"We will stage an official reconciliation," Maithanet said in warm, informal tones, "something for the masses. But for the nons, I want all of you to witness what we sa-"

Then there he was, clad only in a loincloth, stepping between the golden idols of War and Birth, stepping from where he had always been standing, in the one place that had escaped the notice of all-the one place overlooked, which exists in the world's every room.

Her assassin.

He stepped from the gloom. He looked hard, like something between brown flesh and grey stone. Three noiseless steps. Maithanet heard and turned. His face was emotionless, devoid of shock or surprise or any expression. Somehow Esmenet knew he turned with little more than curiosity, so certain was he of his security. He turned just as the man dropped the knife between his neck and clavicle. There was nothing remarkable about the assault, no display of inhuman speed or ability, only a step from the one place overlooked to the one place unguarded. A kind of discharging of the inevitable.

The figure instantly released the pommel...

The Holy Shriah of Thousand Temples gazed down at the knife as if it were a hornet or bee, teetered...

Esmenet could only blink as Maithanet sputtered and died before her.

"Sister!" he gasped. "You must tell my broth-!"

He slumped to his knees, his eyes rounding about an emblematic emptiness, then crumpled to his side. His chest-plate clattered against the polished tile. He died at her assassin's feet.

Out of reflex, Esmenet turned to the abject faces, held out her hands to still the cries of cracked disbelief and the charge of the more warlike among the Apparati. In the far pockets of gloom, she could see the Inchausti gathering into a golden rush...

She could feel the Narindar motionless behind her. Why didn't he run?

"Hold!" she cried out. "I said, Hold!"

All those near fell silent and still. Some fairly flinched out of obedience.

"Vem-Mithriti! Does your fire still serve your Empress?"

The old man hobbled to her side without hesitation. Sorcerous words seemed to cough out of the surrounding air. White light spilled from his puckered mouth and perforated eyes, made him seem an ancient baby for the vanishing of the rutted lines. Wards flickered to life about them.

The nearest of the Inchausti began slowing to a wary trot, their broadswords still held on high.

"What you have witnessed is the work of our Holy Aspect-Emperor!" she cried out, her voice strong for the iron of her exhaustion. She had no nerves to suffer.

She knew what she must look like: beggared, wild and bloodied, wreathed in pale-glowing tongues of flame. Nevertheless, she posed before them as though gowned in full Imperial splendour, knowing the contradiction between bearing and appearance would smack of scripture.

"The name Maithanet shall be stricken from all scrolls and all stone!" she cried in righteous fury. "For he is naught but a deceiver!"

She would do what her husband had bid her to do.

"The adoration you once felt, the dismay you now feel is the very measure of his deception!"

She would speak oil.

"He!" she shrieked, jerking her open hand to the bundle of fabric bleeding beneath the golden arc of idols. "Anasurimbor Maithanet! He has revolted against his sacred brother! He has murdered our..." Her voice broke about the truth of this last. "Our Holy Prophet's son!"

The Shrial and Imperial Apparati stood aghast, some stupefied, others terrified, a crowd of wisemen and dandies trussed by mad circumstance. Beyond them, the Inchausti continued their clattering accumulation. Cries and moans and hissed conversations rose from them.

One of their captains stepped belligerently forward, began, "Who sa-?"

"Anasurimbor Kellhus!" she cried in scathing dismissal. "Our Holy Aspect-Emperor!" She could see the man's example leaping like contagion, emboldening others throughout the assembly. "To whom do you think he sends his holy dreams?" And though she could not sense them, she knew the Inchausti possessed Chorae...

She had to strike the will to fight from them. It was her only hope.

"Think!" she fairly screeched. "Who else could strike down the Shriah of the Thousand Temples with such ease? With! Such! Ease!"

This, she knew, would open a wedge...

"On your knees!" she cried, as if she had conjured as much as invoked her divine husband. "On your knees!"

Because acting and being were one and the same for Men.

She had no choice. She had to own the event. What chances did her assassin have of escape, even if he were Narindar? If captured, he would name her. She had to own the event and own it as justice, as the swift and brutal justice they had come to expect from Anasurimbor Kellhus. The assassin would be spared, would be celebrated as a hero.

