¡± remarked Cyrus, his fingers twisting unconsciously around a thin, metal rod in his pocket. And their balloon floated upward, reaching toward heaven in a serene apotheosis. ??? The repeating cannon above Jonathan and Merrily was hopelessly jammed. Three of its barrels had split outright, and seven of the remaining nine were a bent and twisted mess. Huddled amidst the flapping canvas aft of the disabled gun, Jonathan and Merrily could only cling to each other and listen to the frantic chattering of goblins and the screams and shouts of the refugees clinging to the sides of the train cars. The Giant-men, pursuing relentlessly, were once again outpacing the grossly overloaded train and swinging at its flanks. ¡°Jonny,¡± said Merrily. He looked up at her. The sight, the sound, the smell of her was brutally intoxicating. He was helpless before her. Together, they slipped into a different world¡ªone where they were all alone, and safe, and the rocking of the train car beneath them was as gentle as a child¡¯s cradle. ¡°Jonny,¡± she said again. ¡°I want a baby.¡± He blinked, looking at her in that different world. ¡°You want a baby?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± She nodded firmly. ¡°Right now?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± He looked around at the roof of the train car. The canvas sheet flapped invitingly in the wind. The sun bathed them in light, and the smells and sounds of June made a curious contrast with the desperate voices of the refugees and soldiers below and around them. Jonathan put his hand gently on Merrily¡¯s neck, drawing her face close. But she did not wait. She kissed him hard, sliding her tongue into his mouth and pressing her body against his. She grabbed the canvas sheet and drew it over them. The click and clack of the train wheels on the tracks beneath made a steady rhythm; and after several moments, the canvas began to slide back and forth in a rhythm that matched it. Simon and The Gizzard dashed by the rhythmically thrusting sheet of canvas, heading for the aft of the train. ¡°What are we doing in the caboose?¡± demanded The Gizzard. In his excitement, he could only speak in the goblin tongue. ¡°We are going to set it on fire,¡± answered Simon in the same tongue. ¡°Gunnar has it filled up with his strangest creations. We¡¯ll light it on fire, and it will go bang-bang-bang.¡± ¡°Won¡¯t that be bad for this metal beast?¡± asked The Gizzard, even as the two goblins leapt over the gap to the next train car rearward in line. ¡°Not if we cut it loose first,¡± answered Simon. He had to struggle to turn his thoughts into the maniacal, chaotic language of the goblins. It was not his native tongue. ¡°Then it will go backward into the big-big-men before it goes bang-bang-bang, and will fry them like a summer bonfire that got out of its pit because everyone was drunk on blood-booze.¡± They leapt to the next car. ¡°But you would have to light it on fire at just the right time,¡± countered The Gizzard, ¡°or it will go bang-bang-bang and not roast any of them at all.¡± ¡°You¡¯re right.¡± ¡°Whoever lights it on fire will go bang-bang-bang with the big-big-men,¡± observed The Gizzard, jumping over the swung greatsword of a Giant-man running in parallel with the train. ¡°Also right.¡± ¡°So what chump is gonna light the caboose on fire?¡± ¡°I am.¡± The Gizzard seemed to think about that as they ran backward along the last train car before the caboose. Simon slid down the ladder to the door of the aft-most car, and flung it open. ¡°Listen!¡± he shouted at the goblins inside, switching to Uellish. These were engineers and Quiet Ones; they would be acclimated to it. ¡°I need you to unhitch this car and let it roll back! And then get off¡ªget up to the front and help the locomotive crew!¡± The surprised goblins nodded and scuttled out the door. Two of them set about turning the heavy crank that coupled the cars together. The Gizzard and Simon were left standing together in the door to the caboose. ¡°Boss,¡± said The Gizzard, ¡°you can¡¯t blow yourself up. We need you.¡± Simon shrugged. ¡°If I don¡¯t, then everyone on this train is going to get chop-chopped. Listen, The Gizzard.¡± He switched back to Uellish, hoping The Gizzard would be able to follow him. ¡°Listen. You have to go now. Go with them back to the Gray Kingdom. The Quiet Ones can¡¯t lead. They¡¯re good, and they care, but they can¡¯t lead. The goblins need someone who understands them, who speaks their language. They need you. You be the king now.¡± The Gizzard shook his head in confusion. ¡°Do you understand?¡± asked Simon. ¡°There¡¯s no time, The Gizzard. I have to do this now.¡± The caboose was nearly uncoupled; the two goblins working the crank were spinning it furiously. ¡°This is right. It is the right end for me. It¡¯s necessary. The node in the library showed me how I die, and this is it. Don¡¯t be sad, The Gizzard. Just go, and do what I would do to bring our people together and save them.¡± With an ominous clank, the caboose separated from the rest of the train, and the gap between him and The Gizzard began to grow. But quicker than lightning, The Gizzard grabbed Simon¡¯s arm and yanked him across the gap between the cars. Simon landed in a heap on the platform of the forward car, and rolled to his back in horror. The Gizzard crouched, gathered himself for a leap, and sprang across the widening gap between the cars. He landed on the front platform of the caboose and tumbled to his feet. ¡°NO!