Ah, the raucous glory of that age! He had been young then, before the accretions of graft after graft had sapped his monumental frame. And such a contest! But for Sil's impatience, he and his brothers would have won, and all this-this world-would be moot.

Driven from Min-Uroikas. Scattered. Hunted. So far they had dwindled!

And then, from nowhere, a second age of glory. Who would have guessed that the cunning of Men Men could resurrect their aborted designs, that the vermin could restore his destiny? Horde-General to dread Mog-Pharau, Breaker of Worlds. He had burned the Great Library of Sauglish. He had stormed the heights of Holy Tryse. He had made fires of their cities, beacons that shone through the very void. He had extinguished nations-bled whole peoples white! Aurang, the Norsirai of Kuniuri had called him "the Warlord." Perhaps the most far-seeing of his many names. could resurrect their aborted designs, that the vermin could restore his destiny? Horde-General to dread Mog-Pharau, Breaker of Worlds. He had burned the Great Library of Sauglish. He had stormed the heights of Holy Tryse. He had made fires of their cities, beacons that shone through the very void. He had extinguished nations-bled whole peoples white! Aurang, the Norsirai of Kuniuri had called him "the Warlord." Perhaps the most far-seeing of his many names.

So how had it come to this? Bound to a Synthese, like a king to a leper's robes. Frail and fugitive. Skulking about the fires of a roused enemy. There had been a time when the screams of thousands had heralded his coming.

He circled the hilltop compound the way a vulture might, slow and high, and with a patience that could run out all life. To the west, the Hills of Jarta lay blanched and broken in the moonlight. To the east, the Plains of Shairizor fanned to the black horizon, scored by grove and field, pocked by barn and byre. Beyond, the Horde-General knew, lay Shimeh ...

The very heart of the mannish world. The Three Seas.

Everywhere, he could see the furtive mark of their generations, the residue of once-dominant themes and long-lost reprises. The shadows of the Shigeki fortress that had once commanded these heights. The Ceneian road that struck straight as a rule across the plain. The defensive sensibilities of the Nansur in the compound's concentric design. The frosting of Kianene ornament. Petalled battlements. Iron-fretted windows.

He was deeper than all this. Older than their blasted stone.

He spiralled downward, toward the outer courtyard, where he could see his children's horses. He alighted on one of the eaves, where the sun's warmth still radiated from the clay tiles. He called to them in the sacred pitch only they and rats could hear. They came leaping through dark and abandoned halls, faithful, faithless things. They grovelled before him, their groins slick from their victims. His eyes flared and they clutched themselves in anguish and ecstasy. His children. His flowers.

For decades, the Consult had a.s.sumed that the alien metaphysics of the Cishaurim had been responsible for uncovering their children in Shimeh. This had made the prospect of the Empire's fall to the Fanim intolerable. Half the Three Seas immune to their poison? The Holy War had seemed a rare opportunity.

But the plate had changed all too quickly. To realize that the Cishaurim were but a mask for a far more ancient foe. To come so very close, only to discover their sublime deceptions subverted by something deeper deeper. Something new.

The Dunyain.

There was more to this than a son hunting for his father-far more. Their devious methods and disconcerting abilities aside, these Dunyain were Anasurimbor Anasurimbor. Even without the Mandate prophecies, enmity was a fact of their accursed blood. Who was this Moenghus? And if his son could seize the armed might of the Three Seas in a single year, what had he accomplished in thirty thirty? What awaited the Holy War in Shimeh?

Despite the rank disorder of his soul, the Scylvendi had been right about one thing: these Dunyain had seized too much already. They could not be allowed the Gnosis as well.

Aurang, his h.o.a.ry soul wrenching at the seams of the Synthese that housed him, smiled an odd, bird-twitching smile. How long since his last true true contest? contest?

His children continued straining and clutching, their cracked faces bent to the stars.

"Prepare this place," he commanded.

"But, Old Father," the daring one, ussirta, said, "how could you be certain?"

He knew. He was the Warlord.

"The Anasurimbor marches the Herotic Way. He will pause before crossing the plain, reorganize, revise his plans. The Scylvendi is right-he isn't like the others." A normal man-even an Anasurimbor-would succ.u.mb to the eagerness that so quickened the legs of those who set eyes upon a hard-won destination. But not a Dunyain.

Men. They had been little more than packs of wild dogs during the First Wars. How had they grown so?

"Is it near, near, Old Father?" the other, Maorta, exclaimed. "Does it come?" Old Father?" the other, Maorta, exclaimed. "Does it come?"

