"You worry too much, Rayjhis," Bishop Hainryk Waignair said teasingly. "If it weren't the Gulf of Jahras, it would just be something else. Admit it! You're a fussbudget!"

The white-haired, clean-shaven Bishop of Tellesberg leaned forward to tap an index finger on Earl Gray Harbor's chest, brown eyes gleaming with amused challenge. He and Gray Harbor had known one another almost as long as Gray Harbor had known Maikel Staynair, and Waignair, as the second-ranking prelate of the Church of Charis, often sat in for the archbishop on meetings of the Imperial Council when Staynair-as today-was otherwise occupied with the responsibilities of his own ecclesiastic office.

"I am not a 'fussbudget,'" Gray Harbor said with immense dignity as the carriage moved steadily along the street. "I'm simply a conscientious, thoughtful, insightful-don't forget insightful!-servant of the Crown. It's my job to worry about things, just like it's your job to reassure me that God is on our side."

"'Insightful!'" Waignair snorted. "Is that what you call it?"

"When I don't feel an even stronger term is appropriate, yes," Gray Harbor said judiciously, and the bishop laughed.

"I guess there might be a little something to that," he said, holding up the thumb and forefinger of his right hand perhaps a quarter of an inch apart. "A little something!" His eyes glinted at his old friend. "Still, with Domynyk in command and Seijin Merlin's visions assuring us everything went well, can't you find something better to worry about than the Gulf of Jahras?"

Gray Harbor considered for a moment, then shrugged.

"Of course I can. In fact, I think probably one reason I'm worrying about the Gulf is that we do know it worked out well." Waignair looked perplexed, and Gray Harbor chuckled. "What I mean is that 'worrying' about something I know worked pretty much the way we had in mind distracts me from worrying about the other somethings out there that we don't know are going to work out the way we have in mind. If you take my meaning."

"You know, the frightening thing is that I do understand you," Waignair said. "Probably says something unhealthy about my own mind."

Gray Harbor chuckled again, louder, and the bishop shook his head at him. The truth was, of course, that both of them knew about the good news Gray Harbor was going to be able to announce in the next five-day or so. Waignair, as a member of the inner circle, had actually watched the battle through Owl's remotes for several hours. He'd spent most of that time praying for the thousands of men who were being killed or maimed in that cauldron of smoke and fire and exploding ships, and he knew exactly what price Domynyk Staynair's fleet had paid to purchase that victory. Gray Harbor hadn't been able to watch personally, but the first councilor was an experienced naval officer, with firsthand experience of what that sort of carnage was like. And he'd long since grown accustomed to taking Merlin's "visions" as demonstrated fact. He'd been planning how best to use the destruction of the Desnairian Navy ever since the battle had been fought, and he was looking forward to putting those plans into motion as soon as the news officially reached Tellesberg.

"The problem's not with your mind, Hainryk," Gray Harbor told him now. "The problem's with-"

Ainsail stood on the narrow, constricted space of open sidewalk beside his wagon, between it and the building he'd managed to park alongside, and watched the traffic flow past while the wheelwright and his apprentice swore with feeling and inventiveness. They'd just discovered the non-standard dimensions of the wagon axle, and as soon as the two of them got done expressing their feelings, Ainsail was sure they'd get around to working out ways to deal with the problem.

Or they would have if they'd had time, he thought as he finally spotted the vehicle he'd been waiting for. It was a good thing he had made sure the repairs were going to be more time-consuming than the wheelwright had originally thought, since the carriage making its way slowly along the crowded street was substantially behind its regular schedule. And, as it drew closer, Ainsail felt his mouth tighten in disappointment. It was unaccompanied by the guardsmen in the orange-and-white livery of the archbishop who normally escorted it.

Why today? he demanded silently. Today, of all days! Would it have been too much to ask for the bastard to keep to his own-?

He cut that thought off quickly. The fact that God and Langhorne had seen fit to bring him this far, grant him the degree of success he'd achieved, was more than any man had a right to demand. He had no business complaining or berating God just because he hadn't been given still more!

Forgive me, he prayed humbly as he opened the small, carefully concealed panel he'd built into the side of the wagon bed. It's not my place to set my wisdom above Yours. I'm sure it's all part of Your plan. Thank You for the opportunity to be part of Your work.

He reached into the hidden compartment and cocked the flintlock. Then his hand settled around the pistol grip and he stood, shoulders relaxed, watching with a calm tranquility he was a little surprised to realize was completely genuine, as the carriage rolled steadily closer.

