They were nearing the center when Ja.n.u.s found what he was looking for. He quickened his steps in the direction of a small building, barely bigger than a farm shed, with sandstone walls and a slate roof. The doorway was tiny, barely big enough for a grown man to fit through, and it was blocked by a sun-bleached wooden door. On each side of it stood a crude statue, worn away by the years to smooth-faced mannequins only just recognizable as human.

It was not a building Marcus had ever seen before. He glanced questioningly at Fitz, who raised one eyebrow and shook his head. The Khandarai had a great many G.o.ds, and Marcus certainly wouldn't claim to know them all, but he was familiar with the major divinities. This had the look of a shrine to a minor deity, albeit an ancient one. What does he expect to find here?

The colonel went to the door and, to Marcus' surprise, knocked. There was a long moment of silence.

"What do you want?" The voice from inside was a woman's, dusty-dry and ancient-sounding. She spoke in Khandarai. Among the soldiers, Marcus guessed, only he and Fitz understood.

"We would like to come in," Ja.n.u.s said. The colonel used the politest form the language allowed, accent perfect as always. "If you would open the door, I would be grateful."

Another, longer silence. Then the crone said, "There is nothing inside for you."

"Nevertheless," Ja.n.u.s said.

When there was no response, he straightened up.

"If you do not open the door," he said, still pleasant and polite, "these men will break it down."

Marcus could hear mutterings from inside, in at least two voices. The door swung inward.

The inside of the little shrine was a single room. At one end was an altar, a long, flat stone resting on two blocks, adorned with a clay statue of a fat-bellied woman. Lamps burned on either side of the idol. Other than that, there was no furniture, just a few ragged rugs spread across the stone floor. The crone, withered and bent-backed, stood protectively in front of the altar, while off to one side a much younger woman in a plain brown robe knelt as though in prayer.

Ja.n.u.s crossed the room, his step still jaunty, but there was a certain amount of muttering from the rankers. Marcus caught a couple of superst.i.tious double-circle gestures, traditional for warding off evil. There were no windows, and the doorway was shadowed by one of the larger buildings, so the inside of the little shrine flickered yellow in the glow of the two lamps.

"Good day," Ja.n.u.s said to the crone. "I am Count Colonel Ja.n.u.s bet Vhalnich Mieran."

"There is nothing for you here," the old woman repeated. "You can see that now. Go away."

"I would like you to show me the entrance," the colonel said, still smiling.

The old woman glared at him, but said nothing.

"This does not need to be difficult," he said. "I know the yod-naath is here. Show me the way in."

"There is no such thing," the woman said stoutly.

"As you like." Ja.n.u.s turned back to his men. "Restrain the women and move the altar."

Marcus snapped a salute and told a pair of soldiers to take hold of the two women, pulling them to the far end of the shrine. Four more men took hold of the altar stone and lifted it with a chorus of grunts. The lamplight flickered as they maneuvered it carefully out of the way and set it down against the wall. At the last moment, one of the men lost his grip, and one corner of the heavy weight crashed against the floor loudly. The fat-woman statue toppled and shattered into ceramic shards, a cloud of fine dust rising from her innards and filling the room with a sweet, pungent smell.

Two more men shifted the blocks that had held the altar up. The young woman had her eyes closed, her mouth moving silently, but the crone watched Ja.n.u.s' every move like a snake. The colonel smiled at her and walked to where the altar had been. He brought one foot down sharply, and the stone underneath gave a hollow boom. The soldiers grinned.

"As I suspected," Ja.n.u.s said, stepping aside. "If you would, Sergeant?"

Marcus beckoned Argot forward. The stone was flush with those around it, offering no obvious handholds, so the sergeant shrugged and reversed his musket. Two sharp blows were enough to crack the thin slate, sending fragments of it tumbling into the hollow s.p.a.ce underneath.

The young woman let out a long moan, jerking against the guards who held her arms. The old priestess merely redoubled her glare. Ja.n.u.s ignored both, stepping to the edge of the newly revealed hole and peering into the darkness.

