The Warlord's legacy

Chapter Ten

Rahariem had fallen.

From beyond its walls they'd come, a swarm of mercenaries both Imphallian and foreign, and if their armor, their weapons, and their war cries were all different, still they fought as a unified force.

Alongside them had marched warriors of far more fearsome mien. Horned, cyclopean ogres ripped soldiers and horses and siege engines apart with great serrated blades and bare hands. Twisted, creeping gnomes crawled from the earth, cloaked in gloom, to murder soldier and citizen alike. The grounds surrounding Rahariem had become a swamp, made clinging mud by the shedding of so much blood. The shadow of flapping wings and the squawking of uncounted crows were an endless storm in the skies.

Yet the horrors of battle had paled before the horrors to come.

The courtyard of the Ducal Estate was crammed to bursting, its grasses and flowers trampled by the crush of so many feet. Rahariem's citizens milled aimlessly, aristocrat with pauper. Whimpers of terror rose as a single breath from the throng, and frightened eyes could not settle in any safe direction. From the fences surrounding the property, from the lampposts on the streets beyond, even from the flagpoles of the great keep, rancid bodies dangled, decanting vile fluids across the ground below. Thanks to the crows and creeping vermin, most were unrecognizable, and this, gruesome though it might have been, was a blessing-for each surviving face was known and loved by someone in the crowd.

Surrounding them-prodding with swords and spears; keeping the sheep from stampeding-were the invaders, human and otherwise. So long as the citizens held themselves in check and made no attempt to cause trouble or to escape, the soldiers left them largely unmolested. Any disruption, however, drew immediate and brutal response.

Nobody made a nuisance of themselves twice-because nobody survived the first time.

The keep's massive doors swung wide, and there he stood, framed within. The black steel of his armor faded into the darkness of the hall beyond, so that the plates of bone and the terrible skull seemed to hover, phantasmal and disembodied. For a long moment, precisely calculated for maximum effect, he waited, making no move save to rake that empty gaze across the assembly, examining every face and every soul, and disapproving of what he found. Then and only then did the monster who called himself Corvis Rebaine step into full view. Despite themselves, the crowd cowered away. Several began to weep.

"You've had the time I promised," he told them, and his voice was no less hollow than the empty sockets of the helm. "It is time to choose."

The people of Rahariem turned to one another, tearfully begging for understanding, for forgiveness. And they chose.

Many nobles and Guildmasters had escaped the city's fall, abandoning their offices and estates to hide among the populace. And now that populace grabbed them, exposed them, hauling them into the open to suffer Rebaine's judgment, for they knew what he would do to them otherwise.

He'd told them, after all, and they need only look at the dangling bodies to know he spoke the truth.

Most of them, aristocrats and Guildmasters both, screamed as they were dragged from amid their fellows, pleading for secrecy, for sanctuary. But some few stepped forward on their own, heads held high, unwilling to force their brethren into making such a terrible decision.

Sir Wyrrim, respected baron and landed knight, revered as highly in Rahariem as the duke himself, was the first to come forward. He faced the crowd around him, and to each of them he offered a gentle smile.

He felt a small hand take his own, and looking down saw his distant cousin, a young noblewoman of Rahariem. Her face was pallid with terror, a sheen of sweat across her brow, but she forced her lips into a matching smile.

Ignoring the weeping from all sides, the flapping of the fleshy banners above, Sir Wyrrim and the Lady Irrial joined their fellow prisoners, following Rebaine's soldiers toward whatever fate awaited in the dungeons below. DROWNING IN THE TIDE OF MEMORIES she had fought so long to escape, Irrial sat upon a knotty tree root and glared across the embers of the dying fire at the blanket-wrapped figure. Her bloodless lips were pressed together, her hands clasped tight about the hilt of her stolen sword. It would be so simple, the work of an instant, and so many years of unspeakable suffering would find some tiny measure of justice. No murder, this, but legitimate execution; perhaps even the putting down of a wild beast.

"If you're going to try to kill me," Corvis said without opening his eyes, "could you go ahead and get it over with? Cliches to the contrary, a man can't actually sleep with one eye open, so you're sort of keeping me up."

"You're really pushing me, Rebaine."

"Am I?" He sat, allowing the blankets to fall from his shoulders and finally opening his eyes. "Look, Irrial-my lady," he corrected at her expression, "we need each other. You accepted that when we left Rahariem. You're just making yourself miserable thinking the way you are now."

"I'm so sorry that my revulsion at your crimes is disturbing you."

