"There's much certainty certainty here," Eleazaras said, holding a kerchief to his face, "don't you think, Achamian? You know here," Eleazaras said, holding a kerchief to his face, "don't you think, Achamian? You know why why you've been taken. And you also know the inevitable outcome. We'll ply you for the Gnosis, and you, conditioned by years of Mandate training, will frustrate our every attempt. You'll die in agony, your secrets clutched close to your heart, and we'll be left with yet another useless Mandate corpse. This is the way that it's you've been taken. And you also know the inevitable outcome. We'll ply you for the Gnosis, and you, conditioned by years of Mandate training, will frustrate our every attempt. You'll die in agony, your secrets clutched close to your heart, and we'll be left with yet another useless Mandate corpse. This is the way that it's supposed supposed to happen, no?" to happen, no?"

Achamian simply stared in blank horror, an anguished pendulum slowly swinging to and fro, to and fro . . .

What Eleazaras said was true. He was supposed to die for his knowledge, for the Gnosis.

Think, Achamian, think! Please-please-dear-God-you-must-think!

Without the guidance of the Nonmen Quya, the Anagogic Schools of the Three Seas had never learned how to surpass what were called the Analogies. All their sorcery, no matter how powerful or ingenious, arose through the power of arcane associations, through the resonances between words and concrete concrete events. They required detours-dragons, lightnings, suns-to burn the world. They could not, like Achamian, conjure the events. They required detours-dragons, lightnings, suns-to burn the world. They could not, like Achamian, conjure the essence essence of these things, the Burning itself. They knew nothing of the Abstractions. of these things, the Burning itself. They knew nothing of the Abstractions.

Where they were poets, he was a philosopher philosopher. They were mere bronze to his iron, and he would show them.

Achamian snorted air through his nostrils. Through bleary eyes, he glared at the Grandmaster.

I will see you burn! I will see you burn!

"But here here," Eleazaras was saying, "in these tumultuous times, the past need not be our tyrant. Here, your torment, your death, isn't assured . . . Here, nothing is for certain."

Eleazaras walked from the others-five graceful, measured steps-and came to a stop very near to Achamian.

"To prove this to you, I'll have your gag removed. I'll actually let you speak speak, rather than ply you, as we have your fellow Schoolmen in the past, with endless Compulsions. But I warn you, Achamian, it will be fruitless to try to assail us." He produced a slender hand from the cuff of his glyph-embroidered sleeve, gestured to the mosaic floor.

Achamian saw a broad circle, painted in red, across the stylized animals of the mosaic floor: the representation of a snake scaled by pictograms and devouring its own tail.

"As you can see," Eleazaras said mildly, "you're chained above a Uroborian Circle . . . To even begin a Cant will invite immeasurable pain, I assure you. I've witnessed it before."

So had Achamian. The Scarlet Spires, it seemed, possessed many potent poetic devices.

The Grandmaster retreated, and a lumbering eunuch appeared from the shadows. With fat but nimble fingers, he withdrew the gag. Achamian sucked air through his mouth, tasted the stink of his body's earlier treachery. He hung his head forward, spit as best he could.

The Scarlet Schoolmen watched him expectantly, even apprehensively.

"Well?" Eleazaras asked.

Achamian blinked, cocked his neck against the pain. "Where are we?"he croaked.

A broad smile split the Grandmaster's thin grey goatee.

"Why, Iothiah of course."

Achamian grimaced and nodded. He looked down to the Uroborian Circle beneath, saw his urine trickle along the grout between mosaic tiles . . .

It didn't seem a matter of courage, only a giddy instant of disconnection, a wilful ignorance of the consequences.

He said two words.

Agony.

Enough to shriek, to empty bowels once again.

Threads of incandescence, winding, forking beneath his skin, as though he possessed sunlight for blood.

Shriek and shriek until it seemed that eyes must rupture, that teeth must crack, spill to mosaic floor, clicking like porcelain against porcelain. And then back to nightmares of a far older, and far less momentary, torment.

