Doneto assumed that meant the assassins were locals able to intimidate the populace. Only later did he entertain the possibility that the populace might wish the assassins well without knowing who they were.

Lying there, unable to move, Doneto had a lot of time to reflect on the situation in the Connec as seen by ordinary folk. And he was not pleased. Not at all. But maybe the truth could be a useful tool, too.

"Maysalean heretics tried to murder me," Doneto told Serifs when the Bishop found time to get away from his indulgences.

Serifs disagreed. "No. They're pacifists. They wouldn't murder anybody."

"Not even a Patriarchal legate who's their sworn enemy?"

"Especially not a legate. They want no trouble with Brothe. They want Brothe to leave them alone. That's all the people of the Connec want. For Brothe to leave them alone."

"Put the accusation out there anyway."

"Nobody will believe it. The likely result is, they'll decide that you staged the whole thing so you'd have an excuse to make accusations." Serifs sounded mildly accusing himself. That suspicion had found a comfortable home in his mind.

Doneto realized he faced a no-win situation. His time amongst the unwashed had shown him how little they respected Brothe and the Church and how much suspicion they directed that way. Worse, the Connecten Episcopals were more critical than their heretical Maysalean cousins.

The fearful lesson of the night of the knives was that Connectens were convinced all social evil and moral depravity originated in Brothe and Krois, the Patriarchal Palace there.

"Then lay it at the feet of that syphilitic at Viscesment."

"As you wish. But the people won't believe that, either."

"What will they believe?" Doneto had to force himself to relax. He felt stitches tearing.

"Anything negative about the Patriarch and the Collegium, however absurd."

"So who tried to murder me? Really."

Bishop Serifs shrugged. "It might have been robbers." Then, as Doneto was about to explode, "Probably supporters of Immaculate who acted without approval from Viscesment. Or it might have been someone whose property we took."

"How would anyone from any faction know about me? This was supposed to be a secret mission. Even you don't know much about me."

Serifs shrugged again. "I told no one anything. So, once again, maybe they were robbers. Or, maybe, somebody in Brothe thought it might be convenient to kill you out here where it wouldn't cause much excitement."

Robbers? Bull. Robbers did not attack armed bands.

Murder as a political instrument was not common. Not this way, at least. When it did happen it involved poison or a skillfully placed dagger, usually after the fact of a coup or the unwinding of a skein of extreme duplicity. It did not happen in front of hundreds of witnesses. Unless … unless someone wanted to send a powerful message. As, for example, to Sublime himself.

Suddenly, Doneto trusted no one. Maybe Serifs himself was the villain. Or Duke Tormond. Tormond commanded soldiers. Those men might have been soldiers. But how would the Duke know? "I want to see my man Troendel." Mica Troendel was his senior surviving bodyguard. Doneto wanted to be ready to travel as soon as he could. And he wanted to feel safe until he was able.

He would deal with the problem of the Connec after he was safely away from it. Harshly.

This mission was a disaster. And he suspected that things would get no better.

Doneto wanted to flee Antieux but the healing brothers insisted that he needed a lot of recuperation. In the end, they let him travel as far as Bishop Serifs's manor in the vineyard-strewn hills overlooking the city. It should be easier for his remaining bodyguards to protect him there.

That move did exactly what the healing brothers warned it might. It opened his wounds. He began a battle with infection that lasted for months.

The merchant ship was too small. It bounced on the water like a cork. It creaked and groaned of imminent disintegration even when the waters were calm. It stank. There was nothing for a passenger to do but hang on desperately when a blow came up. Its one saving grace was that it let Else keep his boots dry by not having to walk to Staklirhod.

The Sha-lug sprawled on something that might have contained cotton in the process of being smuggled. It was against Dreangerean law to sell cotton to Chaldareans. Merchants, though, did not let themselves get caught up in religious dogma or political faith. Gulls drifted around the ship, hoping for scraps but snapping up small fish churned to the surface in the wake. The sky was almost cloudless and of a blue so intense that it felt like he could fall in.

From where he lay Else could see the loom of several islands and the sails of a half-dozen ships.

An Antast Chaldarean seaman named Mallin sprawled close by, also feasting on the lack of tension. He hailed from the Neret Mountains, which faced the coast in both Lucidia and the southernmost province of the Eastern Empire. The region shifted between Rh?n and the eastern Kaifate frequently.

The Antasts harkened back to me Founders. They argued that their vision was identical to the one set forth by Aaron, Eis, Kelam, and the others.

"Don't you worry about pirates?" Else asked. "All these islands, seems like pirates' heaven."

"Maybe in ancient times. Before the Old Empire. And a couple of times afterward. But not today. The Brotherhood of War doesn't tolerate piracy. When piracy happens, a lot of people die. Most of them in bad ways. Wives, children, anyone fool enough to live in the same town. And if the Brotherhood don't get them, the Firaldian republics will. If the fleet of the Eastern Empire don't get there first. Nah. The problem we're likely to have is official harassment. See that island, looks like a saddle? We pass that, you'll see Cape Jen straight ahead. That's the eastern tip of Staklirhod. We should make port on the morning tide."

"I thought we'd need another day."

"We made good time. Nahlik says you're a good luck charm. We didn't have to pay bribes to get out of Shartelle and our cargo was ready when we got there. And there's been no bad weather."

"No bad weather? You're mad."

"Landlubber. We've seen nothing but mild breezes and light seas."

"So it is true. It does take a streak of insanity to be a sailor. A wide streak."

"No point denying that. What's your excuse for being out here?"

“I just like running around on water filled with things that want to eat me." Mallin was fishing. All the crew did. They were loyal to Dreanger but they were curious. They thought he might be Sha-lug, not some ransomed Arnhander knight.

Mallin grunted.

"It's family trouble," Else said, sticking to the official story though the whole crew knew he would not be on their ship if he really was an Arnhander knight headed home.

A whistle sounded up forward. "Warship off the port bow."

Else and Mallin sat up. Mallin asked, "What colors?"

"Still too far off to tell. But she's a big fucker."

Mallin told Else, "In these waters it'll be the Brotherhood of War. Or maybe the Sonsans. They do most of the trading in these islands."

The Brotherhood of War was an order of Chaldarean knights and soldiers who dedicated themselves to war against the enemies of their God. Their mission was to wrest the Wells of Ihrian from Praman control. They were fine warriors, often victorious, never daunted by unfavorable odds. The Sha-lug had learned never to engage them on their choice of ground.

The crewman forward announced, "They're not headed our way. She's a fast fucker. Three decker."

The galley loomed larger and larger. It was long and lean and dark, quiet and astonishingly fast. It shifted course slightly, toward the little merchantman without bearing down directly. Then it was right there, sliding past a hundred feet away, silent but for the hiss of the water along its hull and the muted creak, squeak, splash of its oars.