Corvis sighed. "Just tell me that you'll wait until after this is all said and done before you decide to try anything stupid, all right?"

"Fine. But only for Rahariem and Imphallion."

"I don't really care why." He lay down once more, hauling the blanket up to his chin.

"That's it?" she asked after a moment, curious despite herself. "You trust me just like that?"

"I've trusted you for years," he told her. "Nothing's changed for me, even if you think it has for you. But if it'll make you feel better, you can swear an oath to one of the gods. That's how I made it work last time."

Another pause. "Last time?"

"Somehow, my lady, I doubt you'd be surprised to learn that I've had other traveling companions who wanted to kill me."

"Rebaine, I'd be surprised if you had any that didn't."

"Funny."

"I wasn't joking," she insisted.

"I know." Corvis yawned once, loudly. "Wake me when it's my watch. Irrial?"

"What?"

"It's very simple to set up a spell to wake me if anyone comes too close. I really do trust you, but I'm not an idiot."

He was snoring softly before she could come up with a viable answer to that one. THEIR FIRST DAYS ON THE ROAD had been more than a little harrowing. Travel was a nervous affair, as they remained alert for approaching soldiers, ready to scurry into whatever cover might make itself available. Once they'd ambushed a small patrol-obtaining mounts, supplies, and a replacement weapon for Irrial-they moved a bit faster, but it was only after they'd passed beyond Cephiran-held territory, and the highways began to boast Imphallian travelers, that they breathed easy. Corvis felt his shoulders and back relaxing, and the next morning was the first in a week that he'd awakened without a headache crawling up the back of his neck.

Not that they'd escaped the invasion's shadow; far from it. Long stretches of road were packed with refugees, making their slow and sad way westward. Some rode mounts with saddlebags stuffed to bursting, others drove wagons laden with the pitiful remnants of homes and lives, and many carried only what they could hoist on their backs. Uncounted plodding feet kicked up the dirt of the highways, tromped flat the grasses alongside, all accompanied by muffled sobs, whispered reassurances, and tear-streaked prayers. Sweat perfumed the air-sweat and, somehow, the stink of despair. It turned the stomach, this stench of slowly rotting hope.

Corvis, though it shamed him, found himself grateful for their presence. They offered plenty of cover for Irrial and him to hide, should any Cephiran scouts range this far; and they held the baroness's attentions, so conversation-and acrimony, and accusation-remained scarce.

'Well, we always knew the masses had to be good for something, right?'

After some days, however, the bulk of the refugees turned aside. The road passed by the city of Emdimir, the informal line of demarcation between central and eastern Imphallion. Already the city was so crowded the stone walls threatened to bulge, like the distended belly of a starving man, and every moment more people arrived. The air above the city wavered with the heat, and Corvis was sure he could actually see pestilence lurking within the clouds above. But the people had, for the most part, no strength to travel farther, and Emdimir's government hadn't yet hardened their hearts enough to begin turning them away.

Once past that city, Corvis and Irrial made excellent time, thanks to the horses and the highways-and a good thing it was, for the journey remained remarkably unpleasant, even without the sorrowful throng. The sun seemed utterly determined to cook them into some sort of stew, its heat letting up only for the occasional summer squall-which, in turn, summoned up mosquitoes by the bushel. After the second such shower, Corvis had scratched himself bloody and was fairly convinced that he'd prefer a dagger in a vital organ over one more bite.

Irrial promptly offered hers, and Corvis decided to keep his future complaints to himself.

Nor were these the only bites he had to endure. The Cephiran warhorse he'd acquired was a nasty, ill-tempered brute who still wasn't entirely sold on his new master. The beast was more than cooperative while Corvis was riding-its training saw to that-but it constantly tugged at the reins when they walked, balked while he was trying to lead. It had bitten him thrice already, once drawing blood as he tethered it up for the night, and had even once kicked at him, a blow that would assuredly have broken bone had it landed.

Corvis, sick to the death of the whole thing, had cuffed the horse hard across the nose. Apparently he'd gotten some of the message across, because the kicking had ceased, though the biting continued unabated. Also, he had to endure an extra-intensive glare from Irrial for a day and a half after he struck "that helpless creature."

For the first time in years, Corvis found himself desperately missing Rascal. He'd been such a good horse; the poor thing just, after trying so hard for so long, hadn't proved up to being Corvis Rebaine's horse.

And then there was Irrial herself, who spoke with him as infrequently as feasible. The prior discussion on whether or not to murder Corvis in his sleep was perhaps the longest exchange they'd shared since Rahariem.

'Have you considered cuffing her across the nose?'