He regarded the piteous thing, his wretched instrument. And so few of them remained.

"The sacrifice has been made," he said, ignoring its question. "The Anasurimbor will be lulled into thinking he has already antic.i.p.ated us. Then, when he comes to this place ..."

Before the coming of these Dunyain, the Consult could trust to their tools. Now Aurang had no choice but to intervene, to tyrannize what their tools could only mock, to possess what they could only mimic ...

"Trust me, my children, he will be caught unawares when we strike. There is treachery in his wife's heart."

They would test the limits of this Prophet's penetration. They would deny him the Gnosis.

The thing gurgled and clacked its teeth.

"We probe their faces with pins," Eleazaras said, affecting the droll tone that had once come so naturally to him.

"And that was how you found him?" Her tone was sharp and obviously sarcastic. Eleazaras glanced derisively at Iyokus, even though all such looks were wasted upon him now. How little these menials knew of jnan!

"Need I explain it again?"

The painted lips smiled. "That depends whether he he wishes to hear your story, now, doesn't it?" wishes to hear your story, now, doesn't it?"

Eleazaras snorted, availed himself of his wine bowl once again, drinking deep. She was clever-he would cede her that. d.a.m.nably clever. No-no ... no need to bring No-no ... no need to bring him him into this into this.

The fact that she had learned of their discovery so quickly spoke not only to her ability but to the efficacy of the organization she had a.s.sembled following the Warrior-Prophet's ascendancy. He would not make the mistake of underestimating either her or her resources again. This wh.o.r.e-c.u.m-Consort.

This ... Esmenet.

She was attractive, though. Well worth rutting ... To do to her what they had done to that thing's face. Yes, very attractive.

The slaves had finished pitching the pavilion no more than a watch previously. Eleazaras had arrived with Iyokus to study the beast-the first live one they'd apprehended-when the Intricati had appeared in the wake of exclaiming and bewildered Javreh. She had just walked in walked in ... ...

One of the Nascenti accompanied her, Werjau or something-Eleazaras was too drunk to remember-as well as four of those Hundred-f.u.c.king-Pillars. All with Chorae bound to their palms, of course. They stood, a small and confrontational crowd, framed by the evening light that filtered through the entrance. Eleazaras wondered if she even grasped the outrageousness of her presumption. Sweet Sejenus! They were the Scarlet Spires Scarlet Spires! No one simply intruded upon their affairs, no matter what their writ or who their lord and master. Especially Especially a woman. a woman.

The chamber was both hot and foul, a result of all the felt the slaves had draped across the walls to m.u.f.fle sound. Suspended face down, the thing lay shackled to the crude iron scaffold that propped the ceiling. A leather thong had been tied about the tip of each facial digit, drawing them out like the ribs of a parasol. In the corner of Eleazaras's eye, it looked a grotesque parody of the Circ.u.mfix. Its crotch-face glistened in the lantern light, wet and v.a.g.i.n.al.

Blood tapped the reed mats in a steady rhythm.

"We fully intended," Iyokus was saying, "to share any information we exacted."

Whether this was true or false, of course, depended entirely on the information exacted.

"Oh," the Intricati said, "I see ..." Despite her small stature, she cut an imposing figure in her Kianene gown and wrap. "And when might that have been?" she continued. "Sometime after after Shimeh?" Shimeh?"

Penetrating b.i.t.c.h. That was the thing, of course, the reason they had no hope of merely talking their way out of this small and likely inconsequential treachery: Shimeh lay mere days away.

The impossible had become imminent.

It was strange the way events had shown him the divisions divisions in what had once been the singular mora.s.s of his soul. Even as he laughed at the thought of Shimeh-and the Cishaurim-something gibbered within him, panicked and sputtered, like that day his uncles had hauled him into the breakers to teach him how to swim. in what had once been the singular mora.s.s of his soul. Even as he laughed at the thought of Shimeh-and the Cishaurim-something gibbered within him, panicked and sputtered, like that day his uncles had hauled him into the breakers to teach him how to swim. Some other day, Some other day, please please ... Some other day! ... Some other day!

Where was the justice? His contract with Maithanet and the Thousand Temples had been struck in a different world. There had been no mention of the Consult or the Second Apocalypse. No mention of the Mandate being being right ... And certainly nothing had been said about a right ... And certainly nothing had been said about a living prophet living prophet!