¡± shouted Simon in panic. But it was too late; there were already many yards of space between the cars. The caboose separated slowly from the rest of the train, falling behind as gravity and friction claimed its momentum¡ªone more victim in the endless, entropic march toward the heat death of the universe. The Gizzard looked back wistfully at King Simon, perched on the new rearmost car of the train. His arm was still outstretched, and his face was a mask of shock and agony. The Gizzard turned away, knowing what he must do. He slipped into the human-sized door to the caboose, feeling the whole car slow to a stop and then slowly begin to roll backward down the steep slope. Selecting a stick of dynamite at random from one box, he slipped around the numerous other boxes of rockets, racks of shells, and barrels of gunpowder. He made his way to the back of the car, feeling the little vehicle pick up speed. Emerging at the back door of the caboose, the Knight Errand looked sadly at the mass of Giant-men sprinting up the track toward the train. Behind him, the heavily-laden Number Two was picking up speed in the opposite direction, making her way toward the tunnel that passed beneath the highest cliffs of the western ridge. But before him¡ªnow rapidly increasing in size¡ªwere the main body of Giant-men. He touched the fuse of the dynamite to the nearby lantern marking the very end of the caboose, and watched it burn down. The Giant-men swarmed around and beyond the little train car. ¡°I am a Knight Errand!¡± declaimed The Gizzard, to no one in particular. ¡°And I am on a holy quest.¡± The explosion that followed put Rufus Snugg¡¯s sky-flower to shame. It ruptured rock, splintered railroad track, and flung pieces of the pursuing Giant-men into the sky in all directions. The force of Gunnar von Boof¡¯s suddenly activated experiments rippled into air and earth, leaving a massive crater in the rocky slope where the little train car had been. Those Giant-men in pursuit who weren¡¯t instantly disintegrated or dismembered turned and fled back to their comrades at the river, and none could be persuaded to venture again up the slope for many hours. The train and its desperate refugees chugged slowly and steadily up to the tunnel just before the peak, and then made their way through. On top of the center car, the canvas flap thrust passionately in a driving rhythm, and the sounds of lovemaking could be heard throughout the tunnel. Quite suddenly there was music, and everyone began to sing. ??? On top of the ridge, Hobb the Wise looked at the flaming ruin of the dragon, and then back at the escaping balloons. He sat down on a rock, surprised to be overcome by a philosophical mood. The bright sun shone sweetly on his skin. The bodies of the three Giant-men scouts, now still, lay nearby, their blood pooling beneath the gaping, self-inflicted wounds in their throats. ¡°We¡¯ve secured the tunnels,¡± said the voice of Sir Thomas. ¡°The last of the Snugg mercenaries escaped with that long caravan contraption. But the Giant-men are pouring in from the north. They plainly mean to take all three of these systems, and probably the whole valley. Our people have been cataloging and mapping as best we can, but we have no more time. We have to leave, sir, or there will be a fight here that we can¡¯t win.¡± Hobb rose to his feet, humming contentedly. Sir Thomas looked at him in curiosity, evidently deciding whether the First Minister had gone irretrievably mad. Hobb wandered over to the piton where the last balloon had been tethered before it lifted off. A scattered mess of papers lay about on the ground, inert in the suddenly-still air. He picked one up. It was covered in strange schematics and formulae. ¡°Gather these up, Pearsy,¡± he said casually to the nearby Chancellor. The bearded academic was already struggling with the three long scroll tubes he held, but dutifully, if awkwardly, gathered up the scattered papers on the ground. ¡°I expect,¡± said Hobb, ¡°that we won¡¯t leave here empty-handed, in the final analysis. And the Herald now owes me his side of our bargain.¡± He glanced again at the bodies of the Giant-men, whom he had commanded to kill themselves. ¡°I believe I have leverage that he will find¡ compelling.¡± ??? Song echoed from the walls of the tunnel as the locomotive shot triumphantly from its western mouth. The goblins, chanting their collective hymn, set a melodic framework. The confused mercenaries and civilians added individual verses and descants in their own bubbles of song¡ªsinging around and over each other, but somehow in perfect interlocking harmony and rhythm. Nobody knew what was going on, or why, but they all sang. Even the snarf hawk riders observing the train¡¯s passage overhead joined in, and their hawks cried out a keening melody. Jonathan and Merrily emerged from beneath the canvas with slightly embarrassed looks on their faces, tucking in their clothes. They looked around at the brilliant sun above, at the green trees of June, and listened to the song exploding around them instead of gunpowder. ¡°She has a tendency toward bombast,¡± remarked a voice from behind them. Jonathan and Merrily both looked at each other as if they¡¯d seen a ghost. Then they turned back to look at the ghost. It was Rolly. His paunchy frame and playful eyes were unmistakable. The dead mathematician sat on a chair of an unusual design, made of thin metal rods with straps of fabric slung between them. It looked remarkably comfortable. He wore a straw hat, which refused to flap in the wind of the train¡¯s passage. One leg was propped up on the knee of the other. He wore a pair of short pants and a short-sleeved shirt with a wildly colorful floral pattern. In one hand he held a mug of beer, and in the other a sack of peanuts, and as Jonathan and Merrily watched he popped a peanut in his mouth. ¡°Are you a ghost?