"Shut up." Corvis actually found himself hoping, for an instant, that the voice in his head was genuine; he didn't like the idea that such a thought came from him, crazy or not.

But as summer entered its downward slope-not that one could tell by the stifling heat-and they drew ever nearer their destination, passing by larger towns and ever more numerous travelers, Irrial's curiosity apparently overcame her hostility. As they made camp that evening, she moved to sit across the fire from him, rather than taking her meal to the far side of the campsite as had been her wont. He tilted his head, his expression puzzled, and maybe just a little pleased.

"Where, exactly, are we going?" she asked him, one hand clutching a sharp stick from which hung a greasy haunch of rabbit.

"We're heading to Mecepheum. I told you that."

"Yes, but you never explained why."

"That," Corvis told her, "is because you didn't want to know. Told me to 'do whatever needed to be done,' and then stomped away in a huff."

"Corvis…"

"It was a very nice huff, if that matters at all. Skillful. Easily one of the best I've seen."

Irrial scowled, but she looked as embarrassed as she did angry. "All right, maybe so. But now I want to know."

"It's all pretty simple," he said, pulling his own skewered rabbit from the flames and blowing on it before taking a healthy bite. "Lessh looka whawno."

"What?"

Corvis swallowed and tried again. "Let's look at what we know. We're facing a full-on Cephiran invasion. Even if they don't advance any farther than the eastern territories, they've come farther than any prior skirmish. Imphallion can't just let that pass."

"Except that so far, we have," she reminded him.

"Exactly. Now, the Guilds and the nobility are really good at letting their differences stop them from accomplishing anything. I've seen it myself-decades ago, and again during the Serpent's War-and things have just gotten worse in the past few years. So it's possible-even after the lesson they should've learned from Audriss-that they'd rather argue with one another while Cephira pulls the walls down around their ears.

"What's not possible-or what I'd have thought to be impossible, anyway-is for them to completely ignore the situation like they have been. Even if they can't agree on a unified response, many dukes, barons, and Guildmasters would've responded on their own. We should've seen at least a few armies by now-mobilizing near the border, if not attacking outright."

Irrial nodded thoughtfully. "But the only soldiers we've seen have been guarding the cities and estates we've passed along the road. So something's keeping them not only from unifying, but from mobilizing entirely." She frowned. "Part of it, of course, is those murders."

"Which we both know I didn't commit." Then, at her expression, "Oh, come on, Irrial! No matter how much you might distrust me now, you were there."

"I don't actually know how much magic you have, Rebaine."

"If I could just whisk myself from city to city, do you think I'd be pounding my rear end raw on that saddle? Besides," he added, "you pretty much knew where I was every minute, didn't you?"

Irrial actually wrapped her arms around herself. "Don't remind me."

'Me, either.'

"The point," Corvis continued, pretending not to be stung by the revulsion in her tone, "is that my supposed reappearance is awfully convenient. Either whoever's impersonating me is in league with Cephira, or they're using the Cephiran invasion as a distraction from something else. In either case, while I can see the return of Corvis Rebaine causing quite a stir, I don't know if it's enough to keep every noble and Guild in check. So we have to find out not only who's pretending to be me, but what else is going on in the halls of power. And that means going to, well, the halls of power."

"And how, pray tell, do you plan to get anyone to tell you what's going on? Or convince them you're not responsible for the attacks?"

"As to the latter, I'm working on that. And as to the former…" Corvis grinned. "Let's just say that I still have a certain amount of influence."

"What sort of influence?" she asked suspiciously.

"Why, my lady, the same sort that inspires a Cephiran siege team to attack their own people."

Irrial had further questions-he could see it in her face-but her rising from the campfire and walking away was sufficient indication that, for tonight, she'd heard enough.

It was a modest celebration by any standard, attended by a scant two dozen souls-and if most had known the happy couple for less than a year, that made them ignorant, not blind. So when the groom vanished from the hall of that small wooden temple, someone was bound to notice, but for the moment he just didn't much care.

Outside in the courtyard, he strode through the sparse spring precipitation, feeling the water drip down the back of his fancy (albeit secondhand) doublet, watched the petals of the brightly colored flowers bend and rebound against the rain. Finding a marble bench that was likely older, and certainly sturdier, than the temple itself, he lowered himself to the stone. The accumulated rain that instantly soaked through the seat of his pants was a small price to pay for getting off his feet for a bit. Precisely what sadistic inquisitor, he wondered sourly to himself, had come up with what modern society laughably called "formal shoes"?