How could they have been so deceived? And now to be bent upon murder, to have their knife drawn, only to discover that they had no motive ... except self-preservation.

What have I done?

For weeks now, the members of the Scarlet Spires' privy council, the Two-Palms, had quarrelled over question after question. Is the Atrithau Prince truly a prophet? And if he is, why should the Scarlet Spires Scarlet Spires accede to his demands? And what of the Second Apocalypse? The Consult and their skin-spies ... they had replaced accede to his demands? And what of the Second Apocalypse? The Consult and their skin-spies ... they had replaced Chepheramunni Chepheramunni! They had ruled High Ainon in their name! What did that portend? And how should they respond? Should they retreat, abandon the Holy War? What would be the consequences of that?

Or should they continue prosecuting their war against the Cishaurim?

Burning questions, and all of them with no answer apart from decisive leadership-something that their present Grandmaster clearly lacked. The insinuations had already started, the niggling comments that accused all the more for their ambiguity. "Curse the implications!" he felt like screaming at Inrummi, Sarosthenes, and the others. "Just say what you mean!"

That said it all, he supposed. What was it the Conriyans said about an Ainoni Ainoni demanding clarity? demanding clarity?

It meant throats would be soon cut.

And Iyokus, especially, had become quarrelsome, despite the fact that Eleazaras had renamed him to his old position. Who'd ever heard of a blind blind Master of Spies? Even before the b.i.t.c.h Intricati's arrival, the chanv addict had started, demanding that Eleazaras pa.r.s.e the undecidable, that he recall his station, treat with the "new fanatics," as he called them, from a position of strength ... Master of Spies? Even before the b.i.t.c.h Intricati's arrival, the chanv addict had started, demanding that Eleazaras pa.r.s.e the undecidable, that he recall his station, treat with the "new fanatics," as he called them, from a position of strength ...

"Don't say it!" Eleazaras had cried. "Don't even think it."

"So what? Are we to simply endure endure these indignities? You would yield our-" these indignities? You would yield our-"

"He sees, sees, Iyokus! He reads our souls in our faces! What you say to me, you say to Iyokus! He reads our souls in our faces! What you say to me, you say to him, him, no matter what! All he need ask is, 'What does your Master of Spies make of all this?' and no matter what answer I give him, he will hear no matter what! All he need ask is, 'What does your Master of Spies make of all this?' and no matter what answer I give him, he will hear these very words you these very words you speak!" speak!"

"Pfah!"

There was strength in ignorance, Eleazaras realized. All his life he had thought knowledge a weapon. "The world repeats," the Shiradic philosopher Umartu had written. "Know these repet.i.tions, and you may intervene." Eleazaras had taken this as his mantra, had used it as the hammer with which to pound cunning into his wit. You may intervene, You may intervene, he would tell himself, no matter what the circ.u.mstance. he would tell himself, no matter what the circ.u.mstance.

But there was knowledge beyond hope of intervention, knowledge that mocked, degraded ... gelded and paralyzed. Knowledge that only ignorance could contradict. Iyokus and Inrummi simply did not know know what he knew, which was why they thought him castrate. They didn't even believe. what he knew, which was why they thought him castrate. They didn't even believe.

Perhaps it was inevitable that the Intricati appear here and now. That the Warrior-Prophet Warrior-Prophet intervene. intervene.

"And why wasn't I summoned?" the Intricati was asking. "Why was the Warrior-Prophet not informed?"

"We thought it a School matter," Iyokus said.

"A School matter ..."

Eleazaras smirked. "It is we we who face the Snakeheads, not you." who face the Snakeheads, not you."

She actually had the temerity to take a step closer. "These things have nothing to do with the Cishaurim," she snapped. "I would ponder that word 'we,' Eleazaras. I a.s.sure you, its meaning is more treacherous than even you might think."

Impertinent! Outrageous, impertinent wh.o.r.e! "Pfah!" he cried. "Why am I even speaking to the likes of you?"

Her eyes flashed. "The likes?"

Something, her tone or perhaps his own better judgement, caused him to reconsider. He felt his contempt drain away, his eyes dull with anxiety. He blinked, looked to the skin-spy, which writhed in the constrained way of couples making love with only blankets to conceal them. Suddenly everything seemed so ... dreary.

So hopeless.

"I apologize," he said. Out of habit he had tried to sound scathing, but the words had sounded scared scared instead. What was happening to him? When would this nightmare end? instead. What was happening to him? When would this nightmare end?

