"Nothing urgent, sir."

"Good. Put it somewhere and come with me, then."

Fitz saluted again, set the papers on a broken end table that Marcus had been using as a desk, and fell into step behind his superior.

"May I ask," the lieutenant said as Marcus led him through the mazelike corridors of the Palace, "where we're going?"

"We're going to see the colonel," Marcus said.

"Ah." His tone didn't indicate what he thought of the idea.

Marcus struggled to keep hold of the mood he'd had on waking. Jen had been right. Whether the colonel was sulking or not, there were questions that needed to be answered. He tried not to picture Ja.n.u.s' face, gray eyes sharp with irritation, an eyebrow raised in sarcasm. "Really, Captain? Well, if you're not capable of attending to such matters yourself . . ."

He shook himself mentally, looked back to make sure that Fitz was still there to provide moral support, and turned down the last corridor that led to the suite of rooms the colonel had claimed for himself. Somewhat to his surprise, the lieutenant stopped in his tracks.

"Something wrong, Fitz?"

Fitz shook his head. "I'm not sure, sir. But the colonel requested a pair of guards for this corridor, and I'm fairly certain I added the post to the duty roster."

"Which company would have it today?" Marcus said. Fitz seemed to keep the entire schedule of the First Battalion in his head, writing it down only for the benefit of mere mortals.

"Davis', sir."

"That explains it," Marcus said darkly. "Remind me when we get back to have a word with him."

"Yessir."

Marcus continued down the corridor, his good mood draining away. They were deep in the interior of the Palace, and apart from occasional skylights, illumination was provided by braziers of burning candles in discreet alcoves. It was probably his imagination telling him they were getting farther apart as he approached the colonel's door, as though he were descending into a realm of shadows.

Or possibly not. Just up the corridor from the entrance to Ja.n.u.s' suite, one of the braziers had fallen over. The candles had drooled wax all over the flagstones before guttering out, leaving that section of the corridor in semidarkness.

"Sir," Fitz said urgently, "something is definitely wrong. I know there should be guards on the colonel's door."

"You're right." Marcus' skin started to crawl, and he let one hand drift to the hilt of his sword. "Maybe he's gone off somewhere and taken the guards with him?"

"Possibly-" Fitz sniffed the air and pointed. "Over there!"

They hurried past the colonel's door. The corridor beyond was disused and mostly in darkness, but the huddled shape Fitz had spotted was wearing Vordanai blue.

"Saints and martyrs," Marcus said, pulling up short. The sentry lay in a boneless heap against the wall, blood leaking from his ear and the back of his skull to pool on the floor underneath him. A spray of dark red stained the wall itself, as though he'd been slammed against it with great force. His musket lay forgotten nearby.

Fitz knelt, but only briefly. "He's dead, sir."

"I can see that," Marcus said, forcing his mind to work. "I want you to run to the barracks and collect as many men as you can round up in five minutes, then come back here. Understand?"

"Yes, sir, but-"

"I'll check on the colonel." Marcus drew his sword. "Go!"

a a a The door to the colonel's rooms was slightly ajar, and something metal glinted in the gap. It took Marcus a moment to recognize it as the bolt, complete with fitting, torn out of the rock wall.

What the h.e.l.l is going on? Marcus prodded the door with a boot and kept his sword in front of him. The door opened into the suite's anteroom, which Ja.n.u.s used as an office, and more doors let off into a dining room, bedroom, and servant's quarters. The office was dominated by a big, flimsy table, which had been cracked in half by the impact of another body. This sentry's face was contorted and black with the agony of strangulation, and his throat had gone a dark bruised purple.

Marcus took a deep breath, the point of his sword twitching. He considered calling out, but if the a.s.sa.s.sins-and what else could they be?-were still in the suite, he'd only be warning them. And if they've done their work and gone? It seemed unthinkable, but his mouth went dry.

The door to the bedchamber was half open. Marcus padded toward it as quietly as he could, and stopped abruptly at the sound of voices from within. The first, to his relief, was Ja.n.u.s'.

"I had been expecting-something like this," the colonel said in Khandarai. A young man answered, his tone pleasantly menacing.

"You must be a fool, then, to walk so willingly to your death."

"Your mother is the fool, if she thinks that killing me will change anything."

Marcus resumed his quiet advance. Through the gap between door and doorframe, he made out a flash of blue uniform that was probably Ja.n.u.s at the back of the room.