"You know," a gentle voice said from behind, "you're supposed to get cold feet before the wedding. Fleeing afterward doesn't really do any good."

He smiled and raised a hand to cover the smaller fingers on his shoulder. "I was actually just thinking about feet," he answered. "Aren't we supposed to be married longer than an hour before you start reading my mind?"

Tyannon, absolutely resplendent in a borrowed gown of whites and greens-and utterly oblivious to what the rain was doing to the fine materials, or the elaborate coiffure that had taken hours to arrange just so-stepped around the bench and took a seat beside him. "What is it?" she asked, her tone far more serious.

"It's just… Cerris."

She blinked, and he knew it wasn't because of the water. "What?"

"Cerris. Tyannon, the priest called me 'Cerris.' "

"Well, yes. That's what we told him your name was. It's not as though we could have-"

"I know. But…" He waved helplessly, sending a spray of water arcing over the flowers, perpendicular to the rain. "Can we build a marriage-" he asked in a whisper, "can we build a life-on a lie?"

"No! Not a lie." She slid from the bench, dropping to her knees before him, allowing the gown to soak in the rivulets of water and mud as she clasped both his hands in her own. "Cerris? The man you are now? He's a good man, and he's not the man you were. How can it be a lie for me to be married to Cerris, when that's who you are?"

Corvis-Cerris-stared down at his new bride, and gave thanks for the gentle shower that washed away his tears. AND THEN TYANNON WAS CALLING his name, her voice low but harsh. Except it wasn't Tyannon, as his bleary eyes opened, but Irrial standing opposite the embers of the dead fire, waking him for his turn at watch. She nodded brusquely as he awoke and returned to her own blanket without another word.

He was grateful, then, that the second woman Corvis had stolen from Cerris's arms fell swiftly asleep, for today no rain fell to hide his tears. THE LAST FEW LEAGUES OF ROADWAY GREW somewhat more crowded again, not with refugees-a few had come this far, true, but only a few-but with more traditional travelers: farmers and merchants, laborers and couriers.

And soldiers.

Not nearly enough, as Irrial had hoped when first spotting them, to suggest that Imphallion was finally mobilizing. No, these were sporadic patrols of a dozen or fewer, less concerned with advancing eastward than in carefully scouring those coming west. After their third time being stopped and questioned without explanation, Corvis realized that these sentinels must have been assigned to ensure that none of the fugitives come from the border were actually Cephiran agents in disguise.

As if there were any way to tell. "Damn fools," he grumbled to himself, his words lost to the tromping of the warhorse's hooves. "Even when they decide to do something, it's a bloody waste of effort."

'Sort of like leading an untrained resistance against the Cephiran army on behalf of a woman who'd now sooner behead you than bed you, Corvis?'

If this is just all in my mind, Corvis bemoaned silently, I must really hate myself.

Thanks to some quick shopping in towns along the way, the travelers who finally arrived at the towering gates of Mecepheum were not entirely the same pair who had fled Rahariem. Irrial wore a fine green cloak, lined in velvet, over a startlingly white tunic and thick riding trousers. The fellow accompanying her was clad in the formal but practical outfit of a household servant, and sported a few weeks' worth of neatly trimmed beard.

He also, due rather less to new clothes than to judicious use of subtle illusions, didn't especially resemble Corvis Rebaine. It had been a long time, but there were too many among the capital's elite who might recognize him.

When Irrial had asked how he could make use of his local contacts when he didn't resemble himself, he'd merely wiggled his fingers and said "Maaaaagic."

She hadn't spoken to him since.

Although it required standing in line for upward of an hour, they entered the city with little hassle or fanfare, stopping just inside the gates to take a long look. After occupied Rahariem, Mecepheum was an alien land. The streets were bustling-one might even say "flooded"-with people and horses, carts and wagons, all shoving their way through walls of sweaty flesh. The tumult was nigh overwhelming, but it was the typical rumble of daily life, with nary a sob of despair or a barked command to be heard. The absence of shattered homes and piles of rubble seemed somehow improper, as though Mecepheum were rudely refusing to acknowledge the troubles of its distant sister.

Which wasn't all that inaccurate, really.

Though many blocks separated the gates from the political offices in and around the Hall of Meeting, the travelers chose to make the trip on foot rather than trying to ram their horses through the throng. A nearby inn provided quality stabling at only slightly hair-raising prices, and Corvis also acquired a couple of rooms before they braved the streets again. This time, Irrial walked with the slightest trace of a limp and leaned on what looked to be a plain but expertly carved cane. Corvis wore her Cephiran sword at his waist; Sunder was nowhere to be seen.