When the shrieking stopped, Eleazaras stared at the unconscious figure. Even chained and naked, his shrivelled phallus prodding from black pubic hair, the man seemed . . . threatening.

"Stubborn," Iyokus said, in a tone that insolently asked, What did you What did you expect? expect?

"Indeed," Eleazaras replied, and fumed. Delay after delay. The Gnosis would be such a lovely thing to wrest from this quivering dog, but it would be an unexpected gift. What he needed needed to know is what happened that night in the Imperial Catacombs beneath the Andiamine Heights. He needed to know what this man knew of the Cishaurim skin-spies. The Cishaurim! to know is what happened that night in the Imperial Catacombs beneath the Andiamine Heights. He needed to know what this man knew of the Cishaurim skin-spies. The Cishaurim!

Directly or indirectly, this one Mandate dog had undone whatever advantage they'd gained at the Battle of Mengedda. First, by killing two sorcerers-of-rank at the Sareotic Library, among them Yutirames, an old and powerful ally of Eleazaras's. Then, by providing that fanatic Proyas with leverage. If it hadn't been for the man's threats of avenging his "dear old tutor," Eleazaras would never have allowed the Scarlet Spires to join the Holy War on the South Bank. Six! Six sorcerers of rank fell to Fanim bowmen armed with Chorae at the Battle of Anwurat. Ukrummu, Calasthenes, Nai'n . . . Six!

And this, Eleazaras knew, was precisely what the Cishaurim wanted . . . To bleed them while jealously guarding their own blood!

Oh, he did covet the Gnosis. So much that it almost proved a counterweight to that other word-"Cishaurim." Almost. That evening at the Sareotic Library, watching this one man resist eight sorcerers-of-rank with glittering, abstract lights, Eleazaras had envied as he'd never envied before. Such miraculous power. Such purity of dispensation. How? he had thought. How?

Fucking Mandate pigs.

After he learned what he needed about the Cishaurim, he would see this dog plied in the old way. All things in the world were a lottery, and who knew, seizing this man might prove an act as significant as destroying the Cishaurim-in the end.

That, Eleazaras decided, was Iyokus's problem. He could not fathom the fact that certain rewards made even the most desperate gambles worthwhile. He knew nothing of hope.

Chanv addicts never seemed to know anything of hope.

The Sempis seemed more than a river in the crossing.

Esmenet had ridden behind Serwe to a nearby Inrithi ferry, both terrified of floating on a beast's back, and amazed by the girl's native ability to ride. She was Cepaloran, Serwe explained. She'd been born astride a saddle.

Which meant, Esmenet thought in a moment of uncommon bitterness, with her legs spread wide.

Afterward, standing in the shade of hissing leaves, she looked across the river to the denuded North Bank. The barrenness saddened her, reminded her of her heart and why she had to leave. But the distance . . . A terrifying sense of finality seized her, a certainty that the Sempis, whose waters she'd thought kind, was in fact ruthlessly vindictive, and would brook no return.

I can swim . . . I know how to swim!

Kellhus clasped her about the shoulder. "The world looks south," he said.

Returning to the Conriyan encampment was far less difficult than she feared. Proyas had pitched camp beyond the high walls of Ammegnotis, the only great city on the South Bank. Because of this they found themselves part of a great stream of market-bound traffic: bands of horsemen, wains, barefooted penitents, all crowding the side of the road where the shade of palms was deepest. But rather than vanishing into the crowd, they found themselves beset by people, mostly Men of the Tusk but some camp-followers as well, all begging to be touched or blessed by the Warrior-Prophet. Word of his stand against the Khirgwi, Serwe explained, had further confirmed him in the hearts of many people. They were fairly mobbed by the time they reached the camp.

"He no longer rebukes them," Esmenet said, watching in astonishment.

Serwe laughed. "Isn't it wonderful?"

And it was-it was! There was Kellhus, the man who had teased her so many times about their fire, walking among adoring masses, smiling, touching cheeks, uttering warm and encouraging words. There was There was Kellhus, the man who had teased her so many times about their fire, walking among adoring masses, smiling, touching cheeks, uttering warm and encouraging words. There was Kellhus! Kellhus!