"We're going to have to go back to the shop, Master Gahztahn," the wheelwright was saying. "It looks like we'll need to-"

He went on talking, but Ainsail tuned him out. He nodded, pretending he was listening, but his attention was on another voice. His mother's voice, reciting the catechism with a much younger Ainsail as he sat on her lap in her kitchen. And then there was Archbishop Wyllym's voice, and other voices, all with him at this moment, bearing him up on their strength. He listened to them, embraced them, and as the carriage drew even with the wagon, Ainsail Dahnvahr smiled joyously and squeezed the trigger.

.III.

Tellesberg Palace, City of Tellesberg, Kingdom of Old Charis, and Cathedral Square, City of Eraystor, Princedom of Emerald "I came as quickly as I could, Cayleb," Maikel Staynair said as a stone-faced Edwyrd Seahamper escorted him into the royal couple's private chambers. The archbishop crossed the room quickly and knelt beside Sharleyan, who sat hunched in a chair, clasping her daughter in her arms while tears ran down her cheeks.

Cayleb only nodded curtly as Staynair put a comforting arm around Sharleyan's shoulders. There were no tears in his eyes, only fury, and the archbishop hid a stab of concern as he recognized his emperor's rage.

There's only so much provocation any man can take before he starts forgetting he's not the kind of animal his opponents are, Staynair thought quietly. Please, Cayleb. Please! Step back from this. Draw a deep breath. Don't lash out in some way you'll regret in days to come.

"We should've taken more precautions," the emperor grated. "We were too predictable. They knew where to find you and Rayjhis, Maikel. That's what this is all about-the only reason they managed to pull it off. They knew where to find you because we let you use the same route every time you come to the palace."

"Cayleb-" Staynair began, but Cayleb cut him off.

"No, it's not your fault." The emperor glared at him. "No, you didn't tell your driver or your escort to take alternate routes, but neither did anyone else. Neither did Merlin and neither did I, and we damned well should have. Damn it to hell, Maikel! We know Clyntahn thinks assassination's a perfectly acceptable tool. And unlike you, Nahrmahn," he said to the distant Prince of Emerald, "he doesn't give a spider-rat's ass how many innocent bystanders he kills along the way. Hell, there aren't any innocent bystanders! Either they're fucking heretics who deserve whatever the hell they get, or else they're noble martyrs to God's plan! Either way, he can kill however the hell many of them he wants 'in God's name' and feel nothing but the satisfaction of a job well done!"

Staynair winced. Not because he disagreed with a single thing Cayleb had just said, but because of the magma-like fury that filled every syllable.

"Cayleb-" he began again, only to be stopped by a choppy wave of the emperor's hand. Cayleb turned away, fists clenched at his sides as he glared out a window and fought for self-control. His eyes didn't see the peaceful garden outside his window; they were watching the imagery projected on his contact lenses as Merlin and a party of Imperial Guardsmen worked their way through the bloody wreckage of Gray Wyvern Avenue.

There must've been at least a ton of gunpowder in that wagon, he thought bitterly. Where the fuck did they get their hands on that? And how in hell did they get it into Tellesberg? And how did none of us spot them at it?

He already knew Merlin was going to blame himself for it, just as he blamed himself, but his brain, unlike his emotions, knew both of them would be wrong. They weren't the only ones with access to Owl's SNARCs, and responsibility for surveillance here in Old Charis lay primarily with Bynzhamyn Raice, with Prince Nahrmahn as his backup. Both of them were undoubtedly already savaging themselves over what had happened, but Cayleb knew exactly what their procedures were, the sort of information they had access to, and he couldn't think of a single thing they could have done differently.

"What's the latest death toll estimate?" he said out loud, his voice flat, never turning from the window.

"I don't think anyone knows," Staynair replied quietly. "Bynzhamyn is at Saint Marzhory's. It's chaos there, of course. And I ought to be there, not here."

Cayleb turned his head just long enough to stab a single glance at the archbishop, then returned to the window again. There was no way in the universe he was going to allow Maikel Staynair outside the confines of Tellesberg Palace until they had a far better handle on what had just happened. Staynair looked at his rigid, unyielding spine for a long moment, then sighed.

"As I say, it's chaos," he continued. "So far, they've admitted over three dozen patients, and they're sending the less badly hurt to some of the smaller hospitals. How many of the ones they're keeping are going to live...."

He shrugged helplessly. Saint Marzhory's Hospital was the main hospital of the Order of Pasquale in Tellesberg. Only six blocks from Tellesberg Palace, the savage attack had happened almost outside the enormous complex's front door. That was the one mitigating aspect of this entire murderous day, because Saint Marzhory's had the finest healers and the best surgeons in all of Old Charis. But despite all the medical knowledge and "healing liturgies" tucked away in The Book of Pasquale, Saint Marzhory's was no trauma center. Those healers would do the best they could, but they were going to lose a heartbreaking percentage of the maimed and broken bodies which had inundated them.