The baroness, who'd not been to Mecepheum in many years, gawped like a yokel, not taken by the capital's finery so much as by the sharp delineations between the poorer and richer quarters, as well as the obviously new repairs to the ancient structures. As the apparent age of those repairs finally sank in, she cast a suspicious glance at her supposed "servant," trailing a few steps behind.

"Audriss," he said defensively. "Not me."

Irrial didn't look convinced.

They mounted the steps to the Hall of Meeting, noses held high as though they not only had every right to be there, but questioned everyone else's presence. Recognizing the arrogant mien of the nobility-and the servant thereof, which was frankly even worse-the clerk positioned near the entrance didn't even bother to ask their business.

Unfortunately, stopping to ask him directions might have ruined the effect, and Corvis hadn't the slightest idea where they were going. Running through a mental list of Guildmasters and nobles over whom he still held "influence," he stepped up the pace a bit and whispered "Mubarris. Cartwrights' and Carpenters' Guild."

Irrial's hair barely twitched, so shallow was her nod, but clearly she'd heard. As they rounded a corner, their footsteps muffled by the thick carpeting-which, if ubiquitous throughout the Hall, must have cost enough to buy a small village-she raised a hand to stop the next passerby. "Tell me, good sir," she asked, voice distant but stiffly polite, "where might I find the office of Guildmaster Mubarris?"

The fellow they accosted sported immaculately curled blond locks and was clad in the blue-and-white livery of one of Mecepheum's numerous aristocratic Houses. "And what, do pray tell," he asked with a disparaging sneer, "would a highborn lady such as yourself need with one of those merchants?" It might have been the most foul, blasphemous epithet the way he choked it out, and Corvis groaned inwardly. Things were obviously even worse between the Guilds and the nobility than he'd thought.

That, or the guy was just a jackass.

'You're such a pessimist. Why can't it be both?'

Irrial's expression grew so cold and so stony, it might well have convinced an angry basilisk not to waste its time. "That would be between me and the Guildmaster, wouldn't it? Now kindly tell us where to find him."

"So you can make more concessions? Give away more of our power?" The pugnacious fellow was on a tear; apparently having found a target for his frustrations, he wasn't about to surrender it without a fight. "You're not from Mecepheum, my lady, I can see that right off. So why don't you go back wherever you came from and leave the real politics to the people who know what they're doing?"

Corvis sucked in a breath between his teeth and began to step forward, but Irrial raised a hand to stop him. Her voice, when she spoke, had gone completely calm. "You, dear fellow, will answer my question."

"Oh? And why is that?"

"Because if you don't, my servant here is going to find the nearest blunt object and play your head like a drum until your eyes switch sides."

"I-you…!"

"I still remember some great military cadences," Corvis told him. "Very impressive. Lots of percussion."

"You can't lay a finger on me!" the aristocrat whined, though he took a hesitant step back.

"I'll swear blind that you raised a hand to me first," Irrial said. "My servant was just defending me."

"Third floor." It was a surly mutter, scarcely audible. "Fourth hall to the left of the stairs, third door on the right."

"My thanks, good sir. You're a credit to your kennel."

They were gone, Irrial leading the way in a billowing flurry of cloak, before he could cease gawking long enough to formulate a response.

"Where," Corvis asked, voice quivering with suppressed laughter, "did you learn to do that?"

"That's all politics is really about, Reb-Cerris," she corrected swiftly, lest anyone overhear. "Finding some way to get the last word." For just an instant, her lips twitched in that smile Corvis hadn't seen in weeks.

"I think I'm rubbing off on you," he said-and right away, even before her smile vanished and her face hardened once more, he knew it was exactly the wrong thing to say.

'How's that foot tasting, Corvis? Have you really gotten this stupid, or are you just trying to prove something?'

They climbed numerous stairs, traversed numerous halls. It was easy enough to see which doors led to the offices of anyone remotely important: Those were the doors flanked by mail-clad guards. They were armed with broad-bladed short swords, brutal thrusting weapons well suited to the tight confines of the corridors, and loaded crossbows leaned against the walls at their feet.

"You'd think they were afraid of something," Corvis whispered. This time, Irrial didn't smile at all.

Without pause, she approached the mercenaries standing outside the room to which they'd been reluctantly directed. "Would you be so good as to inform Guildmaster Mubarris that the Baroness Irrial of Rahariem requires an audience?"

In a practiced maneuver, one of the guards moved to block her way while the other opened the door just wide enough to ask whether or not they were to be admitted. The one whose attentions remained fixed on the newcomers gestured over Irrial's shoulder with his chin. "Your man all right, m'lady?"