¡± asked Jonathan. ¡°No,¡± replied Rolly. ¡°Are you alive?¡± asked Merrily. ¡°Not exactly,¡± answered the enigmatic mathematician. ¡°Have a seat.¡± He gestured. There were two more chairs with the peculiar light metal frames. Merrily and Jonathan sat in them. They found that the swaying of the train, while still present, seemed not to affect their balance or the steadiness of the chairs. They sat comfortably and securely, facing Rolly. There was a smell in the air that was somehow different, as if they had entered a kitchen. ¡°I¡¯m afraid I can¡¯t stay long,¡± Rolly began, ¡°so let me start off by addressing the most obvious questions. ¡°A. I¡¯m not really here, in the way that you normally think of the word ¡®here.¡¯ Somewhere in one of the branching pathways¡ªin an infinity of them, in fact¡ªI didn¡¯t die last October, and am still alive and well, drinking beer and eating peanuts while I ride the regular commuter line from Devi Valley to Hog Hurst. For a few minutes, a little piece of that branch is here with you; and so am I. ¡°B. The singing is the fault of Ash, the Lady of Earth and Stars. It¡¯s a side effect of her presence in this branch. Get used to it. Where I¡¯m from, everyone¡¯s got an invisible orchestra that follows them around all day. ¡°C. The reason there¡¯s a fragment of my branches here, right now, is going to have to remain inscrutable, because frankly I don¡¯t have a clue. I¡¯m guessing¡ªand this is just a wild hypothesis, but it fits the facts¡ªthat your actions in the last fifteen minutes have had a great many consequences, and one of them is this little space-time cocktail party. I wish I could offer you a beer, but it won¡¯t cross the barrier. So you¡¯ll have to watch me drink.¡± Merrily cleared her throat. ¡°You don¡¯t seem surprised,¡± she observed. Her voice was muted, but her eyes were more alive than Jonathan had seen since that day in October. ¡°You know that in this branch, you did die last October. And you seem to know a few things about what happened in the last fifteen minutes of our lives. Were you¡ watching?¡± She blushed crimson. Rolly laughed¡ªa deep, joyful, carefree belly laugh. Then he took a sip of beer, and laughed again. ¡°Ha! Everyone was watching, Merrily. But don¡¯t let it get to you. The details of this branch are well known where I come from.¡± ¡°And why is that?¡± she asked. The blush had not faded. ¡°Because this is the Bright Path, my dear,¡± he answered. His face grew serious. ¡°It is the Bright Path now. You can still leave it, and undoubtedly will. There is one route through all the branching pathways that is perfect, and leads in the end to perfect happiness and fulfillment for all beings, and this is it. Any choice can lead you away from it. But you¡¯re here, now.¡± ¡°That¡¯s impossible,¡± said Jonathan. ¡°Every moment is a million choices, Rolly. Every time I blink my eyes, I might have waited a second longer. Every time I take a breath, I might have let it out a second sooner. You¡¯re saying if I breathe wrong, I¡¯ll ruin everything?¡± Rolly nodded gravely. ¡°Then I must have just ruined it, just now. Because there¡¯s no way I can possibly be breathing perfectly, or blinking perfectly, or doing anything else perfectly, just to preserve whatever you think is perfect.¡± Rolly shrugged. ¡°You haven¡¯t yet. That¡¯s why I¡¯m still here. Don¡¯t get hung up on it, Jonathan. Just breathe. Either you¡¯re in it, or you¡¯re not. People come and go. Sometimes you¡¯re there for a few days, or a few years, or a few seconds. The point is that in this branch, the one you¡¯re sitting in now, enjoying the sun and the singing¡ªin this one, everything is perfect. It may not seem like it, but it is. And at the end of the path¡ª¡± his voice trailed off. ¡°So yours isn¡¯t perfect?¡± asked Merrily, after he didn¡¯t continue. ¡°Nope,¡± he replied, shaking his head. ¡°I¡¯m not in it. That¡¯s why I¡¯m here, talking to you. Don¡¯t get me wrong, Merrily dear, my life is pretty grand. Veridia Snipe pays me a bucket of money, and we got our computing machine working a few weeks ago. Tentimes published on the new star¡ªnot a star at all, by the way, and I¡¯m afraid I¡¯m spoiling the third book for you¡ªand I¡¯m on my way to Green Bridge for a week of carousing and moral dissolution. My life is good. But it¡¯s not the Bright Path, and never will be. In the Bright Path, I died last October.¡± Merrily put her head down. Tears glistened in her eyes, but did not fall. ¡°Why are you here, Rolly?