"Merlin says they've already confirmed at least two hundred dead on-site," Nahrmahn Baytz said from Eraystor. He and Princess Ohlyvya had been visiting his uncle Hanbyl, the Duke of Salomon, when the attack occurred. Now their carriage was on its way back to their palace, and Ohlyvya was pressed tightly against his side, her face resting on his shoulder.

"I don't want to distract him by pestering him with questions at the moment," the chubby little Emeraldian continued flatly, "so I don't have a better count than that. I'm sure there are more bodies-or parts of them, anyway-waiting to be found, though. Midday on Gray Wyvern Avenue?" He barked a harsh, angry laugh that was more than half snarl. "We're going to be lucky if the final count doesn't top three hundred! And you're right, Cayleb; they couldn't have pulled this off if we hadn't let ourselves get too predictable."

"I don't think that was the only reason they got away with it," Sharleyan said, raising her head as she cuddled a silent, big-eyed Alahnah against her shoulder. The little girl didn't have a clue what was going on, but she was obviously sensitive to the emotions of the adults around her.

"What do you mean?" Cayleb asked, raising an eyebrow at her.

"I mean our own confidence turned around and bit us in the ass, as Merlin might put it," she said. "We know what an advantage we have with the SNARCs and with Owl to manage them for us. Oh, we also know things can leak through-like what happened in Manchyr, for example. But despite that, we know we still have better security than anyone else in the entire world. Right?"

"You're saying we let ourselves be lulled into overconfidence." Cayleb shrugged. "That's the same reason we let ourselves get too predictable, Sharley."

"No, that's not what I'm saying. Or it's not everything I'm saying, anyway." Sharleyan drew a deep breath. "I guess what I really meant is that we know what an advantage we have, but sometimes we forget the other side's figuring it out, too. They're finding ways to work around it, and we didn't expect them to."

There was silence for a moment, and then Nahrmahn nodded as his carriage began making its way through the heavier traffic in Cherayth.

"Like they did with that misinformation about which way Harpahr was actually going to be sent with his fleet, you mean?" he asked.

"I think, yes," she replied. "But this goes further than that." She was obviously working her way through her own analysis as she spoke, and Cayleb folded his arms across his chest, watching her intently. "That was more ... passive. Or defensive, perhaps. It was misinformation, as you said, Nahrmahn; this is something a lot more active. They managed to get whoever put that wagon in position into Tellesberg, and they managed to provide him with the gunpowder he needed, and we never saw a thing. Not a thing! How did they do that? How could they build an organization that could coordinate something like that without us seeing a thing?"

"They couldn't," Cayleb said slowly, and she nodded.

"Which is why I don't think they did anything of the sort," she said flatly. "I don't know how, but God knows the Inquisition's been managing spies and informants and agents provocateurs forever, and Clyntahn already proved in Manchyr that he could engineer the assassination of a reigning prince without anyone catching him at it! They managed to get this assassin and his weapon into position somehow, too, and the only way I can think of for them to've done that without our catching them at it is to organize it the same way they must have organized their misinformation gambit before the Markovian Sea."

"They planned it and put it together inside the Temple, where we can't get SNARCs in to snoop on them," Nahrmahn said. "That's what you're saying. And because they've figured out our spies are better than theirs, even if they don't have a clue why that's true, they sent their man in unsupported."

"Unsupported by anyone he had to contact here, anyway," Sharleyan corrected. "I don't think there's any way anyone could have set this all up on his own after he was here. There had to be some spadework before they sent him in. But I'll bet you any contact with anyone here in Tellesberg or Old Charis went through the Temple, not through anyone else here."

"Limiting themselves to communications channels that go directly from one person back to the Temple and then from the Temple back to that one person?" Cayleb could have sounded dismissive, but he didn't, and his expression was thoughtful. "How in hell could they pull that off?"

"That depends on how willing they'd be to use things like the semaphore system and ciphers," Nahrmahn responded. "We're still using it to communicate with Siddarmark and Silkiah. In fact, we're allowing greater access to it than the Church ever did, so if they feel confident of their cipher system, they could be sending their correspondence back and forth that way easily enough. For that matter, we're not the only people with messenger wyverns, Cayleb." The Emeraldian shook his head. "That'd be slow and cumbersome and not very responsive, but they could have set up a system that would do the job without ever going near the sempahore.