The Warrior-Prophet.

He looked up to them, grinned and winked. Pressed against the girl's back in the saddle, Esmenet could feel Serwe shiver in delight, and for an instant she experienced a pang of savage jealousy. Why did she always lose? Why did the Gods hate her so? Why not someone else, someone deserving? deserving? Why not Serwe? Why not Serwe?

But shame followed hard on these thoughts. Kellhus had come for her her. Kellhus! This man whom others worshipped had come out of concern for her.

He does this for Achamian. For his teacher . . .

Proyas had posted pickets around the outskirts of the Conriyan camp-primarily because of the furor surrounding Kellhus, Serwe explained-and they soon found themselves walking unmolested through long canvas alleys.

Esmenet had told herself she feared returning because it would stir too many recollections. But losing those recollections was what she truly feared. Her refusal to leave their old camp had been rash, desperate, pathetic . . . Kellhus had shown her that. But remaining had had fortified her somehow-or so it seemed when she thought about it. There was the clutching sense of defensiveness, the certainty that she must protect Achamian's surroundings. She'd even refused to touch the chipped clay bowl he'd used for his tea that final morning. By describing his absence in such heartbreaking detail, such things had become, it seemed to her, fetishes, charms that would secure his return. And there was the sense of desolate pride. Everyone had fled, but she remained- fortified her somehow-or so it seemed when she thought about it. There was the clutching sense of defensiveness, the certainty that she must protect Achamian's surroundings. She'd even refused to touch the chipped clay bowl he'd used for his tea that final morning. By describing his absence in such heartbreaking detail, such things had become, it seemed to her, fetishes, charms that would secure his return. And there was the sense of desolate pride. Everyone had fled, but she remained-she remained! She would look across the abandoned fields, at the fire-pits becoming earthen, at the paths scuffed through the grasses, and all the world would seem a ghost. Only her loss would seem real . . . Only Achamian. Wasn't there some glory, some grace in that? She would look across the abandoned fields, at the fire-pits becoming earthen, at the paths scuffed through the grasses, and all the world would seem a ghost. Only her loss would seem real . . . Only Achamian. Wasn't there some glory, some grace in that?

Now she was moving on-no matter what Kellhus said about hearth and family. Did that mean she was leaving Akka behind as well?

She wept while Kellhus helped her pitch Achamian's tent, so small and threadbare, in the shadow of the grand brocaded pavilion he shared with Serwe. But she was grateful. So very grateful.

She had assumed the first few nights would be awkward, but she was wrong. Kellhus was too generous, and Serwe too innocent, for her to feel anything other than welcome. From time to time, Kellhus would make her laugh, simply to remind her, Esmenet suspected, that she could still feel joy. Otherwise, he would either share her sorrow, or withdraw, so she might suffer in seclusion.

Serwe was . . . well, Serwe. Sometimes she would seem utterly oblivious to Esmenet's grief and act as though nothing had changed, as though Achamian might at any moment come strolling down the winding alley, laughing or quarrelling with Xinemus. And though Esmenet found the thought of this offensive, she found it peculiarly comforting in practice. It was nice to pretend.

Other times, Serwe would seem absolutely devastated, for her, for Achamian, as well as for herself. Part of this was the pregnancy, Esmenet knew-she herself had wept and laughed like a madwoman while carrying her daughter-but Esmenet found it particularly difficult to bear. She would dutifully ask Serwe what was wrong, would always be gentle, but her thoughts would fill her with shame. If Serwe said she cried for Achamian, Esmenet would wonder why. Had they been lovers for more than one night? If Serwe said she cried for her her, Esmenet would be indignant. What? Was she that pathetic? And if Serwe simply seemed to wallow, Esmenet would find herself disgusted. How could anyone be so selfish?