¡± asked Jonathan. ¡°You brought me, Jonathan Miller. You and Merrily. That¡¯s why I¡¯m here. The way you two talk¡ªit changes things. The Bright Path runs through you both, for now. You¡¯re going to need to learn to use that, and you¡¯re going to have to make the right choices. When you don¡¯t¡ªpoof, buddy. It¡¯s all gone. Now look. I don¡¯t have much time. This bubble pops in a minute or so. You¡¯ve got time for one more question.¡± Jonathan stared at Rolly, trying to memorize the absurd details of his floral print shirt, his straw hat, and his mug of beer. ¡°Why did the Metal God kill you?¡± he asked. ¡°Probably the wrong question,¡± commented Rolly, ¡°but I¡¯ll do my best. It wasn¡¯t because of Professor Tentimes¡¯ new star; that religious nonsense about contradicting scripture was just a cover for Father¡¯s benefit. It also wasn¡¯t because of the mathematics of the Kaples Wethan Mekoth that I was working on with Professor Pie. Herberta is going to work all that out anyway, and Veridia will use it just the way she uses everything else. No¡ªI got killed for a kitten.¡± Jonathan blinked, and Merrily stared. ¡°A kitten?¡± Rolly nodded. ¡°I took in a kitten in November. After I died in this branch, you understand. During the siege of Green Bridge, the kitten gets out during the street fighting and distracts a Guardsman who¡¯s about to shoot someone important. That¡¯s it. Nothing more profound than a future contingency triggered by an act so apparently trivial that you¡¯d never imagine the possible consequences. I got killed over a kitten.¡± Merrily looked up. ¡°Why not just kill the kitten? Why did you have to die?¡± Rolly shook his head. ¡°You¡¯re not listening. The Metal God and Ash, they don¡¯t fight over big things. They fight over tiny things. The life or death of a man, the movements of armies, the ambitions of the good and the great, shifts in demographics and food production¡ªnone of that matters. They fight over a grain of sand on a beach, or how an acorn falls off a tree, or the exact positioning of a kitten at a very specific point in time. The Metal God killed me, and not the kitten, because that wouldn¡¯t have produced the outcome It wanted.¡± ¡°What is that outcome?¡± asked Merrily. ¡°What does the Metal God want? And how can your death also be part of the Bright Path?¡± Rolly winked slowly. ¡°I expect you can work that all out, Merrily. I¡¯ll give you a hint¡ªthere¡¯s more than one way to save a kitten.¡± He took another sip of the beer and then leaned forward. His form had become shadowy and unreal; they could see and feel and smell the world slipping through him. The face was suddenly anguished, in a way that Rolly never had been. ¡°I love you Merrily,¡± he said. ¡°I always did, from when we first met. In my branch, I don¡¯t get you either. It¡¯s always this guy.¡± He nodded his head at Jonathan, his friendship tinged with only a ghost of bitterness. ¡°But since you¡¯ve brought me here, I can say to you what I never did to the woman who looks like Merrily where I am. I love you. Now, you must be well, be joyful, and do great things. I hope you breathe right¡ both of you.¡± And with that, Rolly was never there. Jonathan and Merrily were sitting on the roof of the swaying train car, listening to the singing around them. ??? On the eastern ridge of the valley, Daven Dingeholt looked down at the abandoned settlement. The steely figures of Giant-men moved through its streets. There was no looting, no burning; it was simply possessed. To the south, the red-cloaked humans were withdrawing in good order, but also in haste. From Daven¡¯s vantage, high above the valley, all the invaders looked minute. He grimaced at the irony. The wind blew cold and fierce from the north once again, and clouds scudded across the sun. The moment of intense, overwhelming joy that had flooded over him with the sudden calm and burst of sunlight had faded, and the old valley had resumed its rugged, stark, gray-veiled appearance. Out in the valley below, a single black horse, without any rider or saddle, ran at marvelous speed through the waving grasses. Daven looked at it for a moment in wistful jealousy; it was utterly free. He took a deep breath and looked down into the crevasse that sheltered some of the many exits from Great Roof. His people were there, filing out in long lines. Badger riders guarded the vulnerable travelers, and hawks circled watchfully above. His people traveled with those possessions they could carry on their backs, and nothing else. They moved north along the ridge, taking the first steps on a long road to an uncertain sanctuary. A hawk landed next to him. ¡°Gi¡¯ up in¡¯ the sky wi¡¯ ye,¡± he said wearily, not turning to look. ¡°We¡¯re thin ta¡¯ th¡¯ east. Too few left, an¡¯ no geese.¡± ¡°There¡¯ll be geese where yer goin¡¯, Dumble-dumb Dingeholt,¡± came the voice of a female snarf. Daven looked over his shoulder in irritation at the impertinent hawk rider. Then he dropped Anklebiter¡¯s reins in astonishment. ¡°Suits ye jess fine, wi¡¯ yer mouth ¡®angin¡¯ open like that, Daven,¡± said his sister. ¡°Yer dead,¡± he pointed out. ¡°Ah saw th¡¯ body in a rain barrel in the White Knights¡¯ camp two years ago.¡± ¡°Nuh uh,¡± she retorted. ¡°Ah ain¡¯t dead yet. Tha¡¯s still ahid fer me. Ye too.¡± He shook his head. ¡°No¡¯ enough sleep, too many problems,¡± he muttered. ¡°Ah¡¯s seein¡¯ wha¡¯s no¡¯ thar.¡± ¡°Shu¡¯ up, ye daft twit.