As he should, since he had only worked his Empress's will.

This was why he remained standing over his victim. This was why he had chosen this very moment to strike.

Many had fallen to their knees instantly, Phinersa among them, the ghost of a smile upon his nimble face. Some grovelled in abject shame, murmuring prayers to her where she stood beneath the golden idols. But a greater proportion of the Inchausti remained standing, held up by their outrage and the example of their indecisive brothers.

"Kneel! For those who stand now stand with foul Golgotterath!"

She would speak oil, heartbreaking oil. She would drive thousands to the executioner's sword, if need be. She would burn Momemn to the ground the way the minstrels accused her of burning Carythusal...

Anything to see her children safe!

"For eternity itself hangs in the balance about you!"

The last of the Inchausti relented, dropped to their knees, then to their faces. She watched it spread like a disease among them, the miraculous inversion that makes madness out of faith, the transformation of squalid catastrophe into divine revelation. And they could feel Him, she knew. All of them could feel Him emanating from her slight and bloodied figure. And in months and years hence, they would die thinking this the most significant, most glorious moment of their lives...

Grovelling before the Holy Empress.

A feeling of triumph unlike any she had ever experienced steeped her to the merest vein, an elation that transcended her body, an uproarious continuity of self and subjugated world. It seemed she need only yank high her arms and the very earth would be flapped like a blanket. And she looked down with imperious satisfaction, revelled in the fleeting intensity...

For even as she watched, the assembled penitents began looking about in wonder and anxious confusion.

The roaring that had been her pious chorus, her proof of Maithanet's discord, had dwindled, then trailed away altogether. The mobs had fallen miraculously silent...

And for the merest of instants, it seemed that the whole Empire had joined them on their knees.

But something... a kind of rhythmic pulse... had taken its place, rising from the deep temple hollows. She recognized it instantly, though her soul refused to credit the knowledge. For it was a sound that still thrummed through the darkest of her dreams.

Dreams of warring Shigek... of desert wastes and the abject misery that was Caraskand.

Dreams of Holy Shimeh, wrested from heathen hands.

The beating of war-drums. Fanim drums.

The Empress of the Three Seas turned to the idol of Anagke, who by some perversity of angles gleamed golden over the dead Shriah's inert form, the near-naked assassin passionless at her side.

She began laughing-clawing her hair and laughing...

Such a devious whore was Fate.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

The Library of Sauglish

In life, your soul is but the extension of your body, which reaches inward until it finds its centre in spirit. In death, your body is but the extension of your soul, which reaches outward until it finds it circumference in flesh. In both instances, all things appear the same. Thus are the dead and the living confused.

-MEMGOWA, THE BOOK OF DIVINE ACTS Yet the soul lingers like a second smell.

A sailor wrecked at sea, it clings, lest it sink and drown in Hell.

-GIRGALLA, EPIC OF SAUGLISH LATE SUMMER, 20 NEW IMPERIAL YEAR (4132 YEAR-OF-THE-TUSK), THE RUINS OF SAUGLISH.

Suffocation. Blindness and bewilderment.

At first Achamian thought the gag choked him, but his mouth was clear. Had they put a sack over his head? He thrashed his limbs, realizing he was unbound-but he could not move more than the span of a hand.

Sarcophagus. Coffin. He was in some kind of...

Dream.

The old Wizard's panic dwindled, even as the panic of the ancient soul he had become flared into outrage. He was Anasurimbor Nau-Cayuti, Scourge of the Consult, Prince of the High Norsirai-Dragonslayer! He beat at his stone prison with righteous fury, howled. He cursed the name of his miscreant wife.

But the enclosed chute grew hot with his exertions, and the air began failing him. Soon he was heaving, making a bellows out of his barrel chest, gasping. Soon he could do no more than scratch at his prison, and his thoughts unwound in shame and disorientation...

To think a man such as he would die scratching.