Afterward, Esmenet would berate herself. What would Achamian think of such bitter, spiteful thoughts? How disappointed he'd be! "Esmi!" he'd say. "Esmi, please please . . ." And she'd spend watch after sleepless watch remembering all her horrid words, all her petty cruelties, and begging the Gods for forgiveness. She didn't . . ." And she'd spend watch after sleepless watch remembering all her horrid words, all her petty cruelties, and begging the Gods for forgiveness. She didn't mean mean them. How could she? them. How could she?

On her third night, she heard a soft tapping against her tent flap. When she pulled it aside, Serwe pressed in, smelling of smoke, oranges, and jasmine. The half-naked girl knelt in the gloom crying. Esmenet already knew Kellhus hadn't returned, because she'd been listening. He had his councils and, of course, his growing congregation.

"Serchaa?" she asked, overcome by the motherly weariness of having to console those who suffered far less than herself. "What is it, Serchaa?"

"Please, Esmi. Please, I beg you!"

"Please what what, Serchaa? What do you mean?"

The girl hesitated. Her eyes were little more than glittering points in the gloom.

"Don't steal him!" Serwe suddenly cried. "Don't steal him from me!"

Esmenet laughed, but softly so as not to bruise the girl's feelings.

"Steal Kellhus," she said.

"Please, Esmi! Y-you're so beautiful . . . Almost as beautiful as me! But you're smart too! You speak to him the way other men speak to him! I've heard you!"

"Serchaa . . . I love Akka Akka. I love Kellhus too, but not . . . not the way you fear. Please, you mustn't fear! I couldn't bear it if you feared me, Serchaa!" Esmenet had thought herself sincere, but afterward, as she nestled against Serwe's slender back, she found herself exulting in the thought of Serwe's fear. She curled the girl's blond hair between her fingers, thinking of the way Serwe had swept it across Achamian's chest . . . How easy, she wondered, would it yank from her scalp? Why did you lie with Akka? Why? Why did you lie with Akka? Why?

The following morning, Esmenet awoke stricken with remorse. Hatred, as the Sumni said, was a rapacious houseguest, and lingered only in hearts fat with pride. Esmenet's heart had grown very thin. She stared at the girl in the tinted light. Serwe had rolled in her sleep, and now lay with her angelic face turned to Esmenet. Her right hand cupped the bulge of her stomach. She breathed quiet as a babe.

How could such beauty dwell in a slumbering face? For a time, Esmenet pondered what it was she thought she saw. There was a peculiar sense of sneakiness sneakiness, the thrill of one-sided witness so familiar to children. This was what made Esmenet grin. But there was far more: the aura of dormant life, the premonition of death, the wonder of seeing the unruly carnival of human expression enclosed in the stillness of a single point. There was a sense of truth, a recognition that all faces all faces held this one point in common. This, Esmenet knew, was held this one point in common. This, Esmenet knew, was her her face, as it was Achamian's, or even Kellhus's. But more than anything, there was a glorious vulnerability. The sleeping throat, the Nilnameshi proverb went, was easily cut. Was this not love? To be watched while you slept . . . She was crying when Serwe awoke. She watched the girl blink, focus, and frown. face, as it was Achamian's, or even Kellhus's. But more than anything, there was a glorious vulnerability. The sleeping throat, the Nilnameshi proverb went, was easily cut. Was this not love? To be watched while you slept . . . She was crying when Serwe awoke. She watched the girl blink, focus, and frown.

"Why?" Serwe asked.

Esmenet smiled. "Because you're so beautiful," she said. "So perfect." Serwe's eyes flashed with joy. She rolled onto her back, stretching her arms into the stuffy air.

"I know!" she cried, rolling her shoulders in a little jig. She looked to Esmenet, bounced her eyebrows up and down. "Everybody wants me!" she laughed. "Even you!"

"Little bitch!" Esmenet gasped, raising her hands as though to claw at her eyes.

Kellhus was already at the fire when they tumbled from the tent, laughing and squealing. He shook his head-as perhaps a man should.

