“Barbius of Neyr, marshal and commander in the Fimbrian army,” Rogien announced in a voice of brass.

Barbius inclined his head to Himerius. Fimbrians did not bend the knee to anyone save their emperor. Himerius knew this, yet the slight bow had so much of contempt in it that he shifted in his throne, his liver-spotted hands tightening on the armrests.

“Barbius of the electorate of Neyr, you are welcome in Charibon,” the Pontiff said calmly. “The urgency of your errand is written in your face and those of your companions, and so we have deigned to grant you an audience despite the lateness of the hour. Quarters appropriate for your rank have been set aside for you and your comrades, and as soon as the audience is over there will be food and drink served to help sustain the flagging spirit.”

Barbius made the slight bow again in acknowledgement of this graciousness. His voice when he spoke was the grate of sliding rock to Himerius’ deep music.

“I thank His Holiness for his hospitality, but am grieved to say that I shall not be able to take advantage of it. I and my men are in haste: the main body of our force is encamped some five leagues from here and we hope to rejoin them ere the morning.”

“Main body?” Himerius repeated.

“Yes, Holiness. I am here to reassure you that the troops under my command bear the monastery-city nothing but goodwill, and you need not fear—nor need Almark fear—any rapine on their behalf. We are merely passing through, obeying the orders of the Electors.”

“I don’t understand. Are you not an embassy come from the electorates?” Himerius asked.

“No, Holiness. I am merely the commander of an eastwardbound Fimbrian army come to pay my respects.”

The statement fell in the room like a thunderclap.

“A Fimbrian army is encamped five leagues from Charibon?” Betanza said, incredulous.

“Yes, excellency.”

“Whither are you bound?” Himerius inquired, and the music was gone from his voice. He sounded as hoarse as an old crow.

“We are bound for the relief of Ormann Dyke.”

“At whose behest?”

“I am ordered by my superiors, the Electors of Fimbria.”

“But who has asked for your help? Lofantyr the heretic? It must be.”

Barbius shrugged, his red-gold moustache concealing any expression his mouth might have conveyed. His eyes were as flat and hard as sea ice. “I am only following orders, Holiness. It is not for me to question the doings of high policy.”

“Do you realize you are imperilling your immortal soul by succouring a heretic who has repudiated the validity of the holy Church?” Himerius snapped.

“As I said, Holiness, I am merely a soldier obeying orders. If I do not obey them my life is forfeit. I called in on you here as a courtesy, to ask your blessing.”

“You march to the aid of he who shields the heresiarch of the west, and you ask my blessing?” Himerius said.

“My army marches east to stem the Merduk invasion. It is performing a service for every kingdom in the west, be they Himerian or Macrobian,” Barbius said. “I ask you, Holiness, to look on it in that light. The dyke will fall in the spring if my forces do not reinforce it, and the Merduks will be hammering at the gates of Charibon within a year. It may be that King Lofantyr is paying our wages, but the service we render is of value to every free man in Normannia.”

Himerius was silent, thinking. It was Betanza who spoke next.

“So you are mercenaries, you Fimbrians. You hire yourselves out to kings in need and fight for the gold in their coffers. What if the Merduk sultans offered you a greater wage than the western kings, Marshal? Would you then fight under the banners of the Prophet?”

For the first time, emotion crossed the face of the Fimbrian marshal. His eyes flared and he took one step forward, which made every guard in the chamber tense on the balls of his feet.

“Who built Charibon?” he asked. “Who founded Aekir and hollowed out Ormann Dyke and reared up the great moles of Abrusio Harbour? My people did. For centuries the Fimbrians were the buckler behind which the people of the west sheltered from the steppe hordes, the horse-tribes, the Merduk thousands. The Fimbrians made the western world what it is. You think we would betray the heritage of our forefathers, the legacy of our empire? Never! Once again we are in the foremost rank of those defending it. All we ask”—and here the marshal’s tone softened—“is that you do not see our reinforcing of the dyke as an assault on the Himerian Church. We intend no heresy, and would keep on good terms with Charibon if we could.”

Himerius rose and lifted his hand. The torchlight made his face into an eagle mask, eyes glittering blackly on either side of the aquiline nose.

“You have our blessing then, Marshal Barbius of Neyr. May your arms shine with glory, and may you hurl the Merduk heathen back from the gates of the west.”

“W HY did you do it?” Betanza demanded. “Why did you legitimize the farming out of Fimbrian troops to heretics? It is senseless!”

He and the Pontiff were sweeping along one of Charibon’s starlit cloisters, utterly deserted at this time of night. Their hands were hidden in their sleeves and they had their hoods drawn up against the biting cold, but the blizzards had ended and the night air was as clear as the bleb of an icicle, sharp as a shard of flint. Novices had swept the cloister clear of snow before retiring to bed and the two clerics were able to stride along without interruption.

“Why should I not do it? Had I refused the blessing, alienated the man, then I would have done the Church no favours and possibly a great deal of harm. We cannot argue with an army of Fimbrians. Think of that, Betanza! Fimbrians on the march again across the continent. The imperial tercios on the move. It is enough to make a man shudder with apprehension. We knew after the Conclave of Kings that something like this was in the wind—but so soon. Lofantyr has stolen a march on us, quite literally.”

“But why bless his enterprise? It is giving tacit recognition of the Torunnan kingdom, which is no longer within the Church’s fold.”

“No. I merely blessed the Fimbrians: I did not wish Godspeed to heretics. If the old imperial power is once again stirring and taking an interest in the world, then it would be as well for us to keep it on our side. The Fimbrians are still a Himerian state, remember. They have never formally recognized the anti-Pontiff Macrobius, and therefore they are technically in our camp. Let us keep it that way. The Fimbrians themselves obviously want to keep the Church in their corner, else that brutish marshal would have marched past Charibon without a pause and we would be none the wiser of his passing. No—despite the bequest of Almark we are not strong enough to antagonize the Electors.”

Their sandals slapped on the frigid stone of the cloisters.

“I pity them, sleeping out on a night like this,” Betanza said.

Himerius snorted. “They are soldiers, little better than animals. They hardly register any feeling except the most base. Let them shiver.”

They took one more turn about the cloister, and then: “I will go to bed now, Holiness,” Betanza said, oddly subdued. “My investigations into the death of Commodius will recommence at dawn. I wish to pray awhile.”

“By all means. Good night, Betanza.”

The Pontiff stood alone in the clear night, his eyes glittering under his hood. In his mind he was marshalling armies and putting the cities of the heretics to the torch. A second empire there would be on earth, and as mad Honorius had said it would rise in an age of fire and the sword.

I am tired, Himerius thought, his savage exaltation flickering out as the freezing wind searched his frame. I am old, and weary of the struggle. But soon my task will be fulfilled, and I will be able to rest. Someone else will take my place.