"You don't sleep, I assure you. Though you came close to never awakening . . ."

"What happens?" Conphas cried. Despite hollow legs, he strode around the far mahogany post of his bed, stood naked over the crumpled form of his General. The man still wore his field uniform. "Martemus?"

"Belonged to him him," the voice from the dark corner said.

"Prince Kellhus," Conphas said in dawning recognition. Suddenly he understood all that he needed to know: a battle had just been fought-and won. He grinned in relief-and wondrous admiration. The man had used Martemus! Martemus! Martemus!

And here I thought I'd won the battle for his soul!

"I need a lantern," he snapped, recovering his imperious mien. What was that smell?

"Strike no light!" the disembodied voice cried. "They attacked me tonight as well."

Conphas scowled. Saviour or not, Sarcellus had no business barking commands at his betters.

"As you can see," he said graciously, so as not to imply ingratitude, "my most trusted General is dead. I will have light." He turned to call for his guards . . .

"Don't be a fool! We must act fast, otherwise the Holy War is doomed!"

Conphas paused, looked to the corner concealing the Shrial Knight, his head tilted in morbid curiosity. "They burned you, didn't they?" He took two steps toward the shadows. "You smell of pork."

There was a rattle, like that of a bolting beast, and something slick barrelled across the bedchamber, disappeared out of the balcony . . .

Roaring for his guards, Conphas raced after him, waving past the gossamer sheers. Though he saw nothing in the Caraskand night, he noticed the spray of Martemus's blood across his arms. He heard his guards explode into the room behind him, grinned at their shouts of dismay.

"General Martemus," he called, stepping out of the chill air into their astonished presence, "was a traitor. Bring his body to the engines. See that it's cast to the heathens, where it belongs. Then send for General Sompas."

The truce had ended.

"And the General's head," his towering Captain, Triaxeras, asked in an unsteady voice, "do you wish that cast to the heathens as well?"

"No," Ikurei Conphas said, slipping into a robe held out by one of his haeturi. He laughed at the absurdity of the man's head, which lay like a [missing]. "[Missing] never leaves my side, that you know."

Fustaras was a zealous soldier. As a Proadjunct in the third maniple of the Selial Column, he was what others in the Imperial Army called a "Threesie," someone who'd signed a third indenture-a third fourteen-year term-rather than taking his Imperial Pension. Though often the bane of junior officers, Threesies like Fustaras were prized by their generals, so much so they were often issued more shares than their titular superiors. Everyone knew Threesies formed the stubborn heart of any Column. They were the men who saw things through.

Which was why, Fustaras supposed, General Sompas had chosen him and several of his fellows for this mission. "When children go astray," the man had said, "they must be beaten."

Dressed, like most Men of the Tusk, in looted Kianene robes, Fustaras and his band prowled the street commonly known as the Galleries-so named, Fustaras supposed, because of the innumerable, tenement-lined alleyways that wound about it. Located in the southeast quarter of the Bowl, it was a notorious gathering place for the Zaudunyani-the cursed heretics. Many would crowd the tenement rooftops and call out prayers to the nearby Heights of the Bull, where that obscene fraud, Prince Kellhus of Atrithau, continued to cower. Others would listen to deranged enthusiasts-they called them Judges-preach from the mouth of various alleyways.

Following his instructions to the letter, Fustaras halted and accosted a Judge where the heretics were most concentrated. "Tell me, friend," he asked in an amiable manner. "What do they say of Truth?"

The emaciated man turned, his pate gleaming pink through a froth of wild, white hair. Without hesitation, he replied, "That it shines."

As though reaching for coppers to toss to beggars, Fustaras clasped the ash club hanging beneath his cloak. "Are you sure?" he asked, his demeanour at once casual and dangerous. He hefted the polished haft. "Perhaps it bleeds."

The man's sparkling gaze darted from Fustaras's eyes to the club, then back. "That too," he said in the rigid manner of someone resolved to master their quailing heart. He pitched his voice so those nearby could hear. "If not, then why the Holy War?"

This particular heretic, Fustaras decided, was too clever by a half. He hoisted the club high, then struck. The man fell to one knee. Blood trickled across his right temple and cheek; he raised two glistening fingers to Fustaras, as though to say, See . . . See . . .

Fustaras struck him again. The Judge fell to the cracked cobble. Shouts echoed through the street, and Fustaras glimpsed half-starved men running from all directions. Clubs bared, his troop closed in formation about him. Even so, he found himself reconsidering the merits of the General's plan . . . There were so many. How could there be so many?

Then he remembered he was a Threesie.

He wiped the flecks of blood from his face with a stained sleeve. "To all those who heed the so-called Warrior-Prophet," he cried. "Know that we, the Orthodox, will doom you as you have doomed-"

Something exploded against his jaw. He pitched backward, clutching his face, stumbled over the inert form of the Judge. He rolled across the hard ground, felt blood pulse over his fingertips. A rock . . . Someone had thrown a rock!