She glanced back and was startled to see Corvis's face-well, the face he was currently wearing-furrowed in concentration, beaded slightly with sweat.

"He's fine," she answered with far more conviction than she felt. "It's just been a long journey."

"I understand." Then, "Is it as bad as we've heard out there?"

"I don't know what you've heard, but it's bad enough. We've basically lost the border towns entirely."

That brought a fearsome scowl. Apparently, not everyone here was thrilled with the government's failure to act. "I'm glad you got out, m'lady," he added politely.

The second warrior turned back from the door. "The Guildmaster will see you."

Irrial began to step forward. "Thank you so-"

"Uh, I'm sorry, m'lady," the first guard interrupted with a nervous smile. "But nobody's permitted into a Guildmaster's or noble's chambers under arms. Nervous times, you understand."

"Of course." She waved a finger at Corvis, who dutifully detached the sword from his belt and handed it over. When the soldiers looked her way, she shrugged, leaning on her cane. "I'm unarmed. That's what I keep him around for."

The guards glanced at the cane, which could have functioned as a makeshift club-but then, so could the chairs inside the room. With a mutual shrug, they stepped aside.

Irrial swept between them and offered a shallow curtsy to the fleshy, balding fellow behind the desk. Corvis followed, shutting the door behind him.

The Guildmaster rose and bowed, his movements slightly stilted. His expression was just the tiniest bit unfocused, something she'd never have noticed had he not looked directly at her. He looked-preoccupied wasn't quite the right word, but she could think of none better.

Brow furrowed, Corvis appeared at Irrial's side. "Hello, Mubarris."

"Hello."

Irrial nodded in understanding. "You weren't joking, were you?"

"About using magic? No."

"I didn't see you casting any spells."

"You're about six years late for that."

The baroness frowned and opened her mouth to ask a question, but Corvis shook his head. "Later." He took a seat, gestured for Irrial to do the same.

For more than an hour they talked, Corvis and Irrial asking questions, Mubarris providing answers in that same "not entirely there" tone of voice, but those answers were proving relatively unhelpful.

He confirmed for them the murders committed by "Corvis Rebaine," not only in Mecepheum but later in Denathere, and a purported few in other cities as well. He provided a list of the dead, and though she'd already known, Irrial lowered her head when her cousin's name passed his lips.

Corvis, ever suspicious, chewed at the inside of his cheek and wondered if it was simple chance that so many of the dead-not all, not even most, but more than he'd easily accept as coincidence-were men and women over whom he'd long ago cast Selakrian's spell.

What Mubarris could not offer was any hint as to who might be behind the false Rebaine. He did not, in fact, even have reason to disbelieve the rumors himself, given his ignorance of the magics under which he currently labored-or who had cast them.

Nor could he offer any reasons beyond the obvious as to why the Guilds and the nobles were proving so stubborn, so mulish, that nobody had taken action.

"We're all scared," he admitted. "Nobody wants to be without protection-and lots of it-in case Rebaine comes for us next. And you know that the Guildmasters and the nobles haven't agreed on much of anything since the Guilds dethroned the regent."

Corvis and Irrial nodded in unison.

"But it does seem," he continued, "as though there's some added pressure. As if the leaders on both sides are demanding concessions and promises that they know the other side won't accept. I couldn't say for sure, though, or tell you where that pressure's coming from. I'm not really part of the inner circles anymore. Haven't been for a few years; I guess nobody thinks the Cartwrights' and Carpenters' Guild is important anymore." His heavy sigh dragged an anchor of self-pity along behind it. "Or maybe it's just me."

The visitors made their excuses, Corvis delivering a final command to forget the conversation-or at least never to speak of it to anyone, since he wasn't sure if the spell could compel Mubarris to forget-and departed. He reclaimed his sword from the guards, then requested directions to another room.

Over the course of the afternoon, Irrial and Corvis visited two more Guildmasters, and two nobles with offices in the Hall. All were among the surviving number of Corvis's "contacts," and all told the same story as Mubarris. All confirmed what he had confirmed, suspected what he had suspected; and none knew any more than he, for each and every one had found him- or herself excluded from the pinnacles of power in Mecepheum. The nobles lacked much real authority, now that the Guilds had firmly taken over, and the Guildmasters, again like Mubarris, had been carefully shuffled to the periphery.

