Hart shrugged, continuing the gesture to raise the snifter to his lips.

The archbishop contrived to look like a lazy cat, and Hart's tension increased.

"Oh, come, Menet. I can easily ask for a scan, but it would be far more civilized this way."

"Biomedicine, chemistry, surgeon five, biotheory, atomic biology.

Doctorates."

The archbishop raised his eyebrows. "All of them?"

Hart nodded. "Surely you know all this."

Stonesh waved his comment aside. "I'm pleased. I'd hate to believe that our brave citizens and worthy parishioners are placing their lives in the hands of a charlatan. I take it that most of your degrees are through examination?"

"How else?"

"Fraud." Stonesh smiled. "Calm yourself, Menet. I am presuming that you are a honorable man."

Hart raised the snifter and watched the archbishop through curves of glass and brandy. Certain that Stonesh had manipulated him from the moment he stepped into the room, he wondered if the archbishop had even arranged Hart's invitation to the reception. The thought did not please him.

"How old are you?" Stonesh said.

"Twenty-five standard years."

"You see. It's hard to believe that a man your age could have accumulated that impressive list of doctorates. Have you practiced medicine before?" Stonesh demanded. "Been admitted before the Examiner's Board?

Interned?"

Hart stood and brandy climbed the sides of the snifter. "Are you going to arrest me? If that's what you're leading to, do it now and get it over with, but stop playing with me!"

The archbishop sighed and folded his hands on his lap.

"I very much doubt whether you'll renew that offer once you learn more of our Holy Office. Do sit again."

"I won't be interrogated!"

"You have no choice. Sit!"

Hart sat.

Stonesh rubbed his temples with his fingers, then refilled the snifters.

"I am not a pious man," the archbishop said. "I am, if anything, a political creature. These robes, this ring, are as much a symbol of politics as they are of religion. And if God does exist, I doubt whether He keeps that strict an eye on the denizens of Gregory Four. Do I shock you, Menet Kennerin?"

"Do you want to?"

"I want to make a point, and an important one. Were I the religious leader I am supposed to be, I would turn you over to the Holy Office with no compunction whatsoever. But I'm not that man, nor do I wish to be." The archbishop gestured toward the door. "Silks and jewels, wines and music.

Frosting, Menet. Deceptive frosting. The theocracy of Gregory Four is one of the most repressive in the system, and whenever you repress a basic human need, or one of those insistent, uncomfortable human desires, people find ways around the repression, and vice flourishes. How many of our pious, law-abiding aristocrats are clients of yours? No, don't answer. I'm making a point, in an old man's garrulous, roundabout way. It's useless to spend time ferreting out each and every panderer or prostitute, abortionist or gene changer. As a politician my only interest is in assuring myself that these scum are, at least, competent. So I've no interest in putting you out of business, Menet Kennerin. The opposite in fact. You're as necessary an evil as am I. Unless"

-- the archbishop raised an admonitory finger -- "unless there are deaths. Or you breathe a word to anyone of this conversation, or of others we may happen to have. If you do, Menet, or should one of your clients die through your actions, I think you'll have a personal and extensive knowledge of our Holy Office."

The archbishop smiled, stood, patted his dark robes into place. "Well past my bedtime, I'm afraid, and I am sure that you want to rejoin the party."

"I don't understand you," Hart said, rising. "Not your words, they're clear enough. But I don't understand why."

Stonesh smiled again and put his hand on the door.

"My nephew is the Regent, Menet Kennerin. Good night."

Hart stepped into the corridor and bowed, puzzled, as the archbishop of Saltena closed the door between them.

Lights dimmed in the theater, and the voices of the audience hushed.

Hart, resplendent, sat alone in his box. The glow from the program shaded blue on his golden skin. Old stuff, tonight: Targon, Kawamitsu's Fourth Elegy, Jannesdatter. Saltena was not a city to welcome innovation.

"Turn off the gram," a muffled voice said.

Hart resisted the urge to look behind him and fingered the gram to darkness. An abortion, perhaps, or a snip job. They often came to him this way, hidden in cloak and darkness, bringing their petty terrors and petty wants. And their purses. But it had been a long time since the last client, and Hart waited, relaxed, with patient curiosity.

Cloth rustled as someone sat in the other chair, well back from the reflected lights of the stage. The orchestra tuned below the bow of the projectors and the director had not yet appeared.

"I've been asked to speak to you about your connection with the archbishop."

