"Including the Emperor's?" Nikos flushed, for he had spoken without thinking.

The Duchess turned, her grave eyes meeting his. She nodded, though she said nothing. Nikos understood all too well. The Emperor would not be told, informed, or involved until all was done. If the wayward Prince could be brought down and returned to his family, the matter would be closed. If the Prince escaped, or was killed, it would be an unfortunate accident. No taint of this cruel business would touch the Emperor's cloak.

"I have been informed," the Duchess said, "that the Prince is in the city, though hidden. He plans, however, to move his entourage to the south, perhaps to the coastal town of Cumae on the Bay of Neapolis. I have considered, and rejected, a plan to apprehend the Prince within the confines of the capital. The powers he has shown are too dangerous to risk within the walls. We will wait until he moves away and goes to ground. Then we will strike."

Nikos raised a hand. His mind was filled with questions of tactics and the matter of execution.

Thyatis bit a hunk off the end of a loaf. She was very tired and coated with dust and grime from the road. The bread was a little stale- no fresh loaves had been available at this late hour. Her boots needed mending, too, and the climb up the street that wound up the side of the Quirinal was hurting her feet. She had two bags slung over her shoulder- one of her personal things and the other of presents she had spent long hours scouring the markets of Athens and Syracuse to find. Shirin's babies would not look kindly upon her if she arrived without the appropriate tribute!

She resumed walking, though the final pitch of the hill seemed much steeper than she remembered. Around her, in the night, the city spread out like a mirror of the sky, filled with sparkling orange and red jewels. The familiar stink of the air was like incense to her. She usually thought of Thira as her home, but tonight, as she climbed the side of the hill, this felt like a homecoming.

"What will we do about the hell-caster?" Kahrmi, the eldest of the two Khazar brothers who had escaped with them out of burning Ctesiphon, leaned on the table. His brown beard, as thick and curly as a bramble thicket, barely disguised the concerned look on his face. At his side, his brother Efraim nodded in agreement. "If this boy-prince can summon the powers of air and darkness, we stand little chance against him. None of us."- Kahrmi gestured around at the men at the table- "are skilled in those arts. We need assistance; our own witches or warlocks to match power with this boy."

Nikos turned to the Duchess, raising an eyebrow. He had the same questions, though he had not broached them yet.

"I have sought this assistance," the Duchess said in a tired voice. " We cannot use the thaumaturges from the Legion or the Imperial Academy without the permission of the Emperor. This counts them out. I have approached, by messenger, many of the independent wizards who make their home in the city. None have responded. I fear we will have to handle this ourselves."

"What?" Nikos stood, his face the very picture of alarm. "My lady, this is a bootless task! We are strong men, skilled and well versed in the arts of war and murder. But the whole lot of us, even together, even with a plan or a trap, will be very hard pressed to match this thing of theirs, this monster. If we must go up against the lad and his own powers: well, that will be the end of us."

"It will not be the end of you." Anger at last sparked in Anastasia's eyes. "You are thinking men. Crafty hunters. You can track down this boy and his creatures and kill or capture them. He is a living man, so he bleeds and he can die. You said that to me once, if I remember aright."

Nikos flinched at the cutting tone in her voice. "That," he said in a hollow voice, "was before we matched blades with this thing. Jusufyou were there, you saw how it moved! It is so fast: more, I do not think that it bleeds, my lady."

Anastasia turned to Jusuf, her kohl-rimmed eyes searching his face.

The Khazar looked back, his long face drawn and grim. "It is true," he said softly. "Petronius speared it through with a clean blow and it laughed. It wanted him to pin it, to show that it could not be killed by our weapons. Then it crushed his skull in its fingers. If you say that the bodies recovered from the villa in the hills show signs of being the risen dead, I wager that the thing is of that same ilk."

Anastasia seemed to shrink in upon herself, her face closing up. Nikos fidgeted, his hands shifting on the tabletop. He could see no way to accomplish what she desired and wondered if she would back away from the task. But that would not be like her.

"My lady," he said when she did not speak. "If we are careful, we maybe able to take down the boy if we move while he is still in the city. If there is conscience left in him he may not wield his full powers when there are citizens about. If we let him get away, out into the countryside, then we are at his mercy. By the gods, the fire-drake can fly! We have nothing to chase him with if he decides to flee. We are outmatched by this if we cannot bring in help- Imperial help."

"No." The Duchess roused herself at last, sitting up again. Jusuf tried to touch her hand, but she stopped him with a cold glare. She looked around the table, and Nikos felt everyman sitting there stiffen. "This is the task that I lay upon you," she said in a brittle voice. "Devise a means to bring down the monster, capture the boy, and return him here, to me. I would advise that you keep him unconscious while he is in our custody. Find a way to win. You are the best that I have to hand, you will have to do. All this without drawing the attention of the Emperor or the State. Do you understand me?"

Nikos felt the venom in her voice like a back-handed slap on his face. He nodded jerkily.

"Good." Anastasia relented a little, allowing the ice in her voice to thaw a fraction. "Now, how will you deal with this monster?"

Nervously, Betia bit at her nails. She knew she wasn't supposed to, but she was beside herself in disgust. Distracted, she sneaked a look around the back of the big chair that the Duchess was sitting in. It was hard to make out the muscular, blocky form of the man who had been staring at her, but she could see his hands on the tabletop. They were big and callused and strong. She looked at her own hands, pale and small in the light of the lamps. She had heard that the Illyrian had been a wrestler in his youth. It seemed very possible, particularly since his wrists were like tree roots and almost as big around as her upper arms. His arms, she thought morosely, were worse- ridged with hard muscle and as big as her thighs.

I'm too small, she whimpered to herself. Too small and weak and careless.

Worse, he was covered with fine white scars and jagged puckered welts. He was bald and grim-looking, with a mean look in his brown eyes. I shouldn't have looked right at him, she thought, berating herself for the lapse. It only compounded her error in letting him notice her being unnoticeable. Behind the shelter of the chair she hung her head in shame and almost sniffled. A student of the art was supposed to avoid notice by simply being a part of the background of the scene or room or crowd. It was against the rules to be invisible all the time.

Betia steeled herself and pinched the bridge of her nose with thumb and forefinger. Crying was forbidden, too. She knew where she had fouled up, but it had been a joy to pass through the house or the market or the temples without anyone noticing her. It had given her a delicious sense of freedom, knowing that she could pass into anyplace, all unseen, without having to explain her presence or ask for admittance.