Jillard gave a dismissive snort. 'How could anyone what, Falcio? Participate in such an obscene venture? After all this time are you really so blind to the lengths people will go in search of power?'

I stared at Sedge and Beltran and thought back to the woman on the road and the assassin in the throne room. They'd all been convinced they were being granted greatness. They thought they were becoming Saints themselves. 'Son of a bitch,' I said aloud.

'Quite,' Jillard agreed.

I tried to shake off my disgust; that didn't matter, not right now. 'So what treatments are there for Adoracia poisoning?' I asked.

Something not unlike sympathy passed over the Duke's face. 'There are none, Falcio. None, save the one you have already found.'

An iron mask, and a life entombed within it.

I was about to leave when the Duke gripped my arm. I turned, a little surprised. I don't think he'd ever deigned to touch me before. 'They will destroy Valiana if they can,' he said. 'Not just my fellow Dukes, but the minor nobles the Margraves and Viscounts and Lords. They thought they could manipulate and threaten her, but she's outwitted them at every turn. She's . . . surprised all of us.'

'Careful, your Grace. You almost sound as if you admire her.'

He looked oddly disappointed at my jibe. He let go of my arm and sat back against the edge of the table. 'The Gods play strange tricks on us, don't they? For years I thought she was my daughter and never spared a thought for her. Now I know she isn't, and I find myself . . .'

'Regretful?' I suggested.

He shook his head as if to banish the thought, then walked past me to the door of the death house. 'In all likelihood she's the daughter of a peasant farmhand, pushed out by some gap-toothed slattern in the hay next to the pigs. But Tommer . . . No matter what I say to him, he insists she is his sister. He would trade his life for hers in an instant.' He stopped, hand on the door handle, but didn't look back as he said, 'If my son dies, Falcio, I'll make you pay for it.'

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT.

The Favour

I made my way up the long winding stairs from the death house and along the back hallway to the grand foyer of the Palace of Luth. Bright marble floors clacked under the heels of noblemen and commoners busily striding to their respective destinations. I counted a dozen soldiers in yellow and gold livery guarding the huge double doors that opened out into the courtyard. Anyone seeking entry was briefly interrogated and their papers checked to confirm they had business in the palace.

A dozen more guards stood just outside the doors, keeping watchful eyes on the two hundred pilgrims who were milling about and muttering prayers to their Gods. I wondered what they were praying for.

I was on my way back to the diplomatic chamber and Valiana when I was very politely accosted by Pastien, Ducal Protector of Luth, who was doing a fair impersonation of a more majestic figure in his long gold coat trimmed in black. Three guardsmen accompanied him, along with Quentis Maren. Already weaselling your way into power, Inquisitor?

'First Cantor,' Pastien said, grabbing my shoulder earnestly. 'I'm so glad to find you here.'

I didn't share the sentiment. 'My Lord,' I said, and sidestepped him before pushing past his men.

'Falcio, please.'

People rarely say please to me. I stopped and turned.

'I . . .' Pastien stumbled over his own tongue for a few seconds, then he managed, 'How is the Realm's Protector?'

I suppressed the urge to give him directions to the diplomatic chamber and tell him to ask her himself. If you did, my Lord, you'd find her trapped in an iron mask, unable to see or speak. I might have said as much, but I was keeping an eye on Quentis Maren. 'The Realm's Protector is well, my Lord,' I replied. 'I'll be sure to tell her you asked.'

Pastien nodded, and it was as if his shoulders sagged under an invisible weight. 'In the chamber, when it happened, I was . . . unhelpful.' He was taller than me, and yet it felt like he were gazing up at me like a scolded puppy. 'It's just that . . . Valiana is so strong, so commanding . . .'

He let the words hang there, but I didn't reply. If you're looking for absolution, pray to a Saint. If you can find any left.

After a few seconds, Pastien straightened himself. 'I realise this is a difficult time, First Cantor, but I wish to ask a favour of you.'

A favour. Absurdly, I found myself glancing at the guardsmen's swords and the holster at Quentis' right side where he kept his wheellock pistol. It'll be tricky, I thought, but I swear, if Pastien asks my permission to court Valiana again I'm going to kill him. 'How can I be of service, my Lord?'

'A delegation of clerics from around the Duchy is arriving in the morning.' He glanced back briefly at Quentis Maren. 'I believe they are coming to demand that I present to them my plan for protecting our churches.'

'How do you plan to protect them?' I asked.

He looked distinctly uncomfortable at the question. 'We have few soldiers left in Luth, I'm afraid. Most of our Knights were part of Shuran's secret army and those who weren't . . . well, Knights prefer to serve Ducal lines, you understand, not . . . temporary figures such as I. Valiana sent for a contingent from Aramor, and it should arrive in two days.'

