Sadly, feeling shame, she asked, "And my Braunsknechts?"

"There'll be no pardon for them. They failed their trust."

Helspeth did not meet Renfrow's gaze. But at that moment she decided to rescue Algres Drear and the others. They did not deserve such cruel punishment for having been browbeaten into compliance by the daughter of the Ferocious Little Hans.

She awarded herself a small sneer. She was in a spot so weak she could not save herself. Her one hope was this mysterious Renfoew, who dashed around shoring up the creaking foundations of the Empire.

"Someday…"

"Yes?"

"Someday I'd like to find out who you really are."

Renfrow was startled. Then he smiled. "Your father said the same thing, once."

"And did he?"

"Sadly, Fate caught up first. Quiet. Listen. I've cautioned you. I've cautioned you again. I've changed your situation to one you can survive. If you think before you talk or act. If you avoid being your father's daughter."

"I get it, sir!"

"I hope. I sincerely hope. I have my doubts. Blood will out. I won't be here in the morning. I have to go to Brothe. Please take care."

"Why doesn't anybody… ? Why do you keep saying the same thing over and over?"

"Experience. It takes immense perseverance to get an idea through an Ege skull."

"But I…"

"You aren't who or what you think you are, Princess. You're what the world thinks you are. Your great task is to convince the world you are what it wants you to be. You have to be a chameleon. A timid, retiring chameleon. In the eyes of your enemies."

"Enemies? But…"

"You see? Not listening. Again."

A sharp pain of the soul. No one cared what she thought. She was a piece on a chessboard. Truly, she would have to wear masks to avoid sacrifice to the advantage of the Queen.

"I just grasped the full message, Ferris. Thank you."

"Excellent. When next we meet, then, it should be in better circumstances. Drink some more broth. Rest. The Schmitts will put you on a better diet tomorrow."

Helspeth wanted to ask something else. The question sort of slid out of her mind sideways. Renfrow shimmered.

She did not recall her dreams. They felt portentous. The Captain-General was there. Katrin was there. So were scores more, known and unknown, in a time of great stress.

She wakened feeling better than she had in months.

Ferris Renfrow was gone. He left the tower refurbished in plant and attitude. Helspeth had no more trouble with Tooth or Fang. She became perfectly pliant in turn.

Brother Candle and Socia Rault clung close for warmth. Also in the cluster were Michael Carhart, Hanak el-Mira, and Bishop Clayto. Above them were two ragged blankets taken from a dead man found alongside the road. No one knew which side he had served. No one cared.

The clump of misery huddled inside a stand of brush. The blankets had accumulated enough snow to conceal their color and keep body heat confined.

Though miserable and hungry, no one wanted to risk the road. There was a lot of traffic headed west. Ducking into hiding would leave tracks in the snow.

Brother Candle wondered if escape had been smart. Their captors had shown no inclination to abuse them, nor any to turn them over to the Society. They had been warm and fed regularly. Of course, their captors had recognized Bernardin Amberchelle. It would not have taken long for reason to lead them to Socia's identity.

There was a search on, prosecuted with minimal enthusiasm. It was cold out. Why be out in it when nobody really knew what they were hunting? Refugees? Those were everywhere, many young women trying to get somewhere safe from God's laborers. Many were Maysaleans desperate to escape territories where failure to acknowledge Brothe's primacy might become a capital crime.

Socia murmured, "We need to reach friendly territory before they realize who I was. There'll be a reward, then."

Brother Candle nodded, careful not to disturb the blankets. "But Patriarchals aren't the only danger. Duke To-mond's defeated mercenaries are out there, too."

Bishop Clayto muttered, "We have to move. This flesh is too infirm to withstand this for long." He was shaking. He could not stop. Fear, malnutrition, and cold all contributed.

El-Mira whispered, "Get a grip, Clayto. Brother Candle has a decade on you."

"He's used to this. I'm a bishop." Clayto snickered, still able to joke at his own expense.

The weather never cooperated. On the other hand, the Night and Patriarchal patrols proved harmless. Michael Carhart, el-Mira, and Clayto all claimed their success reflected the favor of their gods. Claimed without sharp conviction.

Like Brother Candle, they feared good fortune might be by the grace of Instrumentalities associated with the Adversary. Hard not to suspect special favor when Patriarchals were running wild during the interregnum in Brothe.

It took sixteen days to reach Khaurene, a distance of less than eighty crow-flight miles. That sixteenth dawn saw them still fifteen miles from the city itself. They fell in with a strong patrol led by Sir Eardale Dunn. Dunn put them onto borrowed cogs and hurried them westward. They could help steel the will of their respective religious communities.

Brother Candle clung desperately to his mount. He was no skilled rider. But he did have attention left for his surroundings. And did not like what he saw.

He saw devastation. The Patriarchals had decided to destroy the regional economy. But he was more troubled by what looked like preparations for a showdown battle. By his own side.

"You don't think that's a good idea?" Socia asked.

"I think it's insane. Any Connecten army will be a rabble with little prospect of success. Unless they outnumber the enemy badly. Or catch him unawares. Can our people manage that?"

"I think if Raymone Garete was in charge…"

"Yes. If Count Raymone was in charge the rivers would run red. The revenants would feast. And the Connec would become a desert. Because Count Raymone would burn it barren before he let it fall into the hands of Brothen invaders."

Socia had no problem with that, he knew. She would joyfully scour the earth to destroy her enemies.

What a horror it would be once she took her place in the shadows behind Count Raymone.

Sir Eardale did not lead Brother Candle up to Metrelieux. "Tormond doesn't want to see you, Brother. He's made up his mind at last and doesn't want you whispering counterarguments in his ear."

The Perfect was surprised by the hurt he felt. Those few words declared a ripened disdain for the voice of reason. Henceforth, Duke Tormond IV would wear blinders.

"You blame me… ?"

Wrong approach.

"Not personally. Your faith. Two generations of passivity and pacifism… Decades of weak leadership… We have invaders among us by the tens of thousands. And haven't the skills or backbone to do what needs doing. Because we've been bedazzled by the Maysalean Heresy. Or whatever you want to call it."

"I suspect centuries of peace and prosperity have more to do with it." Brother Candle was startled by the strength of his emotions. He had to put the world aside and find his way back to the Path. He drifted farther from it by the minute.

The streets of Khaurene were crowded with Seekers from farther east. Some would go on to the strongholds in the Altai or to coastal provinces now under the protection of King Peter. Or even into Direcia itself. Peter welcomed Seekers. Most were tradesmen with useful skills.

They were welcome in Praman Platadura, too.

Tannery stench seemed thicker than ever, down where Raulet Archimbault lived. Socia observed, "I sure missed a lot, growing up in the country."