"I am. If you'll be the baby's godfather. And if Principate Delari will sponsor us. We've been studying in secret. We already know most of what we need to."

Hecht was stunned. "But you're the Elect."

"They never asked me. I don't want to be the Elect. It's eaten me up for twenty years. I want out. I want to convert."

"The Seven will explode! They won't have anything to do with us anymore. They'll blame us." Selfishly, he added, We'll be blinded."

Consent was not offended. "That will come eventually anyway, Captain-General. The Elders are beginning to question the benefit of continuing an alliance put together for the Calziran Crusade. Nor does the Patriarch see any need to keep on getting along with Deves or Dainshaus."

"Shortsighted of him."

"Indeed. Our moneylenders are the main financiers of his adventures. The Seven won't lend Sublime a copper for a crusade against the Connec. We don't have that many people there. The Seven think it will be easier and cheaper to protect them by just fixing it so the Patriarch can't afford to hire soldiers.

"I think they have blinders on. Sublime isn't worried about money. Not nearly so much as he should be. He has something going, under the sheets. But the Elders won't hear that. Apparently, the Elect is supposed to be seen but not heard."

Hecht was lost. "You mean it? This conversion?"

"Of course. I don't want to be anything special. I just want to take care of my family and do my job. Which is perfect for me. I love it and I'm good at it."

"I'm confused."

"I'm sorry. My fault for not being clear. You have no idea how stressful this is. This is the biggest thing I'm ever likely to face."

"Tabill Talab. How will he respond? His father…"

"Is one of the Seven. Yes. That does worry me. But you're going to lose him before long, anyway."

Not good, Hecht thought. Not good at all. The Devedian connection had made him look good.

Honed by three decades lived in a city and land that had been old in the wiles of conspiracy before the beginning of time, Hecht started sniffing for a whiff of what Consent was really up to.

They resumed moving because Titus was too nervous to stand still.

An arrow, presumably from a longbow, removed Hecht's hat. The shaft came from amongst the monuments. It missed Consent by a scant inch, too. It ricocheted off the pavements into the cold brown of the Teragi River. Bystanders yelled and scattered. Ten thousand pigeons took wing in a flapping roar.

"You see where that came from?" Hecht demanded.

"No." They crouched at the pediments of a small memorial arch. Consent held a dagger with a long, slim blade. Hecht had not realized that the Deve carried any weapon. He carried a short sword himself, more emblematic of his office than useful in a fight. "Only generally, that way. Because of where it went."

"Yeah. Who's Galinis Andul?" Hecht tapped the inscription beside his head, so ancient that it was almost illegible.

Startled, Consent said, "The man who designed the arch. Those guys grabbed the chance to make their names last. The memorial proclamation is up top. This one looks like it predates the Old Empire. Meaning it was moved here by Arember the Hairy."

Hecht wanted to ease Consent's tension, not listen to a lecture. "Work from cover to cover and flank him from the left. I'll move in from the right."

He did not expect to find the sniper. There had been no second shaft. Not that a lone archer could expect to take out a distant target who was alert.

And the would-be assassin was gone. No one had seen an archer. There was no physical evidence. A sorcerer of exceptional weight might have found a trail. Hecht did not have one handy.

His amulet had not warned him. The assassin would be nothing but a skilled archer.

"It was a pretty good shot," Hecht admitted. "At least a hundred fifty yards. On a breezy day. From in here where the wind would swirl."

"Yes." There was no admiration in Consent's tone. "Who was he after? Or would it matter, as long as he got someone from Central Staff?"

"Sure you want to convert?"

"Yes."

"If there's a plot, wouldn't Deves be more likely to ferret it out?"

"No. The underworld doesn't intersect with the Devedian."

"That archer wouldn't belong to the underworld. He's a soldier after fast money." Nor did he swallow Consent's protest. Thieves had a cautiously close relationship with the men who purchased the goods they appropriated in their struggle to redistribute Brothen wealth. But Hecht seldom challenged known falsehoods. People became defensive. They clammed up. He believed in paying rope out and watching.

Consent would understand. He and Talab did the watching.

Hecht said, "We're accomplishing nothing." He brushed his left forearm. Yes. The amulet was there. Which reaffirmed that there was no sorcery active nearby.

Someone was keeping track of him somehow, though.

Hecht and Pinkus Ghort were at the waterfront, waiting to board Lumberer. Hecht asked, "What are you into on the side, Pinkus?"

"Huh?"

"If I didn't have your word for this being a fast coaster I'd suspect her of being a smuggler." The crewmen looked shifty.

"I'm not involved in anything. But do note that smuggling and trading are a matter of viewpoint."

"No doubt every smuggler ever born makes that argument. And princes send them to the galleys anyway."

"You're probably right. You always are. So what? They're handy people to know. What the hell is this?" A couple of black crow Brotherhood types were headed their way, on horseback, in a hurry. They slowed to an easier pace when they saw that Hecht and Ghort had not yet shoved off.

"Seems like everybody knows where to find me, these days."

"You told Bechter?"

"I did."

Hecht did not recognize either rider. A handsome man with salt-and-pepper hair and beard dismounted. "Captain-General?"

"Me."

"I bring messages." He presented a large leather courier's wallet. It bore no seal. "And our wishes for your success. Prayers will be offered."

"Thank you. Do keep us in your prayers." A formula he was just now learning to use automatically.

"And the Brotherhood in yours." The man bowed his head slightly, in the manner of those who grew up inside the Grail Empire.

"And so shall it be." Hecht returned the nod. He took the Brotherhood deadly serious. They were scarce in Firaldia but wielded power beyond their numbers.

There were few checks on the Brotherhood. They accepted none. They did not hesitate to enforce their prejudices.

"How and where to deliver that is all in here." The Brother handed Hecht another smaller case, then returned to his mount.

Hecht considered the anonymous courier's wallet. He began rubbing his left wrist.

Ghort muttered, "There's a Special Office thug if I ever saw one. He don't even try to cover the smell."

"You're right."

"So's the other one."

The Special Office was a sub-cult inside the warrior order made up of sorcerers sworn to destroy the Instrumentalities of the Night. Using the Instrumentalities as their principal tool.

"So what did he bring you, Pipe?"

"Let's wait till we're moving."

"Gotcha." Ghort stared after the two riders in black. "I think I know who the other one was."

"Uhm?"

"Parthen Lorica. The Witchfinder."

Hecht started. Parthen Lorica? Not possible. Parthen Lorica was dead. "I don't think so. Unless there's more than one Parthen Lorica. Him and Bugo Armiene died in our hospital camp at al-Khazen. Special Office guys came in and snatched the bodies."

"I missed all that. I heard, but not the names. But them two was definitely Special Office. And that one was definitely a Witchfinder. So. Hey. Time to go." A smuggler – or coastal trader – beckoned them. Two others began casting off.