Then he was tipping and tumbling, as though his prison had been cast into a cataract. Stone cracked-a concussion that snapped his teeth. Air washed about him, so chill as to feel wet. He sucked cold, breathed against a ponderous fragment pinning him. He blinked at the night darkness, saw the moon low, glaring pale through rag-ripped clouds and thronging branches. He glimpsed broken forms strewn, sightless eyes shining in the twinkle of fallen torches. Dead Knights of Tryse. He saw his sword gleaming among rune-engraved fragments of stone, reached with nerveless fingers. But a shadow stilled him. Witless for lack of breath and confusion and horror, he gazed up at his monstrous assailant...

Phallus, greased and pendulous. Wings, scabrous and veined, folded into two horns rising high above the thing's shoulders. Window skin, revealing sheaths of raw muscle and a compound head: one skull a great oval, the second human, fused into the jaws of the former.

Aurang, the old Wizard realized with Nau-Cayuti's horror. The Horde-General. The Angel of Deceit.

The Inchoroi kicked away his blade, arched over him like a defecating dog. It wrapped fish-cold fingers about his throat. It raised him until he dangled helpless in its baleful gaze. Needles probed his breath-starved extremities.

The thing grinned-sheets of mucus pinned to its lesser skull.

Laughter like pain blown through broken flutes.

"None," the Inchoroi gasped through leprous throats. "None escape Golgottera-"

- - Shouting. Someone was shouting.

The Wizard bolted from the forest floor, blinking and peering in the stupefied manner of those just awoken. He coughed, convulsed as his throat warred against the gag. The world was predawn grey, the eastern sky a golding slate through skeins of branches.

The Captain. The Captain ranted at them to awaken.

"The Coffers, boys!" he cried in a macabre parody of Sarl's exclamation. The mad Sergeant chortled in delight, cried, "The Slog of Slogs!" in answer, before a realization of some kind yanked his breath short. Afterward, he watched with the wariness of a dog long-beaten.

"Today is the day we turn around!"

Achamian glimpsed Mimara rising slight and slender from a depression in the ground, her lips hanging open as she beat at the leafy detritus pasted across her arm and shoulder. Suddenly Lord Kosoter was looming over him, the twin voids tingling as always beneath his splint hauberk. He grabbed the Wizard by the shoulders, heaved him to his feet as though he were a child.

"Galian!" he shouted to the former Columnary. "Make ready."

The Captain seized the rope about the Wizard's wrists and, accompanied by Cleric, led him like a votive lamb away from the others. He had a practised hand, shoving and catching so that it seemed the Wizard continually tripped forward. Eventually, he let him fall onto his face.

The Wizard writhed like a fish, kicked himself onto his back only to crush and scrape his fingers against a branch. Lord Kosoter towered over him, more shadow than man with the brightening east behind him. His two Chorae glowered with nothingness, like the empty sockets of a skull hanging about his heart. The Wizard watched him reach beneath his hauberk and tug one free.

"Our expedition has come to a head," Lord Kosoter said, dandling the thing before him.

The old Wizard's thoughts raced. There was a path through this. There was a path through everything...

Yet one more lesson learned at Kellhus's punishing hand.

The Captain knelt beside him, leaned so low his beard brushed Achamian's own. His rough fingers worked the leather straps that held the gag in place. The Chorae was a coal that scorched the air with absence-burning oblivion...

"The time has come, Wizard. Xonghis says the solstice is several days away."

The old Wizard shrank from the Trinket, writhed as if searching for a hatch through the forest floor. The Captain pulled the gag free.

"Speak with care."

His tongue was cankered and swollen. Talking was onerous. "Wha-?" He trailed in a coughing fit. "Sol-solstice?"

The Captain's face betrayed no passion. His eyes gleamed dead within their rim of tattooed black. The ferocity of his suspicion lay compressed in the pause he took before replying.

"You claimed the Coffers were protected by powerful Wards," he fairly growled. "Curses that could only be unlocked during the solstice..."

Achamian glared, blinking. It seemed a lifetime had passed since he had said as much. Lies. Where facts were like embroidery, each one stitched across the whole cloth of others, lies were like chips of ice in water, always slipping one past the other, always melting...

"Our expedition has come to a head..."