When he heard the door hissing open behind him and the stamp of feet as the soldiers halted and came to attention, he did not turn. A brief probe told him who was there, and why they were there.

"Is he ready?" he asked, seeking verbal confirmation as, even with the protection of prayer, the Gift was not to be trusted.

"He is, Hierarch," said one of the men.

Loman turned, relishing that title, but also wondering if Major Claus was seeking advancement. The man stood with two subordinates, all three of them well armed and armoured. Claus was immaculate but for blood spattered up one leg; however, the others wore filthy and torn uniforms. All three of the men looked bone weary, but at least they could still stand upright, and in that had the advantage over many of their fellows. It had been a long hard struggle, but well worth the prize.

"Claus, do not call me Hierarch until after my investiture. It would be best to let the Council continue with the illusion that they have retained some power. Now, let's go and see to Amoloran's… disinvestiture."

The three fell in behind him as he exited the tower room. Loman glanced sideways and noted how Claus had moved in close to his left — the position of an advisor and one who shared in the ultimate position. He considered sending the man a pace or two back, then rejected the idea. The reality of the power game was that you needed the army on your side and, thus far, Claus had served a purpose, though he would be removed when the time was right.

"Reverend, I should also let you know that your brother has returned from Cheyne III with bad news: Brom has been killed and his organization is broken," said Claus.

Loman hesitated at the head of the spiral staircase which wound down beside one glass wall of the tower, as he checked this news through his aug. "No matter, there will always be others to fight the Polity on our behalf and they will never have sufficient reason to come here once Ragnorak has done its work." Glancing at the Major, Loman saw that the man looked dubious and wanted to make some comment on that. Loman went on, "It is all planned for. We are the Chosen, and we will not fail."

"As you will, Reverend," said Claus, which was not entirely the wholehearted response Loman would have liked, but that was probably due to the Major's weariness.

Feeling generous Loman went on, "After Ragnorak, I feel that you will have much work to do on the surface, Commander Claus."

They descended the stairs to the large chamber Loman had chosen for his own investiture later, and as they did so, he could not help but speculate on how much this tower of Amoloran's had cost in precious resources. Every step was a grav-plate, every one of the tower's fifty floors was tiled with them, and the security system — as he well knew — was particularly advanced. Of course that system had not proved sufficient when the power lines leading from solar panels mounted below the Up Mirror had been severed. It had been remiss of Amoloran to rely too heavily on the Gift — the men he, Loman, had sent to cut the power had been recruited from the surface, so were without augs to be detected; and, with a sufficient promise of future influence, the Septarchy Friars had clogged other channels that might have given things away.

Only half of the Council were present: those others who had supported the previous hierarch either taking their own lives maybe at that very moment, or, if they had the wealth to possess such, fleeing in their own crafts. The four hundred soldiers Claus had led in here were currently arrayed around the walls, or scattered through the crowd that was now, very quickly, growing silent. Loman moved out into the open space rapidly cleared at the foot of the stairs and gazed around. Many private channels were open, but he did not feel inclined to force his way in to them, as he knew what most of these people would be thinking. In the end it did not matter what they thought or discussed, just so long as they obeyed.

Set up at the back of the room was the pillar and the frame and he noticed how many Council members of questionable loyalty were glancing at this device nervously. After a moment, one member of the crowd broke away and approached to drop on one knee and take up Loman's hand. The Reverend Loman gazed down into the expressionless face of his brother.

"You return at an opportune time," said Loman.

"I would have come sooner, Reverend, but Brom was cowardly and was hesitating to send his people against the Cereb runcible. And he hesitated too long," Aberil replied.

Loman beckoned him to rise to his feet and opened a private link with him. "You were sent on a fool's errand anyway. Supplying Separatists gives the Polity an opening through which they can reach us. We must not overextend ourselves and we must be patient."

Aberil replied, "Amoloran was without focus or sufficient faith, and he would have destroyed us with his foolishness. You have done the right thing, brother."

"I have done what is required of me by God."

"As do we all."

Loman waved Aberil behind him, to his right side — a position Aberil took with some alacrity. Now Loman turned to Claus. "Let it be done," he said.

Claus gave the signal to his men at the back of the chamber, and the crowd parted as Amoloran was marched out, guards supporting him on either side as his legs kept giving way. The old man looked bewildered and terrified — as was only right. Loman noted with some distaste the bright yellow urine stains down the front of the disposable coverall he had earlier been dressed in. The guards dragged him to the frame and began tearing away his coverall as Loman advanced to stand before him. Amoloran resisted them, but to no avail, and soon he was naked and fighting only the obdurate metal that held him cruciform before the crowd.

Tilting his head towards Claus, Loman asked, "Did he have a way out?"

Claus held out his hand, in the palm of which rested three small translucent capsules. "Implanted under his fingernails. He also had a nerve jammer concealed in his neck jewel — and this." Claus held out a beautiful tool of old stainless steel — a spoon with its edges honed sharp.

"You think he would kill himself with a sculping tool?" asked Loman. "I think that gouging out his own eyes would not have been the way he would like to go."

Claus shook his head and pointed at the tool. "Neurotoxin in the handle, to be pumped through micropores in the edges, your reverence. Primarily used to cause pain, but there's the option to pump out the full amount, so one cut would cause instant death."

As he hung the tool on one of his own belt hooks, Loman nodded to himself: this was always how it happened — those of high rank always had a way to kill themselves should the situation require it, and always realized too late when that situation occurred. Himself, he had similar nerve-poison capsules implanted under his fingernails, and he would use them before it ever came to this for him.

"You left him his Gift, I see," he said.

Claus looked momentarily worried. "I thought it best to leave that decision to you."

"Remove it now."

Claus fisted his own chest then strode over to the old man in the frame.

"No… no, you can't," Amoloran gasped as Claus closed his fingers around the scaled aug behind the old man's ear. Amoloran screeched when Claus tore it off and cast it on the floor. There came an ominous muttering from the crowd, quickly stilled as Loman glanced around at them.

To all, through his aug, he broadcast, "He loved the Gift more than God. Will anyone here listen to his spoken confession?"

No one stepped forward.

"Have you chosen the program?" Aberil asked.

Loman glanced at him. "No, brother. Do you have any suggestions?"