She said finally, “Thu-Kimnibol obtained proof, while he was in Yissou, that the hjjks intend to launch an attack against King Salaman in the very near future.”

“Proof? What sort of proof?”

The evasiveness deepened. “He said something about having gone riding out into hjjk territory with Salaman, and coming upon a party of hjjks, and forcing them to surrender secret military plans. Or something like that.”

“Which they were conveniently carrying in little baskets around their necks. Personally signed by the Queen, with the royal hjjk seal stamped on them.”

“Please, Hresh.”

“You believe this? That the invasion of Yissou that Salaman’s been fretting about since the beginning of time is actually going to happen the day after tomorrow?”

“I do, yes.”

“What proof is there?”

“Thu-Kimnibol knows what it is.”

“Ah. I see. All right, let’s say the hjjks finally are going to invade. How timely for Salaman that this is going to happen right after he and my brother have concluded a treaty of mutual defense between Dawinno and Yissou, eh?”

“You sound so angry, Hresh! I’ve never heard you this way.”

“And I’ve never heard you this way, either. Dancing around my questions, talking about proof but not producing any, letting Thu-Kimnibol set up an army right here in the city without taking the trouble even to discuss it in the Presidium—”

Now she was staring at him as if he were a stranger. Her eyes were hooded, her expression was cold.

He couldn’t bear it, this wall of suspicion that had arisen between them suddenly, rearing as high as Salaman’s lunatic rampart. The urge came to him to ask her to twine with him, to join him in the communion that admits of no suspicion, of no mistrust. Then all would be made known between them; then once again they would be Hresh and Taniane, Taniane and Hresh, and not the strangers they had become to each other.

But he knew that she’d refuse. She’d plead weariness, or an urgent meeting an hour from now, or some other such thing. For if she twined with him she would have no secrets from him; and Hresh saw that she was full of secrets that she was determined not to share with him. He felt a great sadness. He could always find out everything he wanted to know by taking recourse to the Barak Dayir, he knew. The powers of the Wonderstone would carry him anywhere, even into the guarded recesses of Taniane’s mind. But the idea was repugnant to him. Spy on my own mate? he thought. No. No, I’ll let the city be destroyed and everyone in it, before I do that.

After a long silence Taniane said, “I’ve taken such actions as I deem necessary for the security of the city, Hresh. If you disagree, you have the right to state your objections in the Presidium. All right?” Her stony glare was awful to behold. “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

“Do you know, Taniane, that Thu-Kimnibol has gone behind my back to remove newly discovered Great World artifacts from the House of Knowledge for use as weapons?”

“If there’s a war, Hresh, weapons will be necessary. And there’s going to be a war.”

“But to take them from the House of Knowledge, without even telling—”

“I authorized Thu-Kimnibol to see to it that the army was properly equipped.”

“You authorized him to steal Great World things from the House of Knowledge?”

She eyed him steadily and unflinchingly. “I seem to remember that you used Great World weapons against the hjjks at the battle of Yissou.”

“But that was different! That was—”

“Different, Hresh?” Taniane laughed. “Was it? How?”

For Salaman it was a bad day atop the wall. Everything was unclear. A hash of harsh chattering nonsense clogged the channels of his mind. Vague cloudy images drifted to him now and then. A lofty tower which might signify Thu-Kimnibol. A flash of luminescent flame which perhaps stood for Hresh. A tough weatherbeaten tree, whipping about in a storm, which he thought might represent Taniane. And some other image, that of someone or something serpentine and slippery, impossible for Salaman to interpret at all. Things were happening in Dawinno today. But what? What? Nothing that he was picking up made sense. He tuned his second sight as keenly as he could. But either his perceptions were weak today or the transmissions from his spies were muddled beyond his ability to decode them.

He was in his pavilion, sweeping his sensing-organ from side to side in broad arcs. Casting his mind outward along it into the great empty spaces that surrounded Yissou, he trawled southward for news. On the far side of the wall, the whole city’s width away, stood his son Biterulve, seeking word from the north.

The new communications network was finally in place. It had taken all the winter to build it: finding the volunteers, training them, sending them out to establish the outposts that would masquerade as farms. But now he had his agents strung like beads along a line stretching southward nearly to the City of Dawinno, and north toward hjjk territory as far as seemed safe to intrude.

From all sides came the buzz and crackle of second-sight visions flooding toward him, relayed station by station along the line. The king concentrated the full force of his powerful mind on them. He came here every day at dawn now, to listen, to wait.

It wasn’t easy to achieve, this mind-transmission. The messages were always blurred and difficult to interpret, and often ambiguous. But what other way was there, short of having couriers ride constantly back and forth? At best the news they brought would be weeks late. That was unthinkable, now. Events were moving too quickly. If he had a Wonderstone as Hresh did, perhaps he could let his spirit rove hither and yon as he wished, peering into anything and everything. But there was only one Wonderstone, and Hresh had it.

Nothing was working for him today, though. The messages that were coming in were worthless, murk and mist, darkness and fog, no clarity at all. A waste of time and energy.

Well, so be it. Salaman let his weary sensing-organ go limp. A better day tomorrow, perhaps. He moved toward the stairs.

Then, like an agitated voice calling to him out of the sky, the presence of his son came to him.

— Father! Father!

— Biterulve?

— Father, can you hear me? It’s Biterulve!

— I hear you, yes.

— Father?

— Tell me, boy. Tell me!

There was silence then. Salaman felt fury rising. Plainly the boy had something important to tell him; but just as plainly, Biterulve’s messages and his own replies weren’t in coordination.

Salaman swung around and inclined his sensing-organ toward the direction Biterulve’s output was coming from. It was maddening: so inexact, so imprecise, mere approximations of meaning, images and sensations rather than words, which must be deciphered, which must be interpreted. But certainly there was news from the north. Salaman had no doubt of that. He could feel the boy’s unmistakable excitement.

— Biterulve?

— Father! Father!

— I hear you. Tell me what it is.

He sensed the boy struggling. Biterulve had great sensitivity, but it was of an odd kind, more keen over long distances than close at hand. Salaman hammered his fists against the brick walkway of the wall. He raised his sensing-organ until it could go no higher, and stroked the air with his outspread arms as though that way he could pull the message more clearly from his son.

Then came an image unquestionable in its clarity.

Bloodied bodies lying on a plain between two streams. Hundreds of them. Zechtior Lukin’s people.

Gaunt shadowy figures stalking among them, stooping now and then as though taking trophies.