"Hello, Tara."

"How did you know?"

"The pitch of your voice, my dear. It's unmistakable, inimitable, and unpleasant. What do you want?"

She sighed. "I do wish you'd stop trying to infuriate me, Hart. You're so clumsy at it."

Hart crossed his arms and remained silent. Behind him, cloth rustled as Tara moved in her chair.

"You talked with the archbishop last month, at the reception."

"That's right. And since then my practice has disappeared. Do you think the two are connected, dear?"

"Please, Hart. Of course they are."

"And now you're confused. There have been no arrests, no mysterious disappearances, no accidents. So what, you wonder, went on?"

"Yes."

"Is the archbishop connected with the Holy Office?"

"Not directly. But he 'is' the archbishop."

"There have been no incidents?"

"No."

"And last week your friend Lady Tomin died of a septic abortion."

Tara was silent.

"Go away, Tara. And tell your friends that I'm still in business. And still safe."

"On your word alone, Hart? We're not that naive. You'll have to do better than that."

Hart paused. The orchestra's director appeared, and a flutter of applause covered Hart's silence.

"I propose a trade," he said at last. "Information for information."

She made a quick, suspicious noise.

"Tell me about the Regent."

"The Regent! What is there to know about the Regent?"

"He doesn't make public appearances. I'm curious."

"The Regent is God's appointed representative on Gregory," Tara said, as though reciting from memory. "The Regent is God's agent until such time as He Himself comes to us. The Regent is to be revered and obeyed, for by our reverence and obedience to him, we revere and obey God."

"And?" Hart prompted.

"It's said he's crazy," she whispered, "Locked up. That he looks like a shoat. That he has no mind. Rumors."

"Perhaps he doesn't exist."

"Impossible," Tara said. "We'd have heard."

Hart nodded, remembering the extensive gossip network of the nobility, and how profitable it had been for him.

"Well?" Tara said.

"Well, what?"

She sighed again. "What did the archbishop say?"

"His Eminence and I discussed the merits of higher education," Hart said, smiling into darkness.

"That's a lie."

"I'm afraid not."

"I don't trust you."

"You'll have to, won't you, my dear? Give my regards to the Lord your husband, if you'd be so kind."

Her clothing rustled as she rose. Hart glanced back and saw a clenched white fist visible against the dark fabric of her cloak.

The curtains parted and closed behind her. Hart steepled his fingers, leaned back, and prepared to enjoy the concert.

They returned, as they had to, to the shuttered sanctuary of his treatment rooms and the quiet fastness of his laboratory. Silken robes and silken bodies, and if the poor also sought services like his, he did not know of it, nor did he care. Hart specialized in the pain-filled solutions to pain, and his clients paid handsomely for the suffering he prescribed.

He saw the archbishop on occasion, at receptions or other functions of the Court of the Regent of God. The old man would smile, pause, exchange a bland word or two, and go his way again. Hart ceased to worry about the meaning of their conversation and looked on the archbishop with the same reverent contempt as did the rest of the court.

The summons came one hot afternoon some months after their initial conversation, while Hart lay in his darkened bedroom, stroking the soft body of a client's son. The boy, fresh into adulthood, stirred, murmuring with his mouth pressed to Hart's shoulder. Hart caressed his spine and the boy shivered.

The knock on the door startled them both. The boy dove under the covers while Hart snatched at his robe.

"I'm not to be disturbed," he shouted. "Go away."

"Please, master, there's one to see you."

"I gave you instructions, Melthone. I'm busy, go away."

"Master, please. It's the archbishop."

Hart paused. The boy stuck his head out of the covers, terror-stricken.

"Where is he?"

"Outside, master. In his carriage."

"Tell him I'll be right down."

The servant's footsteps moved down the stairs. Hart threw off his robe and began to dress.

"You'll be all right," he assured the boy. "I'll go down. You can see the street from this window. Get dressed, and when his carriage leaves go downstairs. Melthone will show you out the back."

"But the Quisitors, the Office -- "

"Hush." Hart cupped the boy's chin in his palm and kissed his mouth.

"You'll be fine, I promise. But wait until his carriage is gone, understand?

Good."

He slipped from the room and ran downstairs, his fingers busy with his overshirt. The archbishop's carriage, like its owner, was squat and round, and Stonesh's face looked pale against the seat's black fabric.

"Your Eminence, forgive my tardiness. I was napping."