'Then it appears your problem is solved,' I said. 'Now, if you don't mind-'

'My nobles want me to step down,' Pastien said, glancing at the men and women who walked past us, and they, in turn, looked upon their current ruler with expressions that ranged from mild disapproval to outright disdain. 'They think I'm weak, ineffective,' he went on. 'In truth, I think it was only seeing Valiana standing beside me, supporting me, that kept them from trying to push me out sooner.'

That last note of self-pity in his voice set me on edge. What had Valiana seen in this overdressed mop of a man? 'I'm afraid the Realm's Protector is indisposed, my Lord. You'll have to find some other prop to lean on tomorrow.'

The guardsmen looked as if they were very keen to get me into a dark room and discuss my attitude. Quentis Maren just looked bored.

'I deserved that,' Pastien said, without any equivocation, and it made me hate him just a tiny bit less. When he spoke again there was a little more steel in his voice. 'The problem, First Cantor, is that there are farmers in my Duchy who need help to survive this poor growing season. We have roads that caravans can't travel because they are in such disrepair; those that aren't are patrolled by brigands who consider any traveller their lawful prey.' The young man's eyes caught mine. 'I know I'm not very good at this, Falcio, but if I'm forced out, who is going to look out for my people?'

My mind turned back to the walk up the staircase with Valiana two days ago, the smile on her face as she'd said, 'He's very decent, I think. He keeps trying to find ways to keep the Duchy stable.'

I sighed. 'What can I do to help, my Lord?'

'If you could persuade Aline . . . I mean, the heir . . . if she were to stand with me when we greet the delegation tomorrow, show her confidence in me, then the clerics might be predisposed to deal with me directly. My nobles are religious men and I believe the support of the clerics would go a long way to secure my position, for a little while at least.'

'You think a fourteen-year-old girl is going to impress a group of crotchety old priests?'

That actually took him aback, but he rallied quickly. 'She has a keen intellect, First Cantor. Her knowledge of the political and economic landscape of the country is excellent, and Valiana has consulted with her on every decision.'

This was news to me. I knew Valiana had been training Aline, preparing her to one day take the throne, but somehow I always envisioned that day being a long way away. This, I thought, this right here is why I'm so bad at politics. I keep seeing the world as it was and not as it is.

'Besides,' Pastien went on, 'Aline is King Paelis' child, heir to the throne of Tristia. The clerics will respect that above all else.'

I found myself moved by the way he spoke, such an odd combination of faith in Aline and doubt in himself. I might have relented then, had I not seen his guardsmen's eyes turn suddenly to the palace entrance and heard shouts coming from the courtyard. I followed the sounds, but couldn't see past the crowds of gawking nobles standing behind their personal guards and retainers. I pushed past them, careful to keep track of anyone nearby holding a weapon who might think this an opportune time to kill a Greatcoat, but no one was paying any attention to me.

When I finally got close to the open doors, I saw the sea of dirty white-robed pilgrims rushing about madly, all tripping over each other as they tried to escape the enclosed space; some even ran onto the spears of the guardsmen keeping them from entering the castle. Billows of thick grey fog rose up from the ground in the centre of the courtyard, expanding so rapidly it was as if it were chasing the fleeing pilgrims.

Nightmist, I thought crossly. Will I never be rid of fucking magic in my life?

Suddenly, in the midst of the swirling grey chaos, a flash of silver rose up and then down just as quickly, and a bright red splatter painted itself briefly against the grey canvas as the shouts turned to screams. For a brief moment, the sun split the fog and I saw a single man, black-haired and clothed in chainmail, swinging a two-handed warsword like a scythe. His blade whirled in the air, and again blood followed in its wake.

'Gods, what's happening?' Pastien asked, and I turned to answer but already his guards were pulling him back to safety.

The screams rose in volume and when I looked back outside, I caught a glimpse of the attacker's face: he was grinning at me with unbridled excitement, his eyes wet with tears of joy as his blade came down again and again, killing the panicked men and women caught inside the courtyard and obscured by the nightmist. None of the pilgrims, not one of them, tried to fight back; they just trampled each other to death trying to escape.

A fox among the chickens, I thought, a knot twisting my stomach. Look how easily he feeds.

The last of the guards backed into the palace as others began closing the heavy doors. I grabbed one of them by the collar. 'What in hells are you doing? Those people-'

The man shook me off. 'Have you seen what's out there? We're not damned well going out there to be cut down by that animal or trampled over by the mob!'