His ears ringing, clamour roaring about him, he pressed himself to one knee, then found his feet. Clutching his jaw, he stood, looked around . . . and saw his men being cut down. Terror bolted through him. But the general said- But the general said- A wild-eyed Thunyeri with three shrivelled Sranc heads jangling between his thighs reached out and seized him by the throat. For an instant, the man looked scarcely human, he was so tall and so thin.

"Ream thuning praussa!" the flaxen-haired barbarian roared, swinging him about. Fustaras glimpsed armed shadows behind, felt his cry gagged into a cough by the thumb crushing his windpipe. "Fraas kaumrut!"

There was an instant where he could actually feel the cold of the iron spear tip against the small of his back. A sensation, like sucking deep icy air. Howling faces. The hot rush of blood.

A wheezing, huffing animal ruled its black heart, mewling in pain and fury. The thing called Sarcellus shuffled through the ruined precincts of some nameless tabernacle. For three days it had skulked through the dark places of the city, unable to close its face for pain. Now, kicking through a clutch of blackened human skulls, it thought of the snow that whistled across the Plains of Agongorea, of white expanses bruised black by pitch. It could remember leaping through the cool cool drifts, soothed rather than bitten by the icy winds. It could remember blood jetting across pristine white, fading into lines of rose.

But the snow was so very far-as far as Holy Golgotterath!-and the fire, it flared as near as his blistered skin. The fire still burned!

Curse-him-Curse-him-Curse-him-Curse-him! Let me gnaw his tongue! Fuck his wounds!

"Do you suffer, Gaortha?"

It jerked like a cat, peered through the cramped digits of its outer face.

As still and glossy black as a statue of diorite, the Synthese regarded him from the summit of several heaped and charred bodies. Its face looked white and wet and inscrutable in the gloom, like something carved from a potato.

The shell of the Old Father . . . Aurang, Great General of the World-Breaker, ancient Prince of the Inchoroi.

"It hurts hurts, Old Father! How it hurts! How it hurts!"

"Savour it, Gaortha, for it's but a taste of what is to come."

The thing called Sarcellus snuffled and blubbered, rolled its inner and outer faces beneath the merciless stars.

"No," it moaned, beating petulant fingers through the debris at its feet. "Nooo!"

"Yes," the tiny lips said. "The Holy War is doomed . . . You have failed. You You, Gaortha."

Wild terror lanced through its cringing thoughts: it knew what failure meant, but it couldn't move. There was only obedience before the Architect, the Maker.

"But it wasn't me! It was them! them! The Cishaurim command the Padirajah! It was their-" The Cishaurim command the Padirajah! It was their-"

"Fault, Gaortha?" the Old Father said. "The very poison we would suck from this world?"

The thing called Sarcellus raised its hands in desperate warding. All the monstrous and monumental glory of the Consult seemed to crash down upon him. "I'm sorry, please!"

The tiny eyes closed, but whether in weariness or in contemplation, the thing called Sarcellus could not tell. When they opened, they were as blue as cataracts. "One more task, Gaortha. One more task in the name of spite spite."

It fell to its belly before the Synthese, writhed and grovelled in agony. "Anything!" it gasped. "Anything! I would cut out any heart! Pluck any eye! I would drag the whole world to oblivion!"

"The Holy War is doomed. We must deal with the Cishaurim some other way . . ." Again, the eyes clicked shut. "You must ensure this Kellhus dies with the Men of the Tusk. He must not escape."

And the thing called Sarcellus forgot about snow. Vengeance! Vengeance would balm his blasted skin!

"Now," the palm-sized expression grated, and Gaortha had the sense of vast power, ancient and hoary, forced through a reed throat. Here and there, small showers of dust trailed down the broken walls.

"Close your face."

Gaortha obeyed as he must, screamed as he must.

Proyas's missive crumpled in his right hand, Cnaiur strode through a carpeted corridor belonging to the humble but strategically located villa where the Conriyan had chosen to sequester his household-or what remained of it. He paused before entering the bright square of the courtyard, stooping beneath the florid double-arched vaults peculiar to Kianene architecture. A dried orange peel, no longer than his thumb, lay curled in the dust encircling the black marble base of the left pilaster. Without thinking, he scooped it into his mouth, winced at the bitterness.

Every day he grew more hungry.

My son! How could he so name my son son?

He found Proyas awaiting him near one of three brackish pools at the centre of the courtyard, loitering with two men he didn't recognize: an imperial officer and a Shrial Knight. Mid-morning clouds formed a ponderous procession across the sky, drawing their shadows across the sun-bright confusion of the hills that loomed over the courtyard's shaded porticos, particularly to the south and west.

Caraskand. The city that had become their tomb. He does this to gall me. To remind me of the object of my hate! He does this to gall me. To remind me of the object of my hate! Proyas caught sight of him first. "Cnaiur, good-" Proyas caught sight of him first. "Cnaiur, good-"

"I don't read," he growled, tossing the crumpled sheaf at the Prince's feet. "If you wish to confer with me, send word word, not scratches."

Proyas's expression darkened. "But of course," he said tightly. He nodded to the two strangers, as though trying to salvage some rigid semblance of jnanic decorum. "These men have made a claim-of sorts-in a bid to secure my support. I would have you confirm it."

