"Oh, back to that, are we? Well, magic can perform such a ruse, but that does not mean it did. I said only that it could. Then you went off scent asking about death being revoked. Quite a separate issue, m'lord."

"How, woman! How can magic accomplish such high deception!"

She snugged the tattered blanket up around her shoulders.

"A death spell, m'lord."

Brogan glanced to Lunetla. Her beady eyes were fixed on the old woman, and she was scratching her arms.

"A death spell. And what, exactly, is a death spell?"

"Well, I've never seen one executed, so to speak — " She chuckled at her own joke. "—so I can't give you proper witness, but I can tell you what I've been told, if you've a wish to hear secondhand knowledge."

Brogan spoke through clenched teeth. "Tell me."

"Seeing a death, comprehending it, is something we all recognize at a spiritual level. It's this seeing of a body with its soul, or spirit, departed, that we recognize as death. A death spell can mimic a real death by making people believe they have seen a death, that they have seen the body without its soul, and so make them viscerally accept the event as true."

She shook her head as if she found the matter both amazing and scandalizing, "Very dangerous, it is. It requires invoking the aid of the spirits to hold the person's spirit while the web is cast. If anything goes wrong, the subject's spirit would be cast helpless into the underworld — a very unpleasant way to die. If everything goes right, and if the spirits return that which they have preserved, I am told it will work, and the person will live, but those seeing it will think them dead. Very chancy, though. While I've heard of it, I've never heard of it actually being attempted, so it may be nothing more than hearsay."

Brogan sat quietly moving the pieces of information around in his mind, pulling together things he had learned this day, and things he had learned in the past, searching for the right fit. It must have been a trick done to escape justice, but not one she could have accomplished without accomplices.

The old woman put a hand to the ghTs shoulder and started shuffling off. "Thank you for the warmth, m'lord, but I grow tired of your haphazard questions, and I've better things to do."

"Who could perform a death spell?"

The old woman halted. Her washed-out blue eyes lit up with a dangerous cast. "Only a wizard, m'lord. Only a wizard of immense power and great knowledge."

Brogan fixed her with a dangerous look of his own. "And are there any wizards here, in Aydindril?"

Her slow smile made her faded eyes gleam. She reached into a pocket under the blanket and tossed a coin on the table, where it spun in lazy circles before finally toppling over before him. Brogan picked up the silver coin, squinting at the strike.

"I asked a question, old woman. I expect an answer."

"You hold it, m'lord."

"I've never seen a coin like this. What's this image on it? It looks to be a grand structure of some sort."

"Oh it is, m'lord," she hissed. "It's the spawn of salvation and doom, of wizards and magic: the Palace of the Prophets."

"Never heard of it. What is this Palace of the Prophets?"

The old woman smiled a private smile.”Ask your sorceress, m'lord." She turned again to leave.

Brogan shot to his feet. "No one gave you permission to leave, you toothless old hag!"

She peered back over her shoulder. "It's the liver, m'lord."

Brogan leaned forward on his knuckles. "What?"

"I've a taste for raw liver, m'lord. I believe that's what makes the teeth fall out, over time."

Just then, Galtero appeared, squeezing past the woman and girl as they went through the doorway. He saluted with fingertips to bowed forehead. "Lord General, I have a report."

"Yes, yes, in a moment."

"But — "

Brogan held up a silencing finger to Galtero as he turned to Lunetta. "Well?"

"Every word true. Lord General. She be like a water bug, skimming the surface of the water, touching only the tips of her feet to it, but everything she said be true. She knows much more than she tells, but what she tells be true."

Brogan waggled his hand impatiently for Ettore to come forward. The man stiffened to attention before the table as his crimson cape swished around his legs. "Lord General?"

Brogan's eyes narrowed. "I think we may have a baneling on our hands. How would you like to prove yourself worthy of the cape you wear?"

"Yes, Lord General, very much."

"Before she gets out of the building, take her into custody. She be under suspicion of being a baneling."

"What of the girl, Lord General?"

"Weren't you watching, Ettore? She will no doubt prove to be the baneling's familiar. Besides, we don't want her out in the street crying out that her 'grandmamma' is being held by the Blood of the Fold. The other, the cook, would be missed, and that could bring troublemakers down around us, but this pair won't be missed from the street. They be ours, now."

"Yes, Lord General. I will see to it at once."

"I will want to question her as soon as possible. The girl, too." Brogan held up a cautionary finger. "They had better be ready to answer truthfully any question I ask."

Ettore's youthful face bent into a gruesome grin. "They will confess when you come to them, Lord General. By the Creator, they will be ready to confess."

"Very good, lad, now be off, before they gain the street."

As Ettore dashed through the door, Galtero stepped impatiently forward, but waited silently before the table.

Brogan sank down into the chair, his voice distant. "Galtero, you did your usual, thorough, good job; the witnesses you brought me proved up to my standards."

Tobias Brogan slid the silver coin aside, unfastened the leather straps on the case, and dumped his trophies into a pile on the table. With tender care he spread them out, touching the once living flesh. Each was a desiccated nipple — the left nipple, the one closest to the baneling's evil heart — with enough skin to include the tattooed name. They represented only a fraction of the banelings he had uncovered: the most important of the important; the most vile of the Keeper's fiends.

As he replaced the booty one at a time, he read the name of each baneling he had put to the torch. He remembered each chase, and capture, and inquisition. Flames of anger flared up at remembering the unholy crimes to which each had finally confessed. He remembered justice being done each time.

But he had yet to win the prize of prizes: the Mother Confessor.

"Galtero," he said in a soft, stony voice, "I have her trail. Get the men together. We will leave at once."

"I think you had better hear what I have to say, first, Lord General."

It be the D'Harans, Lord General."

After replacing the last of his trophies, Brogan flipped the lid shut on his case and looked up into Galtero's dark eyes. "What about the D'Harans?"

"Early today, I knew something be afoot when they started gathering. That be what had the people in such turmoil."

"Gathering?"

Galtero nodded. “Around the Confessors' Palace, Lord General. At midafternoon they all started chanting."

Astonished, Tobias leaned toward his colonel. "Chanting? Do you remember their words?

Galtero hooked a thumb behind his weapons belt. "It went on for two full hours; it would be hard to forget it after hearing it that many times. The D'Harans bowed down, forehead to the ground, and all chanted the same words: 'Master Rahl guide us. Master Rahl teach us. Master Rahl protect us. In your light we thrive. In your mercy we be sheltered. In your wisdom we be humbled. We live only to serve. Our lives be yours. "

Brogan tapped a finger on the table. "And all the D'Harans did this? How many are there?"