I shouted for Pastien, telling him to order his soldiers to put a stop to the butchering outside, but his men had already hustled him away to safety. Valiana would have been the first to go out there.

I turned back to the doors, the gap between them shrinking, now five feet, then four feet . . . three.

Saint Marta-who-shakes-the-lion, I swore silently, if you happen to still be alive, now would be a fine time to lend me a little strength.

I leaped through the gap.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE.

The Fox and the Chickens

Of the many things I hate about nightmist, foremost is the way it plays with sound. The pilgrims' screams echoed as if they were coming from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Their pitch sometimes lowered into howls or rose into squeals that threatened to make my ears bleed. It was maddening and terrifying all at once. Had the damned pilgrims simply tried running towards their attacker rather than away, they might have stampeded over him. Tristian courage at work, I thought bitterly. It's a miracle we don't get invaded every second Thursday.

It was an ignoble thought, and unfair. These men and women were tired, cold from sleeping outside, hungry from lack of food, and the nightmist created its own kind of chaos that would disorient and confuse even trained soldiers.

I drew both my rapiers, taking reassurance from the solidity of their leather-bound grips. No more cane-fighting for me.

'What's the plan?' asked a voice close behind me, and I was surprised to find Quentis Maren at my shoulder. 'What's the matter?' he added. 'Aren't you pleased to see me?'

'Just a little curious which side you're on.' I started trying to push through the crowd in front of us.

'I've told you before, Falcio,' the Inquisitor said, shoving aside a man who was blocking our way, 'I serve the Gods.'

'Yeah?' I pointed towards the grey mist in front of us, and the figure of the God's Needle some forty feet away, his thick chainmail catching the occasional stray beam of sunlight, his laughter coming at us in waves as his blade sliced into defenceless flesh and bone. 'So does he, apparently.'

The Inquisitor drew his twin-barrelled wheellock pistol in one hand and hefted his mace in the other. 'Not any God I know.'

The two of us were buffeted around by the crowd as people rushed around searching for a nonexistent safe place.

Quentis lifted his pistol in the air, then said, 'I can't get a clean shot.'

I glanced at the weapon. 'Can that thing go through chainmail?'

'On a good day, up close. Not from this distance.'

More screams. More blood. And still we couldn't get through.

'Then shoot him in the head, damn it!'

'I can't the weapon's not accurate at this distance, and especially not in this fog. I'll just end up hitting one of the pilgrims.'

'Come one, come all!' shouted the madman in the centre of the courtyard. 'Don't be shy, little piggies!' He swung his sword in a blistering horizontal arc, taking a man's head clean off. 'You've so little blood amongst you, and I am a thirsty man!'

Everything he did was helping to worsen the panic in the crowd. They were out of their minds with fear now, running wildly, getting in each other's way and, worse, ours. I kept having to drop the points of my rapiers just to avoid skewering people running into me.

'Here,' Quentis said, 'let's try this.' He raised his pistol in the air and squeezed the trigger, and the air shattered around us as the mist turned the crack of the weapon into something closer to the explosion from a cannon.

Men and women scattered and the path before us finally cleared enough to force a way through.

'Not bad,' I conceded.

'That gives me one shot for our friend.'

'Can't you reload?'

'Yes,' he replied, 'I just need two minutes or so uninterrupted with no one jostling me. How likely do you think I am to get that?'

Brasti will be pleased to hear pistols have a weakness. I glanced ahead and could now see the God's Needle more clearly. He was, I reminded myself, just a normal man. Just very, very big, and wearing the thickest chainmail I've ever seen, and in all likelihood he's much stronger than me and completely unable to feel pain or exhaustion.

'Don't miss,' I said, and started off at a run for our enemy.

The Needle kicked the body of a dying woman off the end of his blade and I could see he was slowing now but not from any tiredness, just because there were now so many corpses in his way. How many had he killed already, fifteen? Twenty? His grin widened when he saw us. 'Trattari and Cogneri,' he said. 'What an odd pair of birds have fluttered inside my little cage.' He took a step towards us.

'Now would be an excellent time to shoot,' I said.

Quentis moved in front of me, raised his pistol and tried to fire the second barrel, but nothing happened. He quickly twisted a cog on the side of the weapon and squeezed the trigger again. Silence. 'It won't spark,' he said.

'Nightmist,' the God's Needle explained pleasantly, standing there as if he were politely giving us our chance. 'Makes things rather wet.'

I found myself suddenly acutely aware of the dampness glistening all around us, of the strands of hair sticking to my forehead. 'Any chance you can dry that thing out?' I asked Quentis.