FOR MOST OF THE MORNING, Sergei had ridden alone in the midst of the Firenzcian troops, lost in ruminations that were keeping at bay-at least for a bit-the growing ache in his back from the long ride. His thoughts had not been kind or gentle ones. And his body was no longer used to long days in the saddle, nor to evenings spent under a tent.

You're getting old. You won't be here much longer, and you have much to do yet.

"Regent, I would talk with you."

At the hail, Sergei glanced over, seeing the stallion draped in the colors of Firenzcia that had come alongside him unnoticed. Old. Once, you would never have missed his approach. "Hirzg Jan," he said. "Certainly."

The boy brought his war stallion alongside Sergei's bay mount, the mare's ears flicking nervously and rolling her eyes at the much larger destrier. Jan said nothing at first, and Sergei waited as they rode along the Avi, dust rising in a cloud around them. The army was approaching Carrefour, with Nessantico another good day's march farther. The Nessantican forces had vanished, dissolved; gone the afternoon of the parley. "Matarh says that you have lost two good friends," Jan said finally.

"I have," Sergei told him. "Aubri cu'Ulcai was on my staff for many years in both the Garde Kralji and the Garde Civile, before I was named Regent. He was a good man and an excellent soldier. I don't look forward to speaking to his wife or his children and telling them what happened. I especially don't relish telling them that his loyalty to me was responsible for his death." Sergei rubbed at his metal nose, the glue pulling at his skin as he frowned. "As for Petros . . . well, there wasn't a gentler person in the world, and I know how important his friendship was to the Archigos. I don't know what the news will do to Archigos Kenne. Killing them was cruel and unnecessary, and if Cenzi grants me a long enough life, I will make certain Councillor ca'Mazzak regrets the pain he's given to me and those I care about."

The young man nodded. "I understand that," he said. "I truly do. Someday, I will find out who hired the White Stone to kill my Onczio Fynn, and I will kill that person myself and the White Stone with him. I liked Fynn. He was a good friend to me as well as a relative, and he taught me a lot in the short time I knew him. I wish he'd been alive long enough to teach me more about . . ." He stopped, shaking his head.

"There's no book learning one can do to be a leader, Hirzg," Sergei told Jan. "You learn by doing, and you hope you don't make too many mistakes in the process. As to revenge: well, as I've grown older, I've learned that the pleasure one gets from actually achieving the act never matches that of the antic.i.p.ation. I've also learned that sometimes one must forgo revenge entirely for the sake of a larger goal. Kraljica Marguerite knew that better than anyone; that's why she was such a good ruler." He smiled. "Even if your great-vatarh would disagree strongly."

"You knew them both."

Sergei couldn't quite tell if that were statement or question, but he nodded. "I did, and I had great respect for both of them, the old Hirzg Jan included."

"Matarh hated him, I think."

"She had good reason, if she did," Sergei answered. "But he was her vatarh, and I think she loved him also."

"Is that possible?"

"We're strange beasts, Hirzg. We're capable of holding two conflicting feelings in our heads at the same time. Water and fire, both together."

"Matarh says you used to torture people."

He waited a long time to answer that. Jan said nothing, continuing to ride alongside him. "It was my duty at one time, when I was in command of the Bastida."

"She says the rumors were that you enjoyed it. Is that part of what you were talking about-the ability to hold two conflicting feelings in your head?"

Sergei pursed his lips. He rubbed again at his nose. He looked ahead of them, not at the young man. "Yes," he answered finally, the single word bringing back all the memories of the Bastida: the darkness, the pain, the blood. The pleasure.

"Matarh is, or was, anyway, Archigos Semini's lover. Did you know that, Regent?"

"I suspected it, yes."

"Even though she loves him, she was willing to sacrifice him and hand him over for judgment as U'Teni Petros asked. She'd made that decision; she told me so herself when she came back from the parley. 'Let his sins be paid back in lives saved,' she told me. There wasn't a tear in her eye or a trace of regret in her voice. The Archigos . . . he doesn't know that. He doesn't know how close he was to being a prisoner. For all I know, the two of them may even still . . ." He stopped. Shrugged.

"Water and fire, Hirzg," Sergei said.

Jan nodded. "Matarh said that you love Nessantico above us all. Yet you ride with us, you saved Matarh and me in Pa.s.se a'Fiume, and you would put Matarh on the Sun Throne."

"I would, because I'm convinced that would be best for Nessantico. I want to see the Holdings restored, with Firenzcia once again its strong right arm." Sergei paused. They could see the first outliers of Carrefour before them in the road, the tops of the buildings rising beyond the trees. "Is that also what you want, Hirzg?"

Sergei watched the young man. He was looking away, over the long line of the army stretched along the road. "I love my matarh," he answered.