"You understand nothing. The latest fool in a long line of fools who thought us easy plunder, and found out different."

"Times have changed. The Redeemers have-"

"They have changed nothing. They wash in, and wash out again, like waves on a beach. It is of no importance. Mother remains."

"The Last Duke does not agree. Neither, I suspect, does the Pontifex of the Black."

"Gahj-rahksa-ahn." Marcus didn't understand the word, but the Khandarai spat it as though it tasted foul. "If you are the best he can muster, his order has fallen low indeed."

There was a footstep, and Marcus' sliver of vision was eclipsed by someone in brown moving between him and Ja.n.u.s. It was the best chance he was likely to get, and Marcus had not survived five years in Khandar by being chivalrous. He kicked the door out of the way and dropped into a lunge that would have made his old fencing master proud. The sword went in just between the young man's shoulders- Or should have. As Marcus started to move, the stranger twisted in place, impossibly fast. Marcus got a glimpse of bald head and a thin, mirthless grin. One of the man's hands came up, viper-fast, and the edge of his palm struck the flat of Marcus' sword a moment before impact. There was a sharp, wild ring of steel on stone. The blade had been neatly severed a third of the way down its length, and the shorn-off end slammed against the wall so hard it raised sparks. It bounced like a leaping salmon and pinwheeled across the room while Marcus stared incredulously at the broken fragment protruding from the hilt.

His eyes were still trying desperately not to believe what they'd just seen, but the rest of his body had enough sense to send him reeling backward as the stranger's hand came around again, a lazy backhand blow that whistled through the air with the force of a cannonball. Marcus scrambled away, searching for his balance, and came up against the broken table in the main room. The stranger blurred in front of him, and only another wild dive to the side kept Marcus out of his path. With a crack like a gunshot, one end of the table exploded in a shower of splinters.

Marcus ended up on the floor, rolling until he b.u.mped into a bedraggled sofa. He'd lost the remnant of his sword, and spent a moment scrabbling for his belt knife, but the Khandarai was on him before he could draw it. Marcus rolled again as the man came at him, but this time the stranger antic.i.p.ated the move, and Marcus fetched up against his suddenly interposed foot.

"Good-bye, raschem," the man mouthed. But before Marcus even had time to flinch, the a.s.sa.s.sin was gone, twisting away faster than the eye could follow. Marcus saw the glitter of steel overhead, and then heard another tremendous impact, as though a battering ram had crashed home.

Adrenaline drove him to his knees, though he was still desperately fighting for breath. Ja.n.u.s was in the anteroom, a thin-bladed sword in hand, and it was his attack the stranger had been forced to avoid. The Khandarai's riposte had been intended to plaster the colonel against the doorframe, but Ja.n.u.s had ducked away, and the punch had hit home hard enough to crack the ancient sandstone. Ja.n.u.s' sword flicked out as he moved, scoring a line on his opponent's flank that cut through the Khandarai's shirt and left a bright crimson stain.

At least he bleeds. Marcus struggled to his feet as the stranger rounded on Ja.n.u.s, warier now. The Khandarai tried to swat the colonel's blade aside, as he had Marcus', but Ja.n.u.s kept his nimbler weapon just out of reach and circled the tip around to pink his adversary's sleeve. After the third try, this seemed to enrage the Khandarai, who picked up a nearby chair and hurled it like a handball. Ja.n.u.s twisted out of the way, and then had to dive for his life as the a.s.sa.s.sin came bulling in after the missile.

Marcus cast about, looking for a weapon. The best he could come up with was an ornamental lamp, and he was just reaching for it when someone whispered in his ear.

"Sir. Perhaps these would serve?"

Marcus glanced over his shoulder to see Augustin, Ja.n.u.s' aged manservant, crouched beside him, a pistol in each hand. They were fancy guns, all oiled wood and silver chasing, but, important to Marcus' mind, they were c.o.c.ked and loaded. Marcus grabbed them without a word.

"Careful, sir," Augustin said. "Hair trigger."

Marcus was already spinning away, a gun in each hand. Ja.n.u.s had bought himself a few moments by ducking under the damaged table, but the stranger heaved it aside like a cheap toy. Marcus aimed carefully as the Khandarai stalked forward, and even managed a smile.

"Good-bye, demon," he said, but the words were drowned under the blast of the pistol's report, mind-shatteringly loud in the enclosed s.p.a.ce.