From that day, Esmenet found herself tending to Serwe with even greater kindness. It was so strange, so confusing, the friendship she'd found with this girl, this pregnant child who had taken a prophet as a lover.

Even before Achamian had left for the Library, she'd wondered what it was Kellhus saw in Serwe. Certainly it had to be more than her beauty-which was, Esmenet often thought, nothing short of otherworldly. Kellhus saw hearts, not skin, no matter how smooth or marble-white. And Serwe's heart had seemed so flawed. Joyous and open, certainly, but also vain, petulant, peevish, and wanton.

But now Esmenet wondered whether these very flaws held the secret of her heart's perfection. For she'd glimpsed that perfection while watching her sleep. For an instant, she'd glimpsed what only Kellhus could see . . . The beauty of frailty. The splendour of imperfection. She had witnessed, she realized. Witnessed truth. She could find no proper words, but she felt better for it, revived somehow. That morning Kellhus had looked at her and had nodded in a frank, admiring manner that reminded her of Xinemus. He said nothing because nothing needed to be said-or so it seemed. Perhaps, she thought, truth wasn't unlike sorcery. Perhaps those who see truth simply see each other.

Later, before she left with Serwe to scrounge through the half-abandoned bazaars of Ammegnotis, Kellhus assisted her with her reading. Despite her protestations, he'd given her The Chronicle of the Tusk The Chronicle of the Tusk as a primer. Simply holding the leather-bound manuscript filled her with dread. The look of it, the smell of it, even the rasping creak of its spine spoke of righteousness and irrevocable judgment. The pages seemed inked in iron. Every word she sounded out possessed an anxiousness all its own. Every bird-track column threatened the next. as a primer. Simply holding the leather-bound manuscript filled her with dread. The look of it, the smell of it, even the rasping creak of its spine spoke of righteousness and irrevocable judgment. The pages seemed inked in iron. Every word she sounded out possessed an anxiousness all its own. Every bird-track column threatened the next.

"I need not," she told Kellhus, "read the warrant of my own damnation!"

"What does it say?" Kellhus asked, ignoring her tantrum.

"That I'm filth!"

"What does it say say, Esmi."

She returned to the exhausting trial of wrestling sounds from marks, and words from sounds.

The day was desert-hot, particularly in the city, where the stone and the mud brick soaked up the sun and seemed to redouble its heat. Esmenet retired early that night, and for the first time in many days, fell asleep without crying for Achamian.

She awoke to what the Nansur called "fool's morning." Her eyes simply fluttered open, and she found herself alert, even though the darkness and the temperature told her the morning lay many watches away. She frowned at the entrance to the tent, which had been pulled open. Her bare feet jutted from her blankets. Moonlight bathed them and the sandaled feet of a man . . .

"Such interesting company you keep," Sarcellus said. Screaming never occurred to her. For a heartbeat or two, his presence seemed as proper proper as it seemed impossible. He lay beside her, his head propped on his elbow, his large brown eyes glittering with amusement. Beneath white, gold-floriated vestments, he wore a Shrial gown with a Tusk embroidered across its chest. He smelled of sandalwood and other ritual incenses she couldn't identify. as it seemed impossible. He lay beside her, his head propped on his elbow, his large brown eyes glittering with amusement. Beneath white, gold-floriated vestments, he wore a Shrial gown with a Tusk embroidered across its chest. He smelled of sandalwood and other ritual incenses she couldn't identify.

"Sarcellus," she murmured. How long had he been watching her?

"You never did tell the sorcerer about me, did you?"

"No."

He shook his head in rueful mockery. "Naughty whore."

The sense of unreality drained away, and the first true pang of fear struck her.

"What do you want, Sarcellus?"

"You."

"Leave . . ."

"Your prophet isn't what you think he is . . . You do know that."

Fear had become terror. She knew full well how cruel he could be to those who fell outside the narrow circle of his respect, but she'd always thought herself within that circle-even after she'd left his tent. But something had happened . . . Somehow, she understood she meant nothing, absolutely nothing nothing, to the man now gazing upon her.