Struck by a sudden horror, Cnaiur stared at the imperial officer, recognizing the insignia stamped into the collar of his cuirass. And of course, there was the blue mantle . . .

The man frowned, exchanged a smiling, significant look with his companion.

"He grows lean in wits as well," the officer said in a voice Cnaiur recognized all too well. He suddenly remembered it floating across the corpses of his kinsmen-at the Battle of Kiyuth. Ikurei Conphas . . . TheExalt-General stood before him! But how could he fail to recognize him?

But the madness lifts! It lifts!

Cnaiur blinked, saw himself seated upon Conphas's chest, carving off his nose the way a child might draw in the mud. "What does he want?" he barked at Proyas. He glanced at the Shrial Knight, realizing he'd seen the man before as well, though he couldn't recall his name. A small, golden Tusk hung about the Knight-Commander's neck, cupped in the folds of his white surcoat.

Conphas answered in Proyas's stead. "What I want, you barbaric lout, is the truth truth."

"The truth?"

"Lord Sarcellus," Proyas said, "claims to have news of Atrithau."

Cnaiur stared at the man, for the first time noticing the bandages about his hands and the odd network of angry red lines across his sumptuous face. "Atrithau? But how is that possible?"

"Three men have come forward," Sarcellus said, "out of the piety of their hearts. They swear that a man-a veteran of the northern caravans who perished in the desert-told them there was no way Prince Kellhus could be who he claims to be." The Shrial Knight smiled in a peculiar fashion-obviously the burns, or whatever marred his face, were quite painful. "Apparently the scandal of Atrithau," Sarcellus continued inexorably, "is that its King, Aethelarius, has no live heirs no live heirs. The House of Morghund is about to flicker out-forever, they say. And this means that Anasurimbor Kellhus is a pretender."

The faint throb of Kianene drums filled the silence. Cnaiur turned back to Proyas. "You said they want your support . . . For what?"

"Just answer the blasted question!" Conphas exclaimed.

Ignoring the Exalt-General, Cnaiur and Proyas exchanged a look of honesty and admission. Despite their quarrels, such looks had become frighteningly common over the course of the past weeks.

"With my support," Proyas said, "they think they can prosecute Kellhus without inciting war within these cursed walls."

"Prosecute Kellhus?"

"Yes . . . As a False Prophet, according to the Law of the Tusk."

Cnaiur scowled. "And why do you need my word?"

"Because I trust you."

Cnaiur swallowed. Inrithi dogs! Inrithi dogs! someone raged. someone raged. Kine! Kine!

For some reason a look of alarm flickered across Conphas's face.

"Apparently the illustrious Prince of Conriya," Sarcellus said, "will have no truck with hearsay . . ."

"Not," Proyas snapped, "on a matter as ill-omened as this!"

Working his jaw, Cnaiur glared at the Shrial Knight, wondering what could cause such a strange disposition of burns across a man's face. He thought of the Battle of Anwurat, of the relish with which he'd driven his knife into Kellhus's chest-or the thing that had looked like him. He thought of Serwe gasping beneath him, and a pang watered his eyes. Only she knew his heart. Only she understood when he awoke weeping . . .

Serwe, first wife of his heart.

I will have her! someone within him wept. someone within him wept. She belongs to me! She belongs to me!

So beautiful . . . My proof- My proof- Suddenly Suddenly everything seemed to slump, as though the world itself had been soaked in numbness and lead. And he realized-without anguish, without heartbreak-that Anasurimbor Moenghus was beyond him. Despite all his hate, all his tooth-gnashing fury, the blood trail he followed ended here . . . In a city. everything seemed to slump, as though the world itself had been soaked in numbness and lead. And he realized-without anguish, without heartbreak-that Anasurimbor Moenghus was beyond him. Despite all his hate, all his tooth-gnashing fury, the blood trail he followed ended here . . . In a city. We're dead. All of us . . . We're dead. All of us . . .

If Caraskand was to be their tomb, he would see certain blood spilled first.

But Moenghus, someone cried. Moenghus must die! Moenghus must die! And yet he could no longer recall the hated face. He saw only a mewling infant . . . And yet he could no longer recall the hated face. He saw only a mewling infant . . .

"What you say is true," he finally said. He turned to Proyas, held his astonished, brown-eyed gaze. It seemed he could taste the orange peel anew, so bitter were the words.

"The man you call Prince Kellhus is an impostor . . . A prince of nothing."

Never, it seemed, had his heart felt so flaccid and cold.

The many-pillared audience hall of the Sapatishah's Palace was as immense as old King Eryeat's dank gallery in Moraor, the ancient Hall of Kings in Oswenta, and yet the glory of the Warrior-Prophet made it seem the hearth room of a hovel. Seated upon Imbeyan's throne of ivory and bone, Saubon watched his approach with trepidation. Cupped in gigantic bowls of iron, the King-Fires crackled in his periphery. Even after all this time they seemed to offend the surrounding magnificence-the imposition of a crude and backward people.

But still, he was King! King of Caraskand.

Draped in white samite, the man who'd once been Prince Kellhus paused beneath him, standing on the round crimson rug the Kianene had used for obeisance. He did not kneel, nor did he seem to blink.