But you never knew who might report to him. It might be someone with a grudge.

Everyone in direct contact with Gordimer spied for him, one way or another. He expected answers when he asked questions. He was feared universally. And respected by many because the culture honored strongmen. Only a strongman kept the dogs of war and civil unrest at heel.

Dreanger was rich. For millennia it exported grains and cotton and imported gold, silver, and luxuries. Its neighbors were less wealthy but the peace provided by the Kaif's suzerainty was treasure enough for most War profited only the few.

Else rose from stone worn by the tread of a hundred million sandals. He strode into the cool shade behind the structure's immense, square outer pillars. In passing, he noted that artisans were still removing or rewriting inscriptions that had come down from those fabulous ages predating Gordimer's ascension to power.

Posterity would know the tiniest details of Gordimer's life – those he did not keep secret – until the next ego-driven strongman decided to rewrite history. In which case Gordimer the Lion would be remembered only in the annals of his enemies.

"Captain Tage?"

Else paused. His eyes had not completed the transition from intense noon sunlight to interior gloom. "Yes."

"Will you follow me?"

The speaker wore simple clothing of a style recollecting that of the pagan priests of antiquity, a white cotton jacket with skirts that hung to the knee. This was the uniform of Gordimer's court wizards and augurs. This youngster would be a novice, not yet officially apprenticed. He would be a pure-blooded indigene, descended from the priestly caste of pagan times. Some of whom, if rumors could be credited, still followed the old ways in secret.

Though Else was supposed to report to Gordimer the moment he arrived, he could not refuse this summons. Er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen, called Rashal the Rascal by some, was as dangerous as Gordimer the Lion. Possibly more so. Er-Rashal's connections with the Instrumentalities of the Night made him powerful in his own right.

Er-Rashal was the nearest thing to an actual friend that Gordimer had in this world.

THE COURT SORCERER MET ELSE IN A ROOM NOT FAR FROM Gordimer's private audience. If Else were asked to pick the wizard out of a hundred strangers he would have chosen er-Rashal because the man fit the description of the wicked sorcerer in every old story and fairy tale told in this end of the world. He was a tall, dark man with heavy lips, a hooked nose, and a shaven skull. His eyes were dark and cold. His body was big and powerful. He looked two decades younger than his fifty years.

Er-Rashal chose to look like that specifically because everyone, noble and common, was raised on those stories. He wanted to be feared.

"Lord Rashal," Else said. "The Lion insisted that I see him as soon as I get here."

"He's aware of your arrival." The wizard's voice boomed. "You know him. It will be an hour before he gets around to you. I've told the guards you'll be here with me if they don't find you outside the audience door."

Else did not like this. It reeked of intrigue. This was the side of al-Qarn that he did not love.

He became nervous whenever he came in from the field. Al-Qarn was a political jungle. He was not cut out for its intrigues.

He was a soldier. He did not care who did what to whom in the capital. He had to take care of the men who followed him.

All of which made him a popular field commander. Officers beloved of their troops do not flourish in a dictatorship. Gordimer himself was once a popular commander who came to power by eliminating an elderly, no-longer-effective predecessor.

Else nodded his understanding, waited for the wizard to get to the point

Er-Rashal said, "You did well with the mummies. I didn't think you'd manage it. Gordimer had more faith. I owe him twenty silver drachmas. Which you shouldn't take to mean that I didn't pray that you'd be successful."

Else nodded again. "Good thing you weren't determined not to lose your money. One miracle survival a mission is all I can manage."

"That's what I want to ask you about. What I've heard so far baffles me."

Else shrugged. "There isn't much to tell, really. We were threatened by something that Az called a bogon. I did the only thing I could think of. Everything came out right"

"Nevertheless… Your Master of Ghosts might have failed to notice something."

Else told the story in detail. He was able to recall a lot because he knew he would be questioned repeatedly. Gordimer, in particular, would be interested in inimical supernatural manifestations around Sha-lug in the field. Especially north of al-Qarn.

Er-Rashal asked, "Why did you load your falcon with coins?"

"I can't figure that out. I guess because I heard somewhere that night things don't like silver. I do remember thinking that it wouldn't really work."

"Yet you never showed a doubt to your men."

So er-Rashal had talked to Hagid. "A good leader doesn't betray his doubts and doesn't become confused or flustered. He has to do something, even if it's wrong. When I had the falcon loaded with coins and gravel I was sure it was pointless. But it kept the men calm and occupied. That was the whole point at the time.”

"You were lucky. Silver is a potent poison to some night things, but only a few. Plain iron bothers more. You might consider taking along a sack of iron pellets if you're on a mission where you think you might have that kind of trouble."

"Now I'm wondering if there wasn't iron gravel in the stuff we put in the cannon."

"How did the falcon itself perform?"

"Better than I expected. You finally found the right alloy, or the right cooling process, or something. We couldn't find one flaw in the weapon afterward, although we overcharged it."

The sorcerer indulged in a little preening. He had produced a portable cannon that worked under combat conditions. No one had done that before.

"That's good news. I'll make more, now. I wish there was a

practical way to cast an iron tube."

Else observed, "Logically, iron would be better than brass."

"Absolutely. And iron is almost immune to the Tyranny of the Night. We're hunting ways to get around the difficulties. It's all trial and error, though."

"The firepowder needs improvement. It draws moisture. The damper it gets the less power it has and the more noxious smoke it makes." Else exulted secretly. He had diverted the thoughts of the smartest most dangerous man in the Kaifate. "If it ignites at all."

If you got er-Rashal onto one of his obsessions and grunted in the right places you were home free.

Else talked about firepowder weapons until the summons from Gordimer came.

ELSE WAS NOT AFRAID OF GORDIMER THE MAN. GORDIMER, THE grand marshal of the Sha-lug, was another matter. Gordimer knew that. And was not pleased. Gordimer preferred to be feared by everyone. Personally.

Else did not fear the man because he was pushing fifty. Else himself was a hardened warrior in the prime of life.

When Else entered the presence with er-Rashal he accorded the warlord every ounce of respect he was due. He would continue to do so, regardless. While the marshal deserved that respect.

Gordimer the Lion was a tall, strong warrior risen so high he no longer worked to maintain the marvelous attributes that had helped him become famous when he was young. Else noted hints of fat and a sleepy droop of eye that suggested excessive personal indulgence. Further, he noted the flash of a female shape in gauze two steps slow in departing as he and the wizard arrived. Almost certainly on purpose, as a reminder of Gordimer's power.

"Cut the crap," Gordimer told Else while Else was amidst an elaborate ceremonial greeting. "You put him up to this, Rashal? Captain Tage, there's nobody watching and I'm not the Kaif. Let's just talk, soldier to soldier."