The Khandarai spun as though he'd been punched in the shoulder and staggered a step. Marcus dropped one pistol and switched the other to his right hand, then let his mouth fall open in naked disbelief. The a.s.sa.s.sin raised one hand, blood dripping slowly from his palm. When he opened his fingers, Marcus heard the soft ping of a pistol ball bouncing off the stone floor.

He caught the thing- "Get down, sir!" Marcus just had time to recognize Fitz's voice. His instincts threw him to the ground and pressed his hands over his ears. Another roar of gunfire, a dozen times more violent, ripped through the chamber, and Marcus could hear the crazy zing and whine of ricochets. It was followed by a horrible wrenching sound and a shrill scream, then by ringing silence.

Marcus looked up cautiously. A dozen men stood on both sides of the outer doorway, the muskets in their hands still smoking. In the corridor just beyond, another soldier lay in a vividly crimson puddle, one arm and most of his shoulder torn away. Behind him was Fitz, his back pressed tight against the wall, eyes wide as saucers. There was no sign of the a.s.sa.s.sin.

To Marcus' immense surprise, he himself appeared to be uninjured, or at least in no immediate pain. He found Ja.n.u.s also levering himself to his feet. The colonel fixed Marcus with an almost rueful look.

"Sir," Marcus said, when he'd found his voice. "Are you hurt?"

"I don't believe so, Captain." Ja.n.u.s tossed his sword to the floor and patted himself inquisitively. "No, it appears not."

"Fitz?" Marcus called over his shoulder. "Are you all right?"

"Yessir."

Even the bare few seconds that had pa.s.sed seemed to have been enough for the normally unflappable lieutenant to regain his composure. His voice doesn't even tremble, Marcus thought, a bit enviously.

"Anybody else injured?"

"I'm afraid Corporal Denthrope is dead, sir," Fitz said. "The rest of us seem to be unhurt."

"Right." Marcus almost tossed aside the remaining pistol, checking himself at the last moment when he remembered it was still loaded. He carefully closed the hammer instead and turned to the doorway. "We're going to want runners to every duty company. Close all the gates, start a cordon at the outer wall, and-"

"No," Ja.n.u.s said, behind him.

"What?" Marcus rounded on the colonel. "Sir, with all due respect, that was an a.s.sa.s.sination attempt. It was nearly successful. We can't just let him go-"

"They won't be able to stop him," Ja.n.u.s said. "And I'd sooner not lose any more men trying."

Marcus wanted to scream. Part of him was still stunned by the impossibility of what he'd just seen, and the fact that Ja.n.u.s obviously knew something he wasn't bothering to share made him want to pick the colonel up by his collar and shake him until he explained what the h.e.l.l was going on. Half a lifetime of military decorum warred with raw emotion, and his fists clenched until the knuckles went white.

"Sir," Fitz said urgently, "there's more. The lower city is on fire."

"Fire?"

That cut through the budding rage like a bucket of cold water. Marcus had lived in Ashe-Katarion long enough to absorb some of the fear its citizens had for the prospect of fire. Built largely of dry wood and straw-stuffed mud bricks, the city was a perfect tinderbox. Buildings were packed so tightly against one another that a blaze, once started, was almost impossible to stop.

The prohibition on the use of fire as a weapon was the one rule that everyone observed, even the street gangs. For the most part the Khandarai got by without lamps or candles and cooked in stone fire pits, so the risk of accidental flames was small. Nevertheless, large portions of the lower city burned down every twenty or thirty years. Among the upper cla.s.ses, who lived inside the stone walls that served as a highly effective firebreak, these events were known as the "crimson flowers of Ashe-Katarion," and the citizens often gathered on rooftops to drink and watch the show.

"Where?" Marcus said. "And how bad is it?" There was no such thing as a fire service in Khandar, but the Colonials might be able to accomplish something.

"Bad," Fitz said. "Our sentries on the wall reported that four fires started along the west edge of the city, more or less simultaneously. There's not much wind, but you know how these things spread. I've sent runners to all our patrols outside the walls."

"Good." Marcus turned to Ja.n.u.s. "Sir. Four fires at once has to be enemy action. It could be cover for some kind of insurrection-"

To his astonishment, the colonel was smiling. Not his usual smile, tight-lipped and gone in an instant, but a wild, almost mad grin.

"Go on ahead, Lieutenant. The captain and I will follow presently."