"That's not what I asked, Hirzg."

Jan nodded, still gazing at the armored snake of his army. "No, it's not, is it?" he answered.

The Battle Begun: Karl Vliomani.

"YOU CAN STILL LEAVE via some of the streets to the east of the Nortegate," Karl told Serafina. "You'll have to be careful and you'll have to go quickly, but if you have Varina with you, you and Nico would have protection."

Karl saw Serafina and Varina already shaking their heads before he finished. "I'm not leaving without Talis," Serafina said. Nico was sitting on her lap as they sat around the table in the main room of Serafina's apartment. They had finished a dinner of bread, cheese, and water, though the bread had been stale, the cheese moldy, and the water clouded. They'd eaten it all, though, not knowing when there might be more food.

With the army of the Tehuantin at the western edges of the city and their ships holding the A'Sele, with the army of Firenzcia threatening from the east, Nessantico was panicked. Wild, fantastic rumors about the sack of Karnor and Villembouchure ran through the city, growing darker, grimmer, and more violent with each retelling. The Westlanders, if the stories could be believed, were nothing less than demons sp.a.w.ned by the Moitidi themselves, devoted to rape, torture, and mutilation. The shelves of the stores were nearly bare; the mills had no flour for the bakeries, and there were no carts coming into the markets from the fields outside the city. Even the Avi a'Parete was dark tonight-the light-teni hadn't made their usual rounds; worse, a fog had crawled over the city from the west, thick and cold. The city trembled in darkness, waiting for the inevitable strike to come. "I thought I'd lost both Talis and Nico once; I'm not doing that again," Serafina continued.

"He can't leave," Karl persisted. "He's male and young enough to be pressed into service with the Garde Civile. They'd s.n.a.t.c.h him before you got halfway to the Avi. And with the Archigos in the Bastida . . . well, the Garde Kralji almost certainly have our descriptions and are already out looking for us. Two women with a young boy-you'd be safe enough, I think. But with Talis and me . . ."

"I'm not leaving without him," Serafina persisted. Her voice shook and the hand around Nico's waist trembled, but her lips pressed firmly together.

"Half the city's already left-those who can. The rumors about Karnor and Villembouchure . . . all that could happen here."

A shrug.

Varina was smiling grimly. Her hand touched his knee under the table. "You've lost this argument, Karl," she said. "With both of us. We're here. We're staying, whatever that means."

Karl looked at Talis, who had been sitting silently on his side of the table. He'd been strangely quiet for the last day and more, since the news had come of the Archigos' imprisonment, and he spent much time with the scrying bowl. Karl wondered what the man was thinking behind that solemn face. Talis shrugged. "I agree with Karl," he said to Serafina. "I would rather have you and Nico safe."

Varina took Karl's hand, standing. "Come with me," she told him. "Let Sera and Talis talk this out on their own. We will, too."

Karl followed Varina into the other room. She closed the door behind them, so that they could only hear the low murmur of voices in conversation. "She loves him," Varina said. She was still leaning against the door, looking at Karl.

"Yes," he protested, "and that's exactly the reason he wants her to leave: because he doesn't want to lose the people he loves."

"And that's exactly the reason she won't go, because she couldn't bear not knowing what happened to him." She crossed her arms under her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "It's exactly the reason I won't go either."

"Varina . . ."

"Karl, shut up," she told him. She pushed away from the wall, going to him. Her arms went around him, her lips sought his. There was a desperation in her embrace, in the violence of her kiss. He could hear the sob in her throat, and his hand went to her face to find her cheeks wet. He tried to pull away from her, to ask what was wrong, but she wouldn't let him. She brought his head back down to hers. Her weight bore him down to the straw-filled mattress on the floor. Then, for a time, he forgot everything.

Afterward, he kissed her, holding her tightly, relishing her warmth. "I love you, Karl," she whispered into his ear. "I've given up pretending anything else."

He didn't answer. He wanted to. He wanted to say the words back to her. They filled his throat but stuck there. He felt that if he said them, he'd be betraying Ana and everything she'd meant to him. "Find someone else, she'd told him, long ago. "Go back to your wife, if you like. Or if you fall in love with someone new, that would be fine with me, too. I'd be happy for you because I can't be what you want me to be, Karl."

"I . . ." he began, then stopped. They both heard it at the same time, a whistling shriek and a low growl like thunder, followed almost immediately by others, and the wind-horns on the temples beginning to sound an alarm. Karl rolled away from her. "What is that?" Karl asked, but he suspected that he knew already. They both dressed quickly and rushed into the other room.