"There appears to be only a short drop," he said. "I will proceed alone for the moment. Wait here."

"Sir," Marcus said, "we have no idea what's down there, or how far it may extend. Please wait until we can be sure it's safe."

Ja.n.u.s gave a tight smile. "I have a fairly good idea what's down there, Captain. But if you're worried about my safety, you may accompany me. Is that acceptable?"

It wasn't, by Marcus' lights, but he couldn't back down now. He accepted a musket from the sergeant, checked that it was loaded, and picked up one of the oil lamps from the altar. In pa.s.sing, he said to Fitz, "If we're not back in an hour, go and get two companies and tear this place apart."

Fitz nodded almost imperceptibly. Marcus tucked the weapon under one arm, set the lamp on the lip of the gap, and dropped into darkness. As Ja.n.u.s had said, it wasn't far, and when he stood from his crouch his eyes were only a foot below the floor of the shrine. Ja.n.u.s handed down the flickering lamp, which illuminated the contours of the underground s.p.a.ce, and Marcus was rea.s.sured to see that it was more of a bas.e.m.e.nt than a cave. There was a small circular s.p.a.ce opening onto the mouth of a corridor, which extended beyond the range of the lamplight.

Ja.n.u.s landed nimbly beside him, raising a puff of ancient dust. Marcus handed him the lamp, to leave his own hands free to hold the musket.

"I doubt you'll be needing that," Ja.n.u.s said.

"I hope not," Marcus said. He was having visions of an underground sanctum, packed with knife-wielding fanatics eager to defend their sacred temples to the death. One musket ball would not be much help, in that case, but the loaded weapon still gave him some comfort.

"As you like." Ja.n.u.s raised the lamp, peered down the corridor, then set off with a confident step. Marcus fell in behind him.

It was a longer walk than he'd antic.i.p.ated. The faint glow filtering down from the entrance was soon lost to sight behind a gentle curve, and only the narrow circle of lamplight was visible. Ancient stone unrolled in front of them and vanished behind. The air smelled dry, dusty, and dead.

"I don't suppose you'd care to tell me what you expect to find," Marcus said, to break the silence.

"When I first arrived," Ja.n.u.s said, "I told you that I thought Orlanko had some reason to be interested in Khandar. That he's sent his people here looking for something."

Marcus had almost forgotten that conversation. He nodded hesitantly. "What about it? You think it's here?"

"I wasn't certain until we found the tunnel," Ja.n.u.s said. "But now . . . yes."

"What could be down here that's so important?"

Ja.n.u.s stopped, setting the lamp to swinging on its handle. Their shadows danced against the walls.

"You were raised in the Free Church, were you not, Captain?" he said.

Marcus nodded. "Though I was never what you might call religious. I mean-"

Ja.n.u.s held up a hand to stop him. "Did you ever hear the story of the Demon King?"

That rang a very distant bell, but Marcus couldn't bring it to mind. He shook his head.

"It's part of the apocrypha of the early Church," Ja.n.u.s said. "The story goes that back in the days of Saint Ligamenti, during the Holy Wars, there was a sorcerer in the east who had carved himself out a kingdom. He called himself the Demon King, or at least that is the only way he's referred to in surviving records. He used his magic to break every army sent against him, and kept all the surrounding lands in terror. Eventually, the other kings asked the Church to intervene, and the Pontifex of the Black led a Holy War against him."

"I think I remember," Marcus said, poking through ancient, musty memories of sitting beside his parents in a splintery wooden pew. "The evil king was defeated, but he escaped the Black Priests, and fled with all his treasures across the ocean. That's where the Demon Sea gets its name." He stopped. "You're not serious."

Ja.n.u.s only smiled.

"But . . ." Marcus groped for words. "That was a thousand years ago. And, anyway, it's just a fairy tale! Like Gregor and the hundred bandits, or Hugh and the giant."

