People yelled behind him, telling him to get his dumb ass down.

Someone else yelled out front, right where the assassins ought to be. He jerked to the right. A bumblebee hummed on by, headed for the harbor.

He burst into a crowd of snipers. Two were desperately spanning crossbows. The third abandoned his weapon and took off. Which made no sense to Hecht.

He clubbed the first man he came to.

The second stopped wrestling his crossbow. He produced a short sword, then a dagger in his off hand.

Hecht drew his own blade. But kept the broken stave in his right hand.

He hit the man who was down several times so he would not help his associate.

Help arrived. "There's one more, headed that way. Dressed the same." He dropped onto a small bale of cotton that must have been smuggled out of Dreanger. Distracted by irrelevant thoughts again, he stared at his broken stave, imagining it being used to lever cargo before its mishap.

Buhle Smolens settled beside him. "What the hell was that, Piper? You could've gotten killed. Which was probably the point of the exercise."

"I didn't think. I just acted."

"Those boys are Artecipeans. You notice?"

"I'm not surprised. But how can you tell?"

Smolens said a blind man could see it.

"I didn't grow up around here, Colonel. Everybody from around the Mother Sea looks pretty much the same to me."

Smolens shook his head in disbelief. "Let me talk to these guys. They'll get cooperative once they understand the alternative."

Hecht began to shiver but not because he was cold.

"That was a stupid thing to do."

The words were a whisper so soft no one else heard. Hecht glanced aside. And saw Cloven Februaren. No one else noted the old man. Who said, "Something to worry about. Could someone else do the things I do?"

For sure.

"You have to be more alert, Piper. Those who want to destroy you never sleep."

"I can't live that way."

'Then you won't live at all." Februaren turned sideways.

Titus Consent asked, "Who were you talking to?"

"I said I can't stand to live this way. With somebody always after me."

"I heard another voice."

"I don't think so."

Consent did not believe him. But did not contradict him. "You don't want to keep on like this, find out who's sending the assassins. Deal with him. Or her."

"I know who's doing it. I wish I knew why."

"Who?" As Hagan Brokke wearily plunked himself down on a nearby bale, Hecht wondered why the bales were so small. Because of how they were smuggled out of Dreanger?

"Rudenes Schneidel. It's always been Rudenes Schneidel." He looked to Brokke. Brokke had not been there to watch the ships come in. Brokke was recovering from wounds suffered in the battle outside Khaurene, where his quick thinking had kept Queen Isabeth's Direcians from getting through the boggy ground to the unprepared troops on the Patriarchal left. "You feeling chipper enough to go back to work?"

"No. A courier boat brought some men in from the fleet. They want to see you."

"Some men?"

"A Principate I don't know who speaks only Direcian and Church Brothen. Some functionaries from the Mother City. And a big wheel Direcian."

"And they want?"

"To talk to you."

"I figured that part out. What about?"

"They wouldn't say. They didn't seem very patient."

"Get your strength back. Then go tell them I'm tied up in another assassination attempt. As soon as I survive I'll hustle over there to see them. Where were we, Titus?"

"Rudenes Schneidel."

"Ah. So what have you found out about him, intelligence chief?"

"His name is Rudenes Schneidel. And he holes up in the High Athaphile, the mountains that form the spine of Artecipea. He has a castle up there. Arn Bedu. A legendary place on top of a mountain. He may be a pagan priest of some kind. His name comes up every time there's any serious talk about Weaver, Hilt, or any of those Instrumentalities trying to make a comeback."

"That's it?"

"Yes. He's a shadowy guy. And a scary one, according to his assassins."

Hecht's party had begun gathering before Hagan Brokke appeared. Madouc's men wanted to hurt some people. Hecht wished they would all go away so he could talk to Cloven Februaren. But he could not run them off. They would not go, now.

Buhle Smolens was last to rejoin. "I've made a few contacts here. I put out word that we're interested in Artecipeans. Dozens of them have shown up since Sublime died. And they have no friends here."

Hecht was not going to get a chance to talk to the old man in brown. "We came down to watch the ships come in. So let's watch the ships."

Everyone, of course, argued against taking the risk. And Titus Consent insisted on reminding him that there were important men who wanted to see him.

Colonel Smolens had established himself in the home of a wealthy Praman who had fled Sheavenalle ahead of the approaching Patriarchals. Hecht felt a mild melancholy nostalgia there. The place showed strong Praman architectural influences. Entering, he spun off orders for dealing with prisoners and wounded. His visitors from the fleet heard the hubbub and came outside.

Redfearn Bechter had collected every man Hecht had ever suspected of being Brotherhood. They were arrayed around the newcomers suggestively, only a few of whom understood that they were surrounded.

Hecht read it fast.

These people had arrived with an attitude problem. And had failed to make themselves beloved. Someone had said something unflattering about the Brotherhood of War.

The Brotherhood did not care if you were a king. They were a kingdom unto themselves.

Hecht had seen only one of the newcomers before. He was a Witchfinder who knew his way around the Brothen catacombs. He was extremely uncomfortable right now.

The Principate, too, understood and was thoroughly unhappy, but mainly because he was not in control.

The ingredients were there for a nasty pissing contest.

Hecht was tempted. He had reason. But the long game compelled him to be amenable. "Sergeant Bechter. Have these gentlemen been made comfortable?" He told the outsiders, "We're in a difficult situation, here. But we can protect you if you don't wander around. We've swept up a lot of villains since they tried to kill me this afternoon."

Hustle was the critical tool, here. Moving the outsiders around fast. Implying that a swift response, if not thoroughly effective, was better than any alternative.

Hecht asked, "What did you gentlemen want to bring to my attention, now that we're safe?"

Hecht kept moving, maneuvering the outsiders into the sprawling ground-floor space he had chosen for his center of operations in Sheavenalle.

He settled into a heavy oak chair. "Gentlemen. Again? You hurried in here, ahead of the fleet. You must have something you want to discuss before God's enemies find out that you're here."

The Witchfinder seemed ever more uncomfortable. He searched his surroundings constantly. Cloven Februaren? Sobering thought. "Well?"

The Principate took control. "I am Hernando Ernesto Ribiero de Herve, Patriarchal legate assigned to bring peace to the End of Connec. Too, I've been directed to crush paganism on Artecipea. Pacificus Sublime believes Rudenes Schneidel and his revenant Instrumentalities are a greater threat than the pacifist, dualist Connecten heretics."

Hecht exchanged glances with his staff. De Herve noticed. "I see you agree."

"I never understood why Sublime was so adamant about exterminating them."

"Did you ask?"

"I did. I got a rambling answer that made no sense. But I'm not paid to ask questions. I'm paid to get things done." The Witchfinder made a startled squeak and spun. Everyone stared. He said, "Must have been a flea." But he did not believe that.