Fitz's eyes flicked from Ja.n.u.s to Marcus, who gave an infinitesimal nod. He saluted and herded the gawking rankers with their smoking muskets out into the corridor. Once they were out of sight, Ja.n.u.s spun to face Marcus.

"Don't you see, Captain? It's still here."

"I don't understand. What's still here?"

"The Names. When we found the vault empty I thought they must have been removed from the city months ago. With all of the Desol to hide them in, it would have taken years to ferret them out. But this . . ."

Marcus frowned. "What makes you think they weren't?"

"The fire. Enemy action, you said, and very perceptively. But why would the Redeemers burn the city?"

"To try to get us, I would a.s.sume . . ." Marcus trailed off as Ja.n.u.s waved his hand.

"No, no. They must know we're camped inside the walls. A fire would be inconvenient, but certainly not devastating. A lone fanatic might try such a thing, but four fires at once? No."

"Then what?"

"Cover. You said it yourself. It keeps us penned up inside the walls while they remove the treasure from the city." Ja.n.u.s' mad smile was fading, and his brow furrowed.

"But . . ." Marcus tried to follow this chain of logic, certain that there must be some flaw. "What makes you think this is related to your ancient treasure in the first place?"

Ja.n.u.s raised one eyebrow. "I should think you would have guessed that as well, Captain. After all, it was you who spared my life from their a.s.sa.s.sin."

"I might have," Marcus said. "But-"

"Tell me, do you think an ordinary man could move so quickly, or strike with such force? Could an ordinary man have caught a pistol ball in flight?" He spun and pointed to the cracked stone doorframe. "Do you know of any normal man who could fracture rock with his bare hands?"

"I don't know what I saw," Marcus replied, hedging.

"You know," Ja.n.u.s said, with a quick smile, "but you're not prepared to believe the evidence of your senses. I believe mine, Captain, and what they tell me is that the treasure of the Demon King is real. Now we must move quickly to retrieve it, as His Majesty has instructed. And," he added, as an afterthought, "to keep it out of the hands of the Last Duke."

WINTER.

Winter woke before dawn with a pounding pain in the back of her head, a mouth that tasted of sewer water, and a need to visit the privy that would brook no delay.

Bobby lay against her, head resting on Winter's shoulder. Feor was in the opposite corner, neatly curled up in a catlike ball on a pile of cushions.

Winter extricated herself from Bobby, who murmured a little and didn't wake, and found that one of her legs had gone to sleep. She quietly slapped the flesh to try to work some life back into it, then limped out into the corridor. The Khandarai practice of large communal chamber pots had caused some serious embarra.s.sment for Winter in the past. Fortunately, at this early hour, no one was about to watch her. Afterward, greatly relieved, she groped her way back through the semidarkness to the little room she'd shared with the two younger girls.

She had dreamed, after all, but her dreams had been strange, disjointed things. Jane had been there, of course, but so had Captain d'Ivoire, and Sergeant Davis, and others she couldn't quite remember. Whatever it had been, it was fading quickly.

Her plan to use her own revelation to distract Bobby from brooding on what had happened to her had worked a bit too well. The younger girls had taken to drink with cautious enthusiasm, and it wasn't long before all talk of magic and Mrs. Wilmore's was forgotten, at least for the moment. Winter had never been a world-cla.s.s drunkard herself, in spite of her bravado. There was always the danger that, in an inebriated state, she would do something that would compromise her secret. It was oddly liberating to be in the company of people who already knew, and after the initial tide of melancholy had receded she found herself enjoying the experience.

It was considerably less enjoyable now, of course. She rubbed vainly at her eyes and wondered if there was anywhere to get a cup of cold water or, more usefully, a pail of it. Pushing back through the rag curtain into the little room, she found that Bobby had slumped the other way, snoring serenely against one wall, while Feor- Feor was on her feet. Her eyes were open, but queer, as though she were staring at something far beyond the walls of the tavern. She swept her gaze across Winter but didn't seem to see her.

"Feor?" Winter whispered, not wanting to wake Bobby. "Is something wrong?"

Feor's lips worked silently. Winter stepped into the room to take her shoulder, but as soon as the doorway was clear the Khandarai girl bolted, brushing aside Winter's outstretched arm and dashing through the flapping rag curtain into the hallway. Winter stood for a moment in shock, listening to her retreating footsteps, then spat a curse.