"There's often more truth in fairy tales than you might think," Ja.n.u.s said. "Not the literal truth, of course. But they represent a sort of folk memory, which at the root sometimes refers to real events. When added to historical evidence . . ." He shrugged. "As to whether there was a Demon King, I couldn't say. But the Pontifex of the Black did lead a Holy War in the east in the third century, and there are too many stories of his enemies sailing off over the southern horizon for it to be mere coincidence."

"That doesn't mean they came here. Khandar was only discovered two hundred years ago!"

"Two hundred and twenty-four," Ja.n.u.s corrected. "But that's the whole point, really. Cultural studies from those first few expeditions found little coincidences they couldn't explain between the Khandarai culture and ours. Bits of language, symbols-" He caught Marcus' look and shrugged. "Most scholars dismiss the idea, but I've reviewed the evidence for myself. Someone from the continent was here long before Captain Vahkerson *discovered' the place."

"So that's what you think the Last Duke is looking for? Some kind of . . . of treasure?" It sounded like the plot of a bad penny opera-some vast storeroom of ancient loot, dug up by the intrepid hero while he rescued his true love. What does that make me? The comic sidekick?

"In a way." Ja.n.u.s started walking again, and Marcus hurried to catch up. "If you're expecting a mountain of gold, however, you may be disappointed."

"Then what's down here?"

"You'll see. Ah." Ahead, the lamplight showed a wooden door set into the rock. "This should be it. We're right underneath the very top of the sacred hill now. Above us is the Temple of the Heavens United."

That was the largest and most impressive of the hill's monuments, a huge sandstone palace covered in grotesque, weathered statues representing hundreds of G.o.ds. Marcus had even been inside once, accompanying the prince. There hadn't been much to look at except for more statues and hundreds of supplicating Khandarai, though the sheer size of the pillared hall had been impressive.

"They cut this underneath the temple?"

"It's more likely that they built the temple on top of it." Ja.n.u.s took hold of the ring on the door and gave it a tug. Slowly, groaning with the rust of centuries, it swung outward, revealing a dark s.p.a.ce beyond.

Marcus was about to propose a bit of caution, but before he could speak Ja.n.u.s rushed eagerly inside. With his musket ready to hand, Marcus followed. In the light of the oil lamp, the chamber was revealed to be a rough, eight-sided s.p.a.ce, with a domed ceiling and crude stone walls. There were no furnishings of any kind, and no decorations. Marcus could see nothing to distinguish this place from the corridor they'd come through to get here. He looked questioningly at Ja.n.u.s.

The colonel stood frozen in the center of the room, his face as slack as if he'd been slapped. His lips worked soundlessly.

"Sir?" Marcus prompted, after a moment.

"It's not here."

"What's not here? What are we looking for?"

"It's not here!" Ja.n.u.s' voice rose from a whisper to a shout. He spun on his heel and ran back to the corridor. Marcus hurried after him.

He'd gotten a glimpse, in the flickering lamplight, of his superior's face. So far in their a.s.sociation, Marcus had never seen the colonel lose his temper. He'd started to wonder, in fact, if the man was even capable of anger. Now that question was answered. Ja.n.u.s' delicate features had been twisted into an almost unrecognizable snarl, and his great gray eyes seemed to glow from within with an awful light.

Marcus was out of breath by the time they pounded down the tunnel and reached the little shrine. He called out to the soldiers above to help them up, but before anyone could move the colonel caught the lip of the hole on a jump and hauled himself up. Argot hurriedly leaned down and extended a hand to Marcus, who handed the musket up and levered himself out of the hole, panting.

"What have you done with them?"

Ja.n.u.s' voice was cold and precise again, but there was a dangerous edge to it that Marcus had never heard before, not even in battle. He raised his head and saw the colonel confronting the ancient priestess, who was held from the sides by two nervous-looking soldiers.

"Taken it beyond your reach," the old woman said, her head raised in defiance. "Raschem."

There was a frozen, silent moment. Ja.n.u.s' hands tightened into fists, and he turned to the younger priestess, who cowered as best she could in the grip of her captors.

"Tell me where you have taken the Thousand Names," he snapped.