¡± She threw a picked mouse-bone at his head, which he didn¡¯t bother to dodge. It simply bounced off him as he stared. ¡°Ye¡¯d best get used ta¡¯ problems,¡± she continued. ¡°Thar¡¯s a mouse-¡®erd o¡¯ problems ahid, an¡¯ no¡¯ many folks ta¡¯ help ye. But, fer once in yer life, yer headed in th¡¯ right direction¡ªta¡¯ Refuge. Our people ought ta¡¯ be together in wha¡¯s comin¡¯, not split inta two.¡± ¡°Thanks fer comin¡¯ back from th¡¯ dead ta¡¯ tell me wha¡¯ ah¡¯m alridy doin¡¯ is right,¡± he drawled. ¡°If¡¯n tha¡¯s all ye got, dead sister, then ye¡¯d best crawl back in yer grave.¡± ¡°¡®Tain¡¯t all. Ah ain¡¯t got time nor patience to give ye all, Daven. And ah wou¡¯nay give ye tha¡¯ Curse e¡¯en if ah¡¯d come ta¡¯ hate ye. Ah came by ta¡¯ say¡ ta¡¯ say I love ye. Ah wairn¡¯t s¡¯pposed ta¡¯ see ye; not yet. I¡¯m breakin¡¯ all th¡¯ rules, an¡¯ th¡¯ Curse won¡¯t shu¡¯ up abou¡¯ it. But ah don¡¯ care if¡¯n i¡¯ messes up all th¡¯ world fer me ta¡¯ say¡¯t. When we next see each others, Daven, there ain¡¯ much time fer talkin¡¯. So now¡¯s the only time. Ah love ye, ye daft Dingeholt.¡± He shook his head in disbelief. ¡°Wha¡¯e¡¯er fev¡¯rish dream this is, Devi, ah¡¯m glad it¡¯s come over me. Ah love ye too. Ah¡¯ve missed yer bad jokes an¡¯ bad attitude somethin¡¯ mighty. Don¡¯ know what ye mean abou¡¯ seein¡¯ me agin¡¯, but if tha¡¯ should ever come ta¡¯ be, then ye owes me a long tale o¡¯er one o¡¯ the big-folks¡¯ mugs o¡¯ beer.¡± They both looked out over the long expanse of the valley. The wind moved through the grasses like an animal, leaving footprints behind. Flashes of sunlight filtered through the scudding clouds above, and the smell of the north was fresh in their faces. ¡°Wha¡¯s next?¡± asked Daven after a minute. ¡°Will ye come wi¡¯ us ta¡¯ Refuge?¡± She shook her head. ¡°Nay. Ah¡¯ve work ta¡¯ do. Pebbles ta¡¯ kick over, cheese ta¡¯ move a bit ta¡¯ the left, an¡¯ a kitten in Green Bridge tha¡¯ needs a new ¡®uman friend.¡± Daven nodded, mystified but accepting. ¡°Is this th¡¯ end, then?¡± ¡°Nay.¡± She smiled at him, the wind whipping her long black hair over her chiseled features. ¡°Nay, brother o¡¯ mine. ¡®Tis th¡¯ beginnin¡¯.¡± Epilogue: Gregory Eleven days earlier. On the eleventh of June, III Leeland:16, Gregory, Traitor of the North, was executed for his crimes. He was brought up from the jails below William Hall to the tolling of the noon bells. There was an angry buzzing around him as the people stood in the square beneath the June sun. Those who had come here today were ready to see a man¡¯s head parted from his body, and to hear the two dull thuds of the sword and the skull. They had worked themselves around to seeing moral sense in the severing of arteries and bones, and the extinguishment of a thinking mind. People in this state are not joyful. They have cobbled together an idol of righteousness out of whatever anger they can find at hand. It must be this way, or the event is an atrocity. The buzz turned to shouts near the doors of William Hall as Gregory emerged. Four Billies stood around the condemned man, more for his protection than to propel him forward. Gregory walked quietly, his hands bound before him. By the time he saw Cyrus Stoat in the crowd, he was bleeding from the head. He had been hit by rocks thrown by the angry people. Refuse and filth were flung at him as well, by enterprising citizens who had brought buckets of rotten food and excrement for this purpose. His brown robe was stained and filthy, and his beard dripped with some unpleasant substance. ¡°Traitor!¡± they screamed. ¡°Shame! Filth!¡± And there were many more words far less flattering. The priests among the crowd screamed louder than any. On the platform at the edge of the square, Bishop Wildrick stood to the right of Queen Anne. He did not shout or scream, but his posture was stern, righteous. As Gregory passed by Cyrus, he turned his head, and their eyes met. Gregory¡¯s face showed fear, confusion, resignation; his body swayed with the impacts of missiles from the crowd. And yet¡ªin his eyes there was peace. Recognizing Cyrus, Gregory smiled gratefully. ¡°Run,¡± he said. The word was plainly audible above the cacophony. And then his steps took him on¡ªon and toward the large platform at the edge of the square. Gregory reached the platform and began to ascend the steps. A large man with a hood and a great cleaver waited for him at the top. There was a little wooden block there, with a hole cut out for his neck. Next to the block was a pedestal, on which sat a beautifully crafted crown of silver and gold. Gregory knew that Anne was to be formally crowned Queen by Wildrick a few minutes after his own execution. ¡°Grygory!¡± came the clear, ringing voice of Queen Anne. She used his former name, to his lasting distaste. ¡°You have admitted, before a court of law and a judge of my bench, to the crime of treason!¡± Gregory nodded agreeably. He surveyed the crowd, and saw that Merrily Hunter had encountered Cyrus Stoat. He smiled. This was as it should be. He would lead her to the valley. ¡°You gave aid and comfort to an enemy who sent armed soldiers to wrest the sovereignty of Uelland from its rightful monarch!¡± continued the queen. He nodded again, frowning slightly in agreement. He was indeed guilty. ¡°You gave information to the White Knights that led to the death of men and women and children of this Kingdom in the village of Hog Hurst!