"It's begun," Talis told them as they entered. He was standing by the door. The door faced south, and from the direction of the A'Sele, they could all see an orange-yellow glow over the rooftops, illuminating the fog that blocked their vision. "Fire," Talis said. "The nahualli are hurling black sand into the city close to the A'Sele."

The wind-horns were shrilling, and there were m.u.f.fled shouts and cries coming from the fog.

Talis closed the door. "It's too late now," he said. "Too late."

The Battle Begun: Sigourney ca'Ludovici.

FROM THE TOP FLOOR of the Kraljica's Palais, leaning on the crutch that compensated for her missing leg, Sigourney could gaze over the intervening rooftops and the waters of the A'Sele to the North Bank, where the campfires of the Westlanders burned on the outskirts of the city. There, too, she knew, the army of the Garde Civile was arrayed, with Aleron ca'Gerodi now acting as commandant. He, at least, was confident in the ability of the chevarittai and Garde Civile to deal with the dual threats to the city, even if no one else was. Ca'Gerodi had been in battle before, at least-and of the chevarittai left to her, he was best suited to be commandant, since ca'Mazzak had removed Aubri cu'Ulcai from consideration. That had been a mistake, Sigourney was certain; one she could understand, yes, given his rebellion, but also one that might have cost Nessantico more than she could afford.

Sigourney's body hurt greatly tonight, and she took a long swallow from the goblet of cuore della volpe and placed it on the windowsill.

Sigourney had been confident, too. She had been confident they would deal with these Westlander rabble and destroy them. Then they would look to the east and deal with Allesandra and her pup, and make them see the folly of this breach of their treaty. Yes, she had been confident.

It seemed like ages ago.

But she had seen the strange fog spill from the Westlander encampment to envelop Oldtown and the Garde Civile. Then, a bare turn of the gla.s.s later, great blossoms of orange fire bloomed on the North Bank, and she had watched them suddenly arc high into the air in several directions, some falling into the fog where her army waited, and others. . . .

The A'Sele's water rippled with the fire's reflection as the blossoms-screeching and wailing-rose as if flung by angry Moitidi. She saw the answer of the war-teni: pale blue lightning that reached up toward the blossoms. Several of them reached the blossoms at the top of their arcs: where they touched, a new, brief sun burst into life and the sound of thunder rolled over the city. But there were too many of the fire-blooms and the answer of the war-teni had come too late. Most of the fireb.a.l.l.s fell: onto the Holdings' warships on the river, into the maze of Oldtown, and onto the Isle a'Kralji itself. And where they fell, they exploded in a gout of bright, loud fury.

She watched one in particular: the arc lifted higher than the others, and she could see the terrifying line of it-coming directly toward her. She stared, frozen by dual fascination and dread, feeling (as it plummeted down, as it grew larger with each instant), her body remembering the shock and horror of the moment that Kraljiki Audric had been killed. She wondered if this would hurt as much.

But no . . . she could see the line of sparks it trailed, now slipping slightly to her right. The fireball slammed into the palais' northern wing, spraying thick fire over the facade and into the gardens below. She felt the entire structure shudder with the impact, so strongly that she had to hold onto the frame of the window to keep from falling. Her knuckles tightened around the bar of the crutch. There were screams and shouts from all around the grounds. Nessantico's night was once more banished-not from the famous lamps of the light-teni, but by an inferno. Even from her window, Sigourney thought she could feel its heat.

Servants rushed into the room. "Kraljica! You must come with us! Hurry!"

"I'm not leaving here," she told them.

"You must! The fire!"

"Then don't waste your time here-go help put it out," she told them. "Summon the fire-teni from the temples. Go. Go!"

She waved her free hand at them-her scarred, battered body protesting at the violence of the movement-and they scattered. The wind-horns were sounding now in the temples, the alarm taken up all around the city. Sigourney looked down and saw the palais staff hurrying toward the burning wing. Smoke curled around the side of the palais and burned in her remaining eye. She blinked as the eye teared, and drank the remainder of the herbalist's concoction.

"Look at me!" she shrilled to the night and the Westlander forces hidden in the fog. "I have given up too much to be here. You will not move me. You will not."

The Battle Begun: The White Stone.

"WHY DO YOU STAY HERE?"

"Why do you watch them?-the boy's not yours."

"He's not your responsibility."

"You should have left."

"You've waited too long."

The voices yammered in her mind: cajoling, warning, pleased. Fynn's was loudest, purring with satisfaction. "You're going to die here, and the child inside with you."

"Be quiet," she told them all, and they lapsed into sullen silence.

The air was thick with the unnatural fog, and the smell of burning wood drifted in its tendrils. The glow had become worse, and now there seemed to be a summer snow: ash drifting to the ground and coating her greasy hair and the shoulders of her grimy tashta. There were un-definable sounds in the fog, overlaid with the continual unearthly wail of the wind-horns.