"The key point isn't how they get messages back and forth, though. It's the point Sharley's raised: the probability that they're sending out solo operatives. Our ability to detect them depends in large part on Owl's ability to recognize key words in conversation and direct our attention to the people who used them, or on our ability to identify one agent and then work outward until we've found all the members of his network. A single assassin, especially one who's prepared or even eager to die in the attempt, the way this fellow certainly was, is going to be one hell of a lot harder to spot and stop."

"That's true," Cayleb agreed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "On the other hand, a single assassin's going to be able to do a lot less damage than a full-blown conspiracy if we can keep the bastard away from wagonloads of gunpowder. And nothing anyone's brought up so far suggests how they got that big a load of explosives through our customs inspections. If they're avoiding building or working with a large organization, then surely they wouldn't have tried to bribe the inspectors, and I doubt they'd use smugglers if they're worried about the potential for being betrayed to the authorities! So how-?"

He broke off suddenly, eyes narrowing in thought. Then he grunted angrily and slammed his right fist into his left palm.

"Hairatha," he said flatly. "That's what that damned explosion was about! They didn't smuggle the gunpowder into Tellesberg from one of the mainland realms; they used our gunpowder!"

"Wait. Wait!" Nahrmahn objected. "I'm not saying you're wrong, Cayleb, but how do we jump from what just happened in Tellesberg to Hairatha?"

"I don't know," Cayleb admitted. "I don't know, all right? But I'm right, I know I am! Call it a hunch, call it instinct, but that's what happened. Somebody at Hairatha with the authority-or the access, at least-to doctor shipping manifests diverted gunpowder from our own powder mill. And they blew the damned place up to keep anyone from realizing they'd done it! To get rid of any paper trail that might have led back to them or to who they sent the powder to." His expression was murderous. "My God, Hairatha shipped gunpowder in thousand-ton lots on a regular basis, Nahrmahn! We could have dozens of wagonloads of it sitting out there!"

"But how could they coordinate something like that without that organization you all seem to be agreeing they don't have?" Staynair asked quietly.

"All they'd really need is what the intelligence organizations back on Old Terra used to call a 'bagman.'" Nahrmahn's tone was unhappy, as if he was unwillingly coming to the conclusion Cayleb might have a point. "If somebody did manage to divert a quantity of gunpowder from Hairatha to someone else in Old Charis-possibly somebody he'd never even met or contacted in any way himself, but whose address was supplied to him by a controller in Zion-then that person could have distributed it to a dozen other locations which had been set up exactly the same way. Or, for that matter, he could have kept it all in a single location and these lone assassins we're hypothesizing about could have been given the address before they ever left Zion. I can't begin to count the number of potential failure points in something like that, but all the ones I can think of would be much more likely to simply cause someone to not get to where he needed to be than to give the operation away to the other side. And look at it from Clyntahn's perspective. What does he lose if it doesn't work? But if it does work, he gets something like he just got today. He kills important members of Cayleb and Sharleyan's government, and he does it very, very publicly. With lots of other bodies to go around. It's a statement that even if the Group of Four can't beat us at sea, they can still reach out into the very heart of Tellesberg and hurt us. Do you think for a moment that wouldn't seem like a win-win situation for someone like him, Maikel?"

"But if you and Cayleb are right, how many other 'lone assassins' are out there?" Staynair's expression was troubled.

"I have no idea," Nahrmahn admitted frankly. He glared out the carriage window in frustration as it crossed into Cathedral Square, less than four blocks from the palace. "There could be scores of them, or this could have been the only one. Knowing Clyntahn, though, I doubt he'd have settled for one when he might have been able to get dozens into place. Why settle for a little bit of carnage when he could have a lot?"

"You're probably right about that," Cayleb said bitterly.

"And he'd want to underscore his 'statement' as strongly as possible, too," Sharleyan added. Staynair and Cayleb looked at her, and she shrugged. "I think Nahrmahn's right. He's going to have been thinking in terms of as many attacks as he could contrive, within the limitations of whatever coordination system he had. And he's going to want to concentrate them in terms of timing, too-get them in in the most focused window of time he can. He's the kind who thinks in terms of hammer blows when he goes after his opponents' morale."

"Some kind of timetable?" Cayleb's expression was suddenly strained once more. "You mean we're probably looking at additional attacks scheduled to occur simultaneously?"