¡± The litany of his crimes continued, and Gregory listened carefully, making sure none had been forgotten. It was essential that every one of his sins¡ªeverything he had ever done wrong, in fact¡ªbe recited in this moment. Sotto voce, he added to the Queen¡¯s catalog some additional wrongs to which he had previously confessed, but which she had omitted in the interest of brevity. This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. ¡°Which,¡± she concluded, ¡°being against the laws of the Holy Empire of the Dusk and the Kingdom of Uelland, I have decreed and given sentence that he shall be condemned from life to death by sword.¡± She nodded briefly at Gregory, who obediently knelt at the block. He looked up at the crowd, and saw the retreating figures of Cyrus and Merrily, trailed by the goblin Gmork. They would not witness what happened next. He saw Victor Hogman standing at the front of the crowd, clasping his small pendant. Behind him stood the enigmatic and scarred Brutus. Their faces were grave and pained. Gregory smiled and laid down his head. The crowd was silent. The sword flashed in the air, and dropped. In the silence, there was a soft, rather sad plop. The faces in the crowd, drawn with anticipation, were frozen for a very long time. There were no cheers, no shouts. No one blinked, or shifted, or moved. They simply stared, holding their breath. Then a woman gasped, and fainted. The people closest to the stage drew back in shock. Their eyes, fixed first on the surface of the platform, slowly moved upward to focus instead on a point above the stage. It was the height of a man. Queen Anne, her face ashen, looked first at the executioner, and then at the man standing before her. She did not take a step back, but looked as if she very much wanted to. Gregory carefully placed his head back on his neck, blinked, and stretched slightly. He lifted his eyes to the crowd and drew in a deep breath. ¡°Glory!¡± he said in a loud voice. And the word carried around the square. ¡°Glory!¡± he shouted again. He turned to Queen Anne and embraced her. Lost in the moment, the Rebel Queen put her arms around Gregory for a long and entirely natural embrace of love and forgiveness. ¡°Hallelujah!¡± he concluded loudly. To the left of the stage, on the side facing Bastings Hall, the small orchestra had gathered to play for the Queen¡¯s coronation. They had, clipped to their music stands against the wind, charts on which the name of the composer was printed as ¡°Merrily Hunter.¡± They were not supposed to start playing yet. But in the arms of each musician something unexpected shivered and awakened. Gregory descended from the platform and into the crowd. He reached out his hands to those he passed, and moved among them. They did not recoil; instead they looked on him in wonder. His hands touched those around him. As he did, every ailment and illness left them. The healing spread to those beyond his reach. Men with boils found their skin suddenly unafflicted, healed. The lame and twisted stood upright, healed. Men who were blind, and had seen nothing but darkness for ten or twenty years, opened their eyes and looked around at the light of the day, healed. A dog with three legs, sitting in one corner of the square, suddenly found that he had four perfectly good legs, and immediately set about chasing a newly-rejuvenated squirrel whose severed tail had grown back. Healed. A great many mosquitoes were raised from the dead, to the momentary irritation of several in the crowd. The mosquitoes, after a brief and gleeful effort to reprise their former lives, were soon squashed. The players by the stage, unable any longer to resist the pull of the music they heard in their heads and felt in their bones, began to play. It was a simple tune, but it stuck immediately and irresistibly in the mind. And after a few moments, as Gregory made his way through the crowd, words began to form in the thoughts of all who heard the music, and they began all at once, to their lasting surprise, to sing. Even Queen Anne, Bishop Wildrick, and the executioner (who had by now removed his hood and set down his axe) sang, and their faces radiated an inexplicable light and joy like none that had ever before touched them. They sang: Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord She has trampled out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored She has loosed the fateful lightning of her terrible swift sword Her truth is marching on! Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah! Our God is marching on! She has sounded out the trumpet that shall never call retreat She is sifting out the hearts of men before Her judgment seat Oh be swift my soul to answer Her, be jubilant my feet Our God is marching on! Gregory turned to the platform and ascended once again, facing Queen Anne. She looked at him in terror and wonder. He turned to the pedestal nearby with the ceremonial crown and gently picked it up. He winked at Bishop Wildrick. And, before the assembled witnesses, he placed the crown on her head, even as she knelt before him. He laughed, and drew her to her feet; and then he lifted her hand up in triumph as they faced the singing crowd. The rhythm of Her love She bore across eternity With a pattern in Her bosom that transfigures you and me: As she sings to make men joyful, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on. Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah! Our God is marching on! Dramatis Personae
