Brother Jokai observed, "Surprise shouldn't be necessary. There can't be two hundred thousand people on all Artecipea. A lot live in the cities and are good Brothen Episcopals."

"Or Deves, or Pramans, or Dainshaus, from what I hear. But I also hear that Rudenes Schneidel has found a lot of followers back in the mountains."

Another reason Hecht had moved the landing. The northern lobe of Artecipea featured an almost complete circle of mountains forming a vast natural fortress. Someone seemed to have thought he should fight through that and dispose of the Unbelievers there. Hecht saw no point. The soul and center of the problem lay inside Arn Bedu, in the western mountains of the larger southern lobe.

"Why are they fighting?" Hecht asked. "Any of them?"

"To restore Seska," the Witchfinder said, shuddering. "To resurrect one of the darkest, oldest Instrumentalities."

"I get that. But, why? The pagans in the mountains, maybe they've fallen under the spell of a glib talker. But what's in it for Rudenes Schneidel? What is he promising them? What does he get for opening the way?"

Jokai cocked his head, considered the coast. "Immortality? Power? The things that turn up in all the stories about wicked sorcerers? Ascension? That sort of went out of fashion after Chaldareanism and al-Prama began promising an eternal afterlife."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"In ancient times a clever, powerful man, unencumbered by any concern for his fellows, could ascend to Instrumentality status. Could become a god. Which explains those old Dreangerean gods with the heads of animals and bodies of men. They started out as real priests who elevated themselves by preying on the rest of Dreanger. Facilitating their own ascension through alliances with older Instrumentalities. Seska was a particular favorite."

"Is that what Rudenes Schneidel is up to?"

"I think so. The Special Office thinks so. We've had no luck convincing anyone else. This expedition isn't about that. This is Pacificus Sublime paying off King Peter for making him Patriarch. Peter wants Artecipea for its location and resources. And because it will make him lord of more lands than any Chaldarean but the two emperors."

"Things to think about."

The fleet raised Homre late in the afternoon. Too late to land. The shoreline was inhospitable. The bottom was muddy and not far down. The vessels closed up and anchored. The charts showed the mouth of a small river, the Sarlea, which was not obvious to the eye. There was none of the brown outflow common at the mouths of major rivers.

Brother Jokai went ashore to find his Brotherhood compatriots. He returned with six lean, hard men within hours. Only one was injured.

Jokai said, "You're right to move the landing site. There are thousands of pagans in the hills up there. They mean to swoop down while we're landing tomorrow."

"Ah. So not only did they know we were coming, they knew where we were supposed to come ashore."

Jokai's ripe henchmen nodded. They did most of their communicating by gesture. Their mouths were busy eatin.

"Interesting. You have to ask yourself how they managed that."

"Their great sorcerer leader can spy on people from afar."

Hecht thought Rudenes Schneidel had agents spying for him.

Jokai continued. "They tell me the sorcerer is desperate and frightened. He believes that Piper Hecht is the only thing that can thwart his ambitions. He believes that powers greater than you are using you to block every effort he makes to relieve himself of your threat."

"Good to hear. Though every time I turn around, here comes another Artecipean assassin."

One of the recon brothers paused long enough to say, That's how come the sorcerer thinks you got allies inside the Night. Clever things never get near you. Clumsy assassins do. Schneidel's followers were convinced that some great, grim sea Instrumentality would devour you during your crossing. It didn't happen. Nothing even tried. Now they're all terrified that you might be a revenant yourself. Maybe one of the old war gods who infested the lands around the Mother Sea in pagan times."

Hecht shook his head. "We've stumbled into a superstitious age, haven't we?"

Jokai and the recon brothers eyed him narrowly, themselves not entirely sure that he was not more than just a man.

Hecht said, "It's dark enough. Time to move on."

Men began making a racket all through the fleet, singing to mask the sounds of capstans hoisting anchors. Carefully, showing stern lights that could not be seen from ashore, ships drifted southward.

Silence returned. Though silence was never complete where wind moaned through rigging and timbers creaked as a vessel rose and fell upon the seas. Hecht rejoined Jokai. "On a completely different tack, do you know anything about people called the Unknowns?"

"Librarians for the Collegium, I think. I've heard that they keep a big map of the Chaldarean world. Why?"

"I'm not sure. I heard some talk when I was working at the Chiaro Palace. Principate Delari had a connection with someone he called the Eleventh Unknown. I'm not sure why that got to nagging me right now. I never thought much about it before."

"A long time ago, the Special Office thought the Unknowns were an unholy cabal inside the Chiaro Palace. I suppose they found out differently. This is the first I've heard them mentioned since I was a student."

It was a tense sea passage, that night. The move was supposed to deceive people ashore. Would it?

Hecht slept only fitfully.

Dawn came. The right number of mastheads were visible. None had gone missing. Andrade guessed they had moved them thirty miles down the coast.

Signal smokes rose ashore. Hecht thought they seemed panicky.

He was thirty miles from where he was supposed to be. The rising breeze would push him along faster than his enemies could run.

Unloading began shortly after noon. Only a handful of men were ashore when friendly locals pointed out that just a mile back north the ships could move closer inshore and dramatically shorten the landing process. These people were Brothen Chaldareans. They had been persecuted lately. The arrival of the fleet had deluded them into believing that the Patriarch wanted to rescue them.

The Captain-General went ashore as soon as his lifeguards permitted. Earth underfoot, he sighed, said, "This is pure chaos. There must be a better way. If there was anyone here to resist us we'd be getting slaughtered." He spoke to no one in particular, though Redfearn Bechter, Drago Prosek, Titus Consent, and Jokai Svlada were all close by. 'Titus, talk to these people. Get a feel for the ground. Hire some guides. I expect to have to fight off a major attack. Will we need to include the Night amongst the enemies we expect? Keep Prosek in the know."

By nightfall the ships were headed back to Sheavenalle. A solid camp had been established, in the Old Empire fashion. It had a timber wall with a ditch at its foot. Scouts with local guides crawled all over the surrounding countryside.

Two miles up the coast, on the south bank of a creek the locals called a river, was a fishing village cleverly named Porto. It had been called something else in Imperial times and had been bigger then, anchoring the north end of trade across the narrow strait that had existed at that time. The villagers were proud of their history, religion, and dialect, which resembled Old Brothen more closely than did modern Firaldian. They had suffered numerous turns for the bad since the fall of the Empire, as Artecipea passed through the hands of frequent conquerors. With, always, the hinterlands' pagan storm just over the horizon.

Piper Hecht spent his first night on Artecipea as a guest of the leading men of Porto. They insisted that he was a deliverer. He wasted no time disagreeing.