A smile of triumph crept across her face. She-a caste-menial wh.o.r.e!

Eleazaras could feel Iyokus stiffen in outrage; apparently one did not need eyes to witness what had just happened. Consequences! Why must there always be consequences? He would pay for this ... this ... humiliation. To remain the Grandmaster, one had to act act the Grandmaster ... the Grandmaster ...

What did I do wrong? something churlish cried within. something churlish cried within.

"The creature will be transferred," she was saying. "These things have no soul for your Cants to compel ... Other means are required."

She spoke the language of edict, and Eleazaras found himself understanding-though Iyokus, he knew, could not hope to follow. She was was a handsome woman-beautiful, even. He would enjoy f.u.c.king her ... And the fact that she belonged to the Warrior-Prophet? Sugar on the peach, as the Nansur would say. a handsome woman-beautiful, even. He would enjoy f.u.c.king her ... And the fact that she belonged to the Warrior-Prophet? Sugar on the peach, as the Nansur would say.

"The Warrior-Prophet," she continued, speaking his name like a well-worn threat, "wishes to know the details of your prep-"

"Is what they say true?" he blurted. "Is it true you once belonged to Achamian? Drusas Drusas Achamian?" Of course, he knew it was, but for some reason he needed to hear Achamian?" Of course, he knew it was, but for some reason he needed to hear her her say it. say it.

She stared at him, dumbfounded. Suddenly Eleazaras could actually hear the silence provided by the black felt walls-every st.i.tch of it.

Tap-tap-tap-tap ... The thing bleeding faceless blood.

"Don't you see the irony?" he drawled on. "Surely you do...Iwas the one who ordered that Achamian be abducted. I was the one who stranded you with ... with him." He snorted. "I'm the reason you're here at all, am I not?"

She didn't sneer-her face was far too beautiful-but her expression burned with contempt nonetheless. "More men," she said evenly, "should take credit for their mistakes."

Eleazaras tried to laugh, but she continued, speaking as though he were nothing more than a creaking pole or barking dog. Noise. She continued telling him-the Grandmaster of the Scarlet Spires!-what he had to do. And why not, when he so obviously had abandoned decisions?

Shimeh was coming, she said. Shimeh Shimeh.

As though names could have teeth.

Rain. It was one of those showers that came sudden upon dusk, foreshortening the sunlight and within moments casting the pall of woollen night. Water fell in sheets, vanishing into gra.s.ses, hissing across bare ground, bouncing across the dark welter of canvas slopes. Gusts made mist of the torrent, and sodden banners thrashed like fish on hooks. Hoa.r.s.e shouts and curses echoed through the encampment. The delinquent battled to pitch their tents. Some few stripped and stood naked, letting the water cleanse the long, long road from their skin. Esmenet, like so many others, found herself running.

She was thoroughly drenched by the time she found the small pavilion. Standing stoic in the downpour, the guardsmen of the Hundred Pillars could only regard her with bemused sympathy. The canvas flap was slicked in cold. Kellhus already awaited her in the warmly illuminated interior-as did Achamian.

They both turned to her, though Achamian looked quickly back to the abomination-the skin-spy she had seized from Eleazaras. It seemed to be muttering to him.

Rain drummed across the tarpaulin, an ambient and humid roar. Water dripped from dents in the ceiling.

The thing had been chained upright to the centremost post, its wrists hung high, its feet off the rush-covered ground to deny it leverage. Nude, it gleamed polished brown in the lantern light, the colour of the Sansori slave it had replaced. The wages of its captivity marred its skin: burns, welts, and inexplicable curlicues of broken skin, as though a child had scribbled upon it with an awl or knife. Its face disjointed and half clenched, it rolled its head as though dragging a weight. An expression of human astonishment seemed painted across its knuckled digits.

Iyokus had taken his toll, she realized, even in such a short time. She tried not to think of Achamian suffering the man's ministrations ...

"Chigraaaa ... Ku'urnarcha murkmuk sreeee murkmuk sreeee ..." ..."

"Some inborn impulse ..." Achamian was saying, as though he resumed an interrupted thought. "Like those caterpillars that curl into a ball whenever touched. The same must happen when they're captured."

Shuddering, Esmenet bent over to squeeze water from her hair, then gently dabbed her face with the inner lining of her surcoat, knowing from the stains that the lampblack about her eyes had scored her cheeks to the hollow. She blinked at the obscene image of the skin-spy, tried to steady her breath. She had to harden herself to such things!

Who are you fooling?