| Alastair Gort | An economic criminal. |
| Agaberth Tentimes | A professor of astronomy in the College of Applied Mathematics at Triad University. |
| Albert Hogman | Deceased father of Victor Hogman and a community leader of Hog Hurst. |
| Alice Miller | Librarian of Hog Hurst, and mother of Jonathan Miller. |
| Alvin Bocker | A well-to-do merchant in Roosterfoot. |
| Andrew Hypote | A professor of mathematics in the College of Applied Mathematics at Triad University. |
| Anne Linsey Gray | Self-declared Queen of Uelland; estranged wife of King Leeland. |
| Arcraw | A speckled goshawk. |
| Aristine le Hen | A Carolese third-year student of Applied History at Triad University. |
| Arthur | A goblin engineer. |
| Ash | Said by her followers to be a goddess. |
| Basil, a.k.a. Ieshau, the Godson | A seer. |
| Bear Borson | A mercenary and caravan guard. |
| Beatrice Snugg | Mother of Rufus Snugg, and formerly controlling shareholder of Snugg & Co. Now deceased. |
| Bedge | A member of the Republican Guard. |
| Bisking | A major in the Republican Guard, stationed in Uellodon. Mildly incompetent. |
| Boris, a.k.a. Fael, the Vessel | A seer. |
| Blowch | A policeman. |
| Brutus | A seer. |
| Camton | A Citizen-Private in the Republican Guard. |
| Colerto | An author of plays and poems. |
| Comland, Howard | Dean of the College of Applied Mathematics at Triad University. |
| Croowglyn | A delegate to the Roosterfoot Moot. |
| Curse | A voice inside Devi¡¯s head. |
| Cyrus Stoat | A professor Applied History at Triad University in Green Bridge. Generally disagreeable. Father of Wigglus Snort. |
| Daisy | Cyrus¡¯s horse. |
| Dark One | In the Ecclesial scriptures, the Devil and adversary of God. |
| Daven Dingeholt | A snarf badger knight, and brother of Devi. |
| Demiter Filtch | A janitor at Triad University. |
| Devi Dingeholt | A snarf hawk rider; brother of Daven. Presumed dead. |
| Dibble Dafsool | A snarf hawk rider. |
| Dilly Dainjumouse | A snarf hawk rider. |
| Ellen Crisby | A professor of combat at the College of Applied History at Triad University. |
| Elizabeth Karn | The chief librarian and linguist at the Devi Valley research complex. |
| Emily | A goblin. |
| Ernbert Ablecock | A member of the Charter Council of Green Bridge. |
| Fanny Asquith | A wealthy young heiress in Roosterfoot. |
| Father | A holy man. |
| Fenniette | Daughter of Guillam Brousseui. |
| Fiond | A giantess and friend of Sir Richard of Enderly. |
| Foulwart Pie | A professor of physics at the College of Applied Mathematics at Triad University. |
| Francis Fipkin | A revolutionary. |
| Francis Wildrick | Ecclesial Bishop of Green Bridge. |
| Freddie Greensmith | A third-year student of Applied History at Triad University. |
| Frederick Wholehouse-And-A-Half, formerly Frederick n¨¦e Halfhouse | A young aristocrat of Uellodon; lover of Wigglus Snort. |
| Garret Bragg | A delegate to the Roosterfoot Moot. |
| George MillerA case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. | Deceased father of Jonathan Miller and husband of Alice Miller. |
| Gerald Hornhugger | A third-year student of Applied History at Triad University. |
| Globclaw | A feral goblin. |
| Gmork | A goblin; Cyrus Stoat¡¯s personal assistant. |
| God | Widely regarded as omnipotent. |
| Gog the Hammer | A mercenary in the employ of Snugg & Co. Very large, and wears old-fashioned steel armor into combat. |
| Gregory, a.k.a. Grygory the Pious, a.k.a. the Traitor of the North | An Ecclesial priest, formerly assigned to Hog Hurst. Widely reviled for assisting the invading White Knights in III Leeland:13-14. |
| Gretchen Pickle | Chief engineer for the Snugg settlement at Devi Valley. |
| Grog the Barbarian | A wandering barbarian hero. |
| Grufflimb | A delegate to the Roosterfoot Moot. |
| Guillam Brousseui | A mercenary sergeant, and former companion of Sir Richard of Enderly. |
| Gunnar von Boof | A chemist in the employ of Snugg & Co. Responsible for the development of black powder firearms. |
| Habander Grote | A caravan driver living near Roosterfoot. Brother of Warren Grote. |
| Hamhock | A lawyer in Uellodon. |
| Harold the Horse | An old mercenary, and a former companion of Sir Richard of Enderly. |
| Hector Enderly | Older son of Sir Richard of Enderly. |
| Hector Quimble | Owner of the Quimble trading concern in Uellodon. |
| Hender | A farmer in central Uelland. |
| The Herald, a.k.a. the Man With the Metal Face | A self-proclaimed incarnation of God. |
| Herberta | A goblin student of Applied Mathematics at Triad University. |
| Heweston, Nancy | A wealthy landowner in Roosterfoot. |
| Hobb the Wise | First Minister of Uelland. |
| Horace Carelon | The first King of Neighbor Kingdoms, following the decline and fall of the Empire of the Dusk. |
| Horace II | Son of Horace Carelon, and the first King of Uelland. Purged Uelland of all priests and religion. |
| Hollen | A murderer. |
| Hyden | A general of the King¡¯s Heavy Arms. |
| Ikongbe ¡°Iko¡± Rayth | Son of Vicod Rayth in Alternate Jonathan¡¯s timeline. |
| Iorhen | A Citizen-Private in the Republican Guard. |
