From Brokke's bedside Hecht went to see the prisoners Brokke had brought in. He expected a handful. There were more than forty, the majority being knights and minor nobility. Those had been given comfortable quarters in Inconje. Those of more immediate interest, though, had been driven into a stock pen.

"Bo. I haven't seen you for an age."

"Been too busy to socialize. Sir." Biogna scowled at all the bodyguards. Madouc must have had a dream visit from Cloven Februaren. He had increased the protection significantly.

"Are you involved in this?"

"I was out there with Brokke. Being his Titus Consent. Keeping him convinced that we needed to take a few prisoners."

"Why such a mob?"

"Most of them can be ransomed. The men insisted. But there are some interesting ones, too."

"Them?" Hecht indicated the men in the pen.

"Artecipeans. Every one. Probably useless for anything but Society food."

"Uhm?"

"They're not just heretics, they're Unbelievers. Trying to bring back the Old Gods. Virulently dangerous. Unlike those ones back yonder in the other pens. That whole clutch there are Khaurenese we picked up at Mohela ande Larges. One of Immaculate's bishops, a Praman priest of some kind, and a Deve elder. A couple days later, we found a Perfect Master hiding in some brush. Wouldn't have known it. He wasn't in costume. But the ones from Khaurene knew him. One of them said something before his brain checked in."

Hecht considered the Artecipeans. They avoided his gaze. "I've seen some of these men before." One face, in fact, he recalled from the crowd of gawkers outside Anna's house the night they moved her to Principate Delari's town house. "I'll work up a list of questions. Whoever answers them honestly won't get turned over to Archbishop Farfog. Show me what else you've got."

The captured soldiers were not impressive. Prisoners of war seldom were.

Biogna said, "This might be the best catch. Bernardin Amberchelle. Count Raymone's ugly cousin. In the top five on the Society's wanted list. He killed a bunch of their thugs. That's the Perfect Master over there, with the girl. He was traveling with Amberchelle. Says the girl is his daughter. He was trying to get her to safety in Khaurene. He's lying. She has a different accent. They're both very careful to protect her. She's got to be somebody important."

"Pity Ghort's gone. He might be able to use the cousin to get to Raymone."

"Send a messenger. He can use the information."

"Good work. Keep after these people. Use Farfog as leverage." Hecht considered the old man and the girl. The girl appeared to be about twenty, possibly not unattractive under the grime. She had a ferocious look.

"The Amberchelle person. Was he wearing or carrying anything we can send to Antieux? To prove we have him?"

"I'll find out." Skirting the certainty that the soldiers who caught him had relieved him of everything of value.

"Do that."

Hecht avoided Morcant Farfog for two more days. By which time he had Castreresone under control. It was not a pleasant interview. Those who had reported the Archbishop's failings had not exaggerated. Hecht endured what he had to endure and gave the minimum in response to demands. The Archbishop went away thinking he had won several major points. In fact, Hecht had yielded little.

He told Titus Consent, "That man must be beloved of God. He's too stupid, venal, and opinionated to survive otherwise."

Farfog had been vigorously obnoxious from the moment he entered the White City. Local Brothen Episcopals fed him names where they wanted plunder or vengeance.

It was one of the most interesting days Piper Hecht ever enjoyed. In the morning, while reviewing a force of two thousand moving west to add to pressure on the Khaurenesaine, he received word that his troops had engaged enemy mercenaries in a series of skirmishes and small battles and had overcome them in almost every instance. Numerous towns and fortresses had sent surrender offers as a result.

More good news arrived early in the afternoon. Count Raymone Garete seemed inclined toward reason, suddenly. Having been apprised of his cousin's situation. He was now willing to talk, though apparently unwilling to yield.

Immediately afterward came news that Sublime V had gone to his reward. Brothe had begun the monthlong series of ceremonies and rituals that would end with a conclave to choose a successor. Hecht ordered the appropriate shows of mourning – but instructed his officers to avoid allowing their opponents any advantage from the news. "I want our men seen everywhere. In bigger groups. They're to hit back hard at any provocation. I won't let Castreresone fall apart now." Yet it almost did.

Archbishop Farfog responded to the news from Brothe by surrendering to his obsessions.

First reports were confusing. No one was sure what was happening. Violence had erupted but was not directed at the soldiers. First guesses suggested factional fighting between the two strains of Chaldarean Episcopals. Hecht kept sending small bands to establish order. Each conflict extinguished seemed to spark two more somewhere else.

Consent came to report. "It's Farfog. Out to do all the damage he can before a new Patriarch shuts him down."

"He foresees a shift in the direction of the Church? Does he know something we don't?"

"Inside his idiot mind, maybe. In the real world? Who knows?"

"It'll be a month before we get a new Patriarch."

"Then we have a month, ourselves. Not so?" Hecht grinned. Exactly! He had that long to write whatever future he might inscribe.

Madouc arrived. "Sir, you might want to go up on the wall. See if you're inclined to intercede in what the Society is doing."

The view from the wall was a horror show. "How many?" Hecht demanded.

A junior officer said, "Over three hundred, sir." Hecht stared. Some wore the yellow tabards the Society forced on convicted heretics. But not many. He recognized men he had met since taking control of the city. Men who had been perfectly cooperative. Men who happened to have had money left after Castreresone paid its fines.

"Madouc. Take Starven's company and break that up."

"Sir? The Archbishop…"

"I'll deal with the Archbishop. Bring him."

Madouc did not save all the prisoners. The first score were given to the flames before the soldiers arrived. The more fanatic Society members resisted. The soldiers showed unprecedented restraint. Hecht watched Madouc and several of his lifeguards – all Brotherhood of War, the Captain-General suspected – take Archbishop Farfog into custody.

The soldiers did not release the prisoners back into the wild. Some might well deserve execution. But not by Farfog's brigands.

Hecht returned to the keep to await his confrontation with the Church's hellhound.

Time passed.

More time passed.

"Somebody! It's getting late. Where the devil is that idiot Farfog? Why isn't he in here? He's had time to go bald. Titus! Where are you, Titus Consent?"

Consent did not materialize. Nor did Redfearn Bechter, nor Drago Prosek, nor any of the others whose presence around him could be taken for granted. Nervous, he pulled his weapons within reach.

Madouc the lifeguard did materialize. Eventually. Twenty minutes after he should have done. He was bleeding. He had suffered a dozen wounds. More than one might qualify as mortal. He was going on by willpower and the insane sense of duty of a Brotherhood warrior.

"Sir. We were ambushed. By local partisans. They killed the Society brothers. They were after the Archbishop. They cut him to pieces. They took his head with them."

"This isn't good, Madouc. The Society…" But the Society might not be around much longer. Nor the crusader army and its Captain-General.