She stared at the door where she'd last seen Talis. There was no one there now, and she hadn't seen Nico. There's nothing you can do for him. For the moment, he's safe. She pressed her hands to her swelling belly. Maybe the voices were right. Maybe she should flee the city. Save her own child.

But Nico was her child, too. Cenzi had brought him to her. He had chosen her, and Nico was hers as much as the unborn child inside her.

"Too late . . ."

Or maybe not. Grimacing, she turned away from Nico's house and moved swiftly out into the streets. She had to see with her own eyes, had to know what was happening. The streets were far more crowded than they should have been at this time of night, but people were hurrying to their destinations without looking at each other, fear frozen on their features. Many of them kept their hands near weapons openly carried: swords whose scabbards were peeling leather and whose blades were spotted with rust; knives that looked as if they'd last carved a roasted pig. There would be violence in these streets before this night ended: a harsh word, an unintended jostle, a misinterpreted move-anything could ignite it, a spark to dry tinder. She knew it because violence lived inside her. She could smell the blood ready to spill.

But not yet. Not yet. She kept to shadows, she said nothing to any of them. The White Stone avoided killing, unless it was for pay or for her own protection.

She reached the Avi a'Parete and turned south. As she approached the river, the smell of smoke grew ever stronger, the smoke and fog intermingling so it was impossible to tell one from the other. There were fires burning in the warren of close-set buildings to the west of the Avi, the flames licking high enough to be seen from where she stood. A teni-driven carriage came rushing up from the Pontica Kralji, with a half dozen fire-teni aboard: their faces covered with soot; already exhausted from the effort of using their spells to extinguish the mult.i.tude of fires. A squadron of Garde Kralji, their swords out and their faces grim, accompanied them, surrounding a pack of sullen-looking men in plain bashtas, most of them very old or very young. "You!" the offizier of the squadron barked, pointing at a gray-bearded ancient lurking near the building nearest her. "And you!"-this to a youth who could not have been more than twelve, being pulled along by his matarh. "Both of you! Come with us! Lively, now!"

The matarh screeched her objection, the man started to run the other way, then evidently decided he wouldn't make it. The Garde Kralji closed around them and moved off into the night in the direction of the fires, taking boy and old man with them as the matarh screamed in futile protest.

She continued south until she saw the columns of the Pontica Kralji looming through the smoke. She paused there, looking out over the A'Sele. What she saw horrified her and made the voices inside her laugh.

On the river, several of the warships were afire, already burned nearly down to the waterline, the wreckage clogging the river so that those ships that were still untouched could barely maneuver. Over the northern branch of the river, the Isle A'Kralji burned. The Kraljica's Palais was a yellow-orange inferno with a volcano of sparks whirling away from it. The grand new dome of the Old Temple looked to be shattered, fire licking at the supports that had been erected around it. There were scattered small fires here and there. The bridges, especially the two leading to the South Bank, were crowded with people fleeing, pushing carts loaded with belongings or burdened with packs. She heard a crash behind her; glancing back over her shoulder toward the buildings crowding the Avi on this bank, she saw a crowd of people smashing down the door of a bakery, and also that of a jeweler. The street behind her was getting crowded and noisy. Somewhere inside one of the shops, she heard a woman scream.

Blood. She could smell the blood. She touched the leather pouch under the cloth of her tashta and felt the smooth, polished stone there.

"The rioting's begun . . ."

"It will only get worse . . ."

The voices shouted alarm in her head. "Have you gone stupid, woman? Move!"

She did. She strode unhurriedly toward the nearest alley, a trash-littered s.p.a.ce between the backs of buildings. She would go back to Nico's house. She would watch and if things became dangerous there, she would be there to help him, to get him out. If his real parents could not protect him, she would be his true parent and do so. She touched her stomach as she walked. "And I will do the same for you," she whispered to the stirring life inside her. "I will. I promise."

The voices laughed and cackled.

She saw motion at the edge of her vision in the fog and smoke, felt the p.r.i.c.kling of danger. She whirled around. "Hey!" A man stood there-dark hair speckled with gray, but young enough that she wondered how he'd managed to avoid the press gangs prowling Oldtown. His hands were up as if in surprise, and he was smiling, showing the gaps where teeth were missing. "No need to be frightened, Vajica, is there?" he said. She could see his tongue moving behind the spa.r.s.e teeth. "I just wanted to make sure you were safe, I did." He took a step toward her. "Dangerous days right now."

"For you, yes," she answered. "I can take care of myself."

"Ah, you can, eh?" He sidled to one side, blocking her from moving into the alley. She turned with him, always facing him. "Not many can say that today." He took a step toward her, and she scowled.