| John Thumbwit | A simple-minded member of the Republican Guard. Associate of Newt the Cat. |
| Jonathan Miller | A factor in the employ of Snugg & Co. Husband of Merrily Hunter. |
| Jonathan Miller (alternate), a.k.a. Jonathan Steward | An alternative version of Jonathan who proposed to Merrily at the wrong time and was declined. |
| Kargen the Gross | An emperor of the Empire of the Dusk. |
| Kanje | An Applied Historian and companion of Alternate Jonathan. |
| Kimbwe, Amica | A Broobian student of Applied History at the Hunter Institute in Alternate Jonathan¡¯s timeline. |
| Keleste | Queen of Carelon. |
| Kemdi | A chronicler living in the late Empire of the Dusk. |
| Kelestine Maliss | A third-year student of Applied History at Triad University. |
| Killbrand | King¡¯s Counsel; a lawyer in Uellodon. |
| Kmesha Mistress | Owner and lover of Jonathan Steward. |
| Kuerlo | A cleric of the Giant-men, and aide to the Herald. |
| Leeland III | King of Uelland. |
| Leeland, Prince | Son of Leeland III and Anne Linsey Gray; presumed heir to the throne of Uelland. |
| Lily Howe | Wife of Sir Thomas Howe. |
| Marika | Granddaughter of Guillam Brousseui. |
| Marius Snipe-Stoat | Infant son of Cyrus Stoat and Veridia Snipe. |
| Martha Enderly | Wife of Sir Richard of Enderly. |
| Maude, a.k.a. Bloody Maude | A historical Queen of Uelland; the last reigning female monarch. |
| Maxime Robe | Aide to Hobb the Wiser. |
| Merrily Hunter | A third-year student in Applied History at Triad University. Wife of Jonathan Miller. |
| Metal God | God, by its own account. |
| Michael Rider | A post rider, and friendly acquaintance of Jonathan Miller, Merrily Hunter, and Cyrus Stoat. Lover of Sheria. |
| Mowatt | A coachman. |
| Moro | A prince of the Giant-men. |
| Newt the Cat | A cat. Associated with John Thumbwit. |
| Nicola Snugg | The principal director of Snugg & Co. |
| Obilly Smallhat | A goblin student of mathematics at Triad University. |
| Peter | The last Mouth of God, in Alternate Jonathan¡¯s timeline. |
| Pigmunk | A Security Bureau man assigned to watch over Prince Leeland. |
| Prunella Weaselbeer-Yourfork | Chief archaeologist at the Devi Vallery complex; a professor of Applied History at Triad University. |
| Quarterfoot | A lieutenant general in the Uellish scout cavalry, and long-time companion to Sir Thomas Howe. |
| Ratwaddler, Uliver | Former Archdeacon of Uelland. Now deceased. |
| Ratwurst | A mercenary colonel, and leader of Snugg mercenary forces at the Devi Valley complex. |
| Reivoal | A prince of the Giant-men. |
| Ribitte | A Brassen Applied Historian and companion of Alternate Jonathan. |
| Richard of Enderly | A Crown Knight and Baron of Enderly. Exiled from Uelland by Hobb the Wise on account of his uncomfortably close relationship with King Leeland III. |
| Rigg | A Snugg mercenary employed at Devi Valley. |
| Rolland ¡°Rolly¡± Gorp | A mathematician; friend of Cyrus Stoat, Jonathan Miller, and Merrily Hunter. |
| Robert Franco | A former professor of Applied History at Triad University; missing, and presumed deceased. |
| Robert of Gorham | Uncle of King Leeland III; abdicated his royal title to join a monastery. |
| Rufus Snugg | An affable but ruthless industrialist. One of the family owners of Snugg & Co. |
| Sal | A Snugg mercenary employed at Devi Valley. |
| Samuel Foregrub | Owner of the Foregrub trading concern in Uelland. |
| Sheria | A feyess, and occasional associate of Cyrus Stoat and Jonathan Miller. |
| Simon | The King of the Goblins. |
| Smiley Pigfoot | A food merchant in Roosterfoot. |
| Snoring, Huxbus | Dean of the College of Applied History at Triad University. |
| Stiggins | A mercenary employed by Merrily Hunter. |
| The Gizzard | A goblin. |
| Thomas Howe | A knight-general in the King¡¯s Heavy Horse; formerly a captain in the scout cavalry. |
| Thom Verasee | An author of novels. |
| Timtum | A delegate to the Roosterfoot Moot. |
| Titley-Balles | A professor of Applied History at the New Academy of Uelland. |
| Towling-Snoot | A delegate to the Roosterfoot Moot. |
| Troutsbutt Stool | A fugitive Uellish priest. |
| Veridia Snipe | Chief of Operations of the Snugg & Co. branch in Green Bridge. |
| Vernon Vigg | Captain of the Billies, Green Bridge¡¯s police force. |
| Vicod Rayth | A professor of Applied History from Patronage University in Vale, visiting Triad University for several terms as a guest lecturer. |
| Victor Hogman | An Advocate of Ash. |
| Wallette Glibrub | A Professor Applied History at Triad University. |
| Wallingford Spoon | Chancellor of the Royal Academy in Exile. |
| Warren Grote | A burgher of Roosterfoot. Brother of Habander Grote. |
| Warren Logwall | A knight-general in the King¡¯s Heavy Foot. |
| Watt | A general of the King¡¯s Eyes. |
| Wembley Pearsy | Chancellor of the New Academy of Uelland. Husband of the late Beatrice Snugg. |
| Wentley-Wastings | A delegate to the National Assembly. |
| Wigglus Snort | A lawyer in Uellodon; son of Cyrus Stoat, and friend of Merrily Hunter and Jonathan Miller. |
| Wiggs | A member of the Republican Guard. |
| Willoughsby | A justice of the High Court of Uellodon. |
| Winston | Merrily Hunter¡¯s horse. |
| Woodbrow | The Chief Justice of the High Court of Uellodon. |
| Yanosh the Hairy | A mercenary captain. |
| Yute | A recently appointed Professor of Engineering at the New Academy. |