The woman babbled something, her Khandarai too fast for Marcus to pa.r.s.e. It was apparently not what Ja.n.u.s wanted, however, because he stepped closer to her and growled, "Tell me, or-"

"Leave her be," said the old woman. "She knows nothing."

"And you do?"

"Only that Mother will not be found by the likes of you."

Ja.n.u.s pressed his lips together. Then, speaking in Vordanai for the first time since he'd left the tunnel, he said, "Sergeant Argot, give me your knife, please."

The soldiers, unable to follow the Khandarai, had watched this exchange with increasing puzzlement. Now Argot started and said, "My knife?"

"Yes, Sergeant." Ja.n.u.s' eyes never left the old woman.

Argot glanced at Marcus, but the colonel's voice cracked like a whip.

"Now, Sergeant."

"Yessir!"

Argot drew a big skinning knife from a sheath at his belt, reversed it, and handed it to Ja.n.u.s. The colonel took it, hefted it thoughtfully, and looked at the old woman.

"Do what you like," the priestess said. "It will not avail you."

Marcus had finally caught his breath.

"Sir," he said. When that drew no response, he added, "Ja.n.u.s."

Ja.n.u.s blinked, then looked at Marcus. "Yes, Captain?"

"I just-" Marcus realized he had no idea what he wanted to say, except that he would rather not watch his commanding officer slice an old woman to ribbons. "I don't think she knows, sir. Look at her."

There was a long pause.

"No," Ja.n.u.s said quietly. "I suppose not. If she did, they would not have left her behind." He flipped the knife around deftly and handed it back to Argot. "Still, she may know something useful. Take them back to the Palace, both of them. The prince has people who specialize in this sort of thing."

Marcus swallowed. But an order was an order. And even if he'd wanted to object, the colonel was already stalking toward the door.

WINTER.

The big square in front of the barracks of the Heavenly Guard dwarfed the handful of blue-uniformed soldiers drilling in it. It had been built to allow the entire troop to parade at once, back in the days when the Guard had been an actual fighting formation instead of a sinecure for idiot sons of important families and worn-down servants. Sitting on the stone steps leading up from the packed-dirt field to the barracks building, Winter could see a half dozen companies going through their drills, but they filled barely a quarter of the s.p.a.ce. It felt oddly disrespectful, like doing jumping jacks in a temple.

The Seventh Company was out there with the rest, going through the Manual of Arms and some standard evolutions. Winter would just as soon have let them rest, after everything they'd been through, but Graff had insisted that maintaining at least a bit of daily drill was important to morale. On reflection, Winter could see the point of this; the exercises were a touchstone, and they kept the soldiers from dwelling on those they had lost.

Winter had a.s.signed Bobby to lead the drills today, partly so she herself could sit in the shade but mostly so she could keep an eye on the corporal. To all outward appearances, Bobby had recovered completely from the wound that she-it still felt odd to think of Bobby as "she," even in the privacy of her own skull-had suffered in the charge against the Auxiliaries at Turalin. Close observation, however, revealed that something had changed. She didn't seem to be in pain or short of breath, but she would occasionally stare distractedly into s.p.a.ce until some sound from the men returned her attention to the here and now.

"Is something wrong with her?"

Winter looked up at the sound of Feor's voice. The Khandarai girl had changed into a fresh wrap and wound a long white cloth around her broken arm, keeping it pinned at her side. Her hair, dark and straight, was tied in a simple tail.

"Be careful what you say, even in Khandarai." Winter glanced around, but just now the two of them were alone on the steps, and none of the Vordanai on the field were close enough to overhear.

"My apologies," Feor said. "You were staring at the corporal. Is something wrong?"

"I'm not sure," Winter said. "He seems okay, but he's acting a bit . . . oddly."

"I am not surprised. Obv-scar-iot should have been bound to one of the sahl-irusk, someone trained to it from girlhood. I did not know if it would accept . . . him." Feor sat down next to Winter on the sun-warmed stone, balancing carefully with her good arm. "Naath are unpredictable things. Mother would say that they have a temper."