Corvis was finding it harder and harder to accept this as coincidence. He'd known that his puppets had to have lost some of their power when Imphallion failed to sail the various courses charted by Duke Halmon-or occasionally by Corvis himself, through Halmon. He'd known that several of the Guildmasters he'd beguiled had even lost their positions. But to see it before him like this, so deliberate and precise…

"What now?" Irrial asked, interrupting his musings.

He shrugged, running through the names of every Guildmaster he could recall, disliking the direction his thoughts were taking.

"Now," he said finally, reluctantly, "we talk with someone I know is in a position to tell us more about what the hell's going on."

And we hope, he added silently, that she's willing to tell us, because over her, I hold no influence at all. THE HALLS GREW ever more crowded as they progressed. No surprise, that. The higher one climbed in the Hall of Meeting, the more important were the inhabitants of its chambers; and the more important the inhabitants, the greater the quantity of rugged mercenaries and minor functionaries.

Corvis hung back as Irrial approached the door, and the no fewer than six guards posted beside it, and was momentarily grateful to be masquerading as a servant. The deference expected of his role would do well to cover his genuine unease. He disliked the notion of coming here, of exposing himself-even disguised-to a Guildmaster over whom he lacked any control. And if anyone here was likely to have the knowledge, the discipline, and the presence of mind to discover him, it was she. But he knew that, now as when he'd last seen her more than half a decade gone by, she was highly regarded by the other Guildmasters. If anyone was in a position to see the whole picture, to understand what was happening here in Mecepheum-and what wasn't happening, and why-it was she.

"The Baroness Irrial of Rahariem," his companion announced to the guards as she halted before them, cane thumping dully against the carpeted floor, "to see Salia Mavere."

As before, one of the guards slipped through the door while the others maintained their positions, and Corvis struggled not to hold his breath. Odds were good that Mavere would want to speak with Irrial, to learn what was happening on the eastern front, but…

He couldn't quite suppress a sigh of relief when the guard returned and announced, "The Guildmistress will see you."

Also as before, Corvis handed his sword over to the soldiers before entering, then followed Irrial as meekly as he could manage.

The priestess of Verelian and leader of the Blacksmiths' Guild offered the baroness something oddly between a bow and a curtsy, which Irrial politely returned. "I was heartened to hear your name," Mavere said as she offered chairs and then drinks to her guests-the former of which they gratefully accepted, the latter politely declined. "It's been difficult getting any reliable news from the east, but we'd heard that most of the elite were being held."

Elite. A very useful word, Corvis couldn't help but note, for the nobility and the Guilds both. If there was anything on which the two sides could agree, after all, it was that they were certainly superior to everyone else.

'Someone ought to show them otherwise, don't you think?'

"Most of us are," Irrial said, adjusting her skirts across the chair. "I managed to escape with some outside help." Very briefly, and leaving out a number of salient details-such as, just for instance, the true name of the man who'd assisted her-the baroness recounted the tale of her escape and her abortive attempt at resistance.

"You're a very fortunate woman," Mavere told her finally, one powerful hand fiddling idly with the combination ensign and holy symbol hanging about her neck. "The gods were surely watching over you."

"Surely," Irrial agreed. Only someone who'd known her as well as Corvis would have detected the bitterness in her tone.

"And I can certainly understand why you fled Rahariem with all haste," the Guildmistress continued. "But I have to admit to some puzzlement as to why you'd travel all the way here, my lady."

She wasn't puzzled at all, of course, and everyone in the room knew it. She just wanted to make her guests broach the topic.

"Why?" Irrial's response was, perhaps, hotter than she'd intended. "Because, Mavere, I would very much like to know why you people have allowed a hostile kingdom to conquer eastern Imphallion without lifting so much as a finger in response!"

"My lady, as you well know, there's been a great deal of strife between the Guilds and the nobility as of late…"

"Yes, ever since the Guilds combined their influence to illegally force my cousin to abdicate as regent."

Mavere's face twitched, but she revealed no other sign of her irritation. "For the good of Imphallion. The old ways weren't working."

"And we're doing so much better now, are we?"

The Guildmistress sighed, and there actually appeared a touch of genuine sorrow in her demeanor. "I'm afraid the nobles have proved more resistant to change than we'd hoped. They're making demands and insisting on concessions that we cannot possibly afford, and until they cooperate, our ability to govern their lands-or field their armies-is limited."

"It was my understanding," Irrial said, carefully modulating her voice, "that both sides were making unreasonable demands."

"Yes, well, the nobles would claim that in order to justify their intransigence, wouldn't they?"

Corvis wondered briefly if he'd need to put himself between them, and fast, but Irrial showed substantially more restraint than he would have in her position. She frowned but otherwise made no move at all.