"Over a short period of time, anyway," Sharleyan said, nodding unhappily. "There's no way he could count on their being simultaneous, but they don't have to be. Don't forget the communications problem. We can talk back and forth instantaneously, but he doesn't know that. As far as he's concerned, word is going to have to spread before anyone can know to start taking precautions, and we can't get warnings out any more rapidly than by semaphore. That means he only has to achieve approximate coordination, because he'd still be inside what Merlin calls our communications loop."

"You may have a point," Nahrmahn conceded. "On the other hand, I could see some advantages-from his perspective-to stretching things out, hitting us with a series of attacks to demonstrate we couldn't stop him from getting through to us. So-"

He paused suddenly, staring out the window. Then- "Stop the carriage!" he shouted. "Stop the carriage!"

The carriage came to a sudden halt, and the commander of its mounted escort wheeled his horse, trotting back towards it with a puzzled expression. He had no idea what was happening, but like most of Nahrmahn Baytz' armsmen, he had a lively respect for the prince's instincts.

"Out!" Nahrmahn said to Ohlyvya. "Out, now!"

She stared at him in confusion and a sudden sparkle of fear. She'd never seen his expression like that, but the crack of command in his voice had her moving before she even realized it. He pushed her towards the carriage's left-hand door, already reaching out, turning the handle. She hesitated for a moment as the door swung open, then cried out in sudden panic as her husband put his shoulder into her back and literally heaved her out the door.

It was a three-foot drop to the paving, and Ohlyvya Baytz cried out again, this time in pain, as she landed off-balance and her ankle broke. But there was no time for her to think about that. Nahrmahn was already plunging out of the carriage behind her, pinning her down, covering her with his own body.

And that was when the wagon parked by the Cathedral Square exit closest to the palace-the wagon that wasn't supposed to be there-exploded.

.IV.

Royal Palace, City of Eraystor, Princedom of Emerald "Leave us," Ohlyvya Baytz said flatly, her expression terrible.

It was night outside the bedchamber's window-a beautiful moonlit night, sprinkled with the stars that were God's own jewels. A gentle breeze stirred the window drapes, night wyverns whistled sweetly, and the harsh, agonized breathing of the semi-conscious man in the bed filled her heart with grief.

"But, Your Highness-" the senior healer, a Pasqualate bishop, began.

"Leave us!" she snapped. The bishop looked at her, his expression worried, his eyes dark with sympathy, and she made herself draw a deep breath.

"Is there anything else you can do for him, My Lord Bishop?" she asked more quietly. "Can you save him?"

"No, Your Highness," the bishop admitted, his voice sad but unflinching. "To be honest, I don't understand how he's lived this long. The best we can do is what we have, to ease his pain."

"Then leave us," she repeated a third time, tears welling in her eyes, her voice far softer than it had been. "This is my husband. He will die with his hand in mine in this room we have shared for twenty-seven years. And I will be alone with him, My Lord. I will bear him company, and I will witness his death, and if he speaks again before the end, what he says will be for my ears and no others. Now leave us, please. I have little time with him, and I refuse to lose any of it."

The bishop looked at her for a moment longer, then bowed his head.

"As you wish, Your Highness," he said softly. "Shall I send in Father Zhon?"

"No," Princess Ohlyvya said, staring down at her husband's face and holding his remaining hand in hers.

The bishop started to argue, then made himself stop. Father Zhon Trahlmahn, the royal household's official confessor, was actually more of a tutor to Nahrmahn and Ohlyvya's children than the keeper of the prince's conscience. The prince, the bishop thought, had never been as observant a man as the Church might have wished. The bishop was a man of strong Reformist beliefs himself, and Prince Nahrmahn's courage and willingness to speak in the cause of reforming Mother Church's faults and healing her wounds had won his admiration and gratitude, yet he could wish that at this moment....

It wasn't his decision, he reminded himself. It was Princess Ohlyvya's. Father Zhon had already administered extreme unction, and presumably heard the prince's confession, before the princess had sent him to comfort the children. But who would comfort her in this terrible hour, the bishop wondered. Who would hold her hand as she held her dying husband's?

"Very well, Your Highness," he said very quietly. "If you should decide you need me, send word."

"Thank you, My Lord, but I think that will be unnecessary," she told him with heartbreaking serenity. "I'm sure you're needed by the other victims of this attack. Go, do what you can for them with my thanks and my blessing."

The bishop bowed, then gathered up the lesser clergy with his eyes. The door closed behind them, and Ohlyvya leaned closer to the bed, resting her head on the pillow with her forehead touching Nahrmahn's cheek.

"I'm here, love," she said softly. "I'm here."

His left eye was covered in a thick dressing, but his right eye opened. He blinked slowly, the tiny movement of his eyelid heavy with effort, then turned his head and looked at her.