“There must be bad weather somewhere down south,” Salaman said, trying to soothe him. Thu-Kimnibol was too explosive, too unpredictable, when he was this troubled. “Heavy storms along the way, flooding on the highway, some such thing.”

“Storms? We’ve had nothing but one golden day after another.”

“But perhaps to the south—”

“No. The caravan’s late because there’s trouble in Dawinno. Once killing begins, where does it stop? There’s some upheaval going on there.”

So that’s what’s worrying him, Salaman thought. He still thinks he should have gone home the moment he got word of the murders. He feels guilty because he’s up here doing nothing while Dawinno may be in an uproar. If Taniane had wanted him to come home, though, Taniane would have asked him to come home. The fact that she didn’t must mean there’s no problem there.

“My prayers go with you, cousin,” Salaman said unctuously. “Yissou grant that all is well in your city.”

But the days went by, five more, six, seven, and still no caravan. Now Salaman too was puzzled. The caravans were always punctual. In winter and spring Yissou sent caravans south, and in summer and autumn they came northward from Dawinno. They were important to the economic life of both cities. Now Salaman found himself plagued with fretful merchants and manufacturers whose warehouses were piled high with goods ready to offer. Who would they sell them to, they asked him, if the caravan didn’t come? And the marketplace vendors who dealt in goods from Dawinno had the opposite problem. They needed to restock; but where was the caravan? “Soon,” Salaman told them all. “It’s on its way.” Yissou! Where was it? He was getting as edgy as Thu-Kimnibol.

Was something really wrong down south? He did, of course, have a few spies in Dawinno. But he hadn’t heard from them in weeks. The distance between the two cities was so great, the time of travel so long. We need some better way of getting news from abroad, the king told himself. Something faster, something that doesn’t involve asking couriers to travel hundreds of leagues. Something using second sight, maybe. He made a note to give the matter some thought.

Thu-Kimnibol continued to pace and scowl. Salaman found himself beginning to do it too.

Gods! Where was that caravan?

Husathirn Mueri said, “I trust your daughter’s recovery is proceeding well, lady.”

“As well as can be hoped for,” said Taniane, in a dull, toneless way.

He was astounded to see how tired she looked. Her shoulders were slumped, her hands lay limply in her lap, her fur was faded and without sheen. Once she had seemed to him more like Nialli Apuilana’s older sister than her mother, but no longer.

Maybe the state of Nialli Apuilana’s health had been the wrong topic to open with. He went on quickly to something else.

“As you requested, lady, I have the latest report on the search for Curabayn Bangkea’s murderer. The report is that no progress has been made.”

Taniane stared at him balefully. “There won’t ever be any progress there, will there, Husathirn Mueri?”

“I think not, lady. It was such a casual crime, it seems—”

“Casual? Murder?”

Suddenly there was cold fire in her eyes.

He said, “I meant only that it must have been a sudden brawl, something that came up out of nowhere, perhaps even without reason. Of course, we’ll continue the investigation in every way possible, but—”

“Forget the investigation. It isn’t leading anywhere.”

Her brusqueness was startling. “Just as you wish, lady.”

“What I want you to get your guardsmen thinking about is this new religion we have. This cult. It seems to be traveling through the city like a pestilence.”

“Chevkija Aim is leading a vigorous program of suppression, lady. In the past week alone we’ve uncovered three chapels, and we have—”

“No. Suppression isn’t going to work.”

“Lady?”

“I’m hearing disturbing news. Men like Kartafirain, Si-Belimnion, Maliton Diveri — property-holders, men who get around and know what’s going on. They say that as fast as we close down one chapel, two more open. Everyone out there is talking about Kundalimon. A prophet, they call him. A holy prophet. Queen-love’s spreading among the workers faster than a new drink. It’s becoming obvious very quickly that the policy of suppression’s going to cause more trouble than it cures. I want you to tell Chevkija Aim to call off his campaign.”

“But we have to suppress it, lady! The thing is outrageous heresy. Are we simply going to allow it to spread?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you so godly, Husathirn Mueri?”

“I know a danger when I see it.”

“So do I. But didn’t you hear what I just said? Suppressing it may prove to be more risky than letting it thrive.”

Perhaps so, he thought.

“I don’t like this new religion any more than you do,” she said. “But it could be that the best way of controlling it just now is by not trying to control it. We need to learn something about it before we can decide how dangerous it really is. It may be simple foolishness of the common people, or perhaps it’s active subversion by the hjjks, and how can we know which it is, eh? Except by looking at it. What I want you to do is drop everything else and find out what’s really taking place. Send guardsmen to snoop around in those chapels. Infiltrate them. Listen to what’s being said.”

Husathirn Mueri nodded. “I’ll see to it personally.”

“Oh, and one more thing. Check up on the people who are about to go with the caravan to Yissou, will you? Make sure none of them are cultists. That’s the last thing we need, to have this business infect Yissou also.”

“A very good point,” said Husathirn Mueri.

The Dawinno caravan had arrived at last, more than two weeks overdue: eleven xlendi-drawn wagons with red-and-gold banners, clip-clopping up the Southern Highway amid clouds of tawny dust.

That night there was a grand celebration: bonfires burning in the plazas, street musicians playing until dawn, feasting and carousing galore, little sleep, much revelry. The coming of the caravan was always a signal for unfettered rejoicing in Yissou, where the prevailing mood was more often one of constraint and caution: it was as though the arrival of the merchants from the south caused the great stone wall of the city to swing apart and warm sultry winds out of the tropics to blow through the narrow winding streets. But the lateness of the caravan, the uncertainty about whether it would get there at all, made its arrival an even bigger occasion than usual.

To Salaman, in his private palace chamber, came the merchant Gardinak Cheysz, the most useful of his agents in Dawinno. He was a plump but somber man, with fur of a curious grayish-yellow cast, and a mouth that drooped on one side from some weakness of the facial muscles. Though born in Yissou, he had lived most of his life in Dawinno. Salaman had employed him for years.

“There’s much confusion in Dawinno,” Gardinak Cheysz began. “That’s why we were late. Our departure was delayed by it.”

“Ah. Tell me.”

“You know that a boy called Kundalimon, who had been taken from Dawinno many years ago by the hjjks, returned to the city in the spring, and—”

“I know all that. I also know that he was murdered, and the captain of the city’s guards was also. This is old news.”

“You know these things, do you?” Gardinak Cheysz paused a moment, as if to reorder his thoughts. “Very well. Very well, sire.” From a courtyard outside the palace came wild skirling sounds, some kind of discordant piping, and the sound of laughter. “Do you know also, sire, that on the day of the two murders the daughter of the chieftain Taniane went mad, and disappeared from the city?”