"Perhaps," she said instead, "I can convince the assembly to put aside some of their differences, at least temporarily. I've come from Rahariem, I've seen how thoroughly Cephira's digging in. A firsthand account might sway some votes."

"It might," Mavere said, though she clearly didn't believe it. "But I fear that there are other issues not so easily dealt with."

"Rebaine." It was not a question.

"Rebaine, yes." Then, again with apparent sincerity, "I'm sorry about your cousin, my lady. We might have had very different ideas on how to govern Imphallion, but he was a good man. His loss diminishes us all."

She allowed a moment of respectful silence before continuing, "We've no idea what Rebaine's up to, but with that… that creature running around and slaughtering nobles and Guildmembers alike, we're finding it very difficult to convince anyone to give over command of their vassals. They fear being left without protection. Some of them"-she leaned forward-"those who know the truth, fear having their own soldiers turned against them."

"The truth?" Irrial asked, confused. Corvis felt his stomach drop to his toes.

"It took us some time to figure it out," Mavere said, "but when he was here last, Rebaine cast some sort of enchantment on many of us."

Lower than his toes, now; he was pretty sure he could actually feel his guts squishing around inside his boots.

"You don't say," Irrial said darkly.

"It was remarkably subtle. Very unlike him."

'Got you pegged, doesn't she?'

"Even after many of the nobles and Guildmasters began acting strangely-sometimes so much so that we had to replace them-we didn't understand." Her voice quivered, just once, with what might, or might not, have been fury. "But I'm a priestess as well as a smith, my lady, and I've studied more in my life than many scholars. I may not know magic, but I know much of magic. I finally recognized the effects for what they were, though only on a few of my colleagues. To this day, I've no idea how many more might be compromised."

Not enough, Corvis thought bitterly.

"I told my most trusted fellow Guildmasters, of course, and I've reason to suspect that some nobles know as well. We've told few others, for fear of causing a panic. But in any case, it's made his reappearance even that much more disruptive."

So why is she willing to tell us? Corvis couldn't help but worry.

"I see," Irrial said. "What if I told you," she continued slowly, "that Corvis Rebaine was not behind the recent murders. Do you think that, combined with my accounts of Rahariem, might convince the assembly to act?"

It was all Corvis could do to keep his chair. What is she doing?

'How quickly can you kill them both?'

Mavere leaned back, raising an eyebrow. "You'd have to offer some fairly convincing proof. What in the gods' names makes you think this?"

"I've reason to know that Rebaine was, in fact, present in the occupied territories during some of the murders," she answered evasively.

"Do you, now? Even if that's true, my lady, Rebaine has all sorts of mystical capabilities. For all we know, he could have transported himself across Imphallion with a snap of his fingers."

Irrial fidgeted, almost cast a glance at Corvis and caught herself, clearly trying to decide how much more to reveal.

Too late, Corvis seethed.

But Mavere seemed disinclined to allow her to continue. "No, my lady, I think that even if you know Rebaine was in the east-and I'm going to want an explanation as to how you know that-it wouldn't convince anyone of anything. Some might even think it evidence that he's in league with Cephira."

"At least let me address the assembly, Mavere. Then I can-"

"No, Baroness, I think not. You've been remarkably unwilling to share the specific details of your so-called escape."

"So-called-" she protested, but the Guildmistress kept going.

"You, and you alone, have fled Cephiran-held territory-and you're sitting in my office with a servant cloaked in illusion. I told you," she added as Irrial and Corvis glanced in shock at each other, "that I know much of magic. I cannot penetrate the illusion, but I can sense it-and I know that such spells cannot be maintained indefinitely.

"No, Irrial, I worry that you've been turned, that Cephira allowed you to escape, to muddy the waters here even further. And there's no way in hell I'm letting you anywhere near the assembly."

Irrial rose, leaning heavily on her cane. "That's the most asinine thing I've ever-"

"If I'm wrong," Mavere told her, pulling a lever on the underside of her desk, "you'll have every opportunity to convince me, I promise. But I cannot risk it."

The door opened with a resounding crash, revealing all six guards, crossbows leveled.

"You will both be escorted to secure quarters-pleasant ones, as befits your status, my lady-until you're willing to tell me everything about what occurred, and to provide corroborating evidence. And until you," she added, pointing at Corvis, "are willing to reveal your true face. A Cephiran face, I expect. Guards?"

Corvis and Irrial allowed themselves to be escorted from the chamber. With half a dozen bolts chomping at the bit to punch through flesh and bone, there was precious little else they could do.