"We didn't give this enough thought before we hared off on an adventure."

A young man's game," Ghort philosophized. "A game for men who don't got nothing to lose."

"Yes. Gentlemen. Priests. This is an important question. The fools you just paid. What did you send them into?"

"They're going to run into robbers. If they don't fight, all that will happen is, they'll lose the money."

"It isn't supposed to turn lethal?"

The priest acted offended. "We don't murder people… All right. Yes. There's no need to harm them. They'll disappear into Grolsach's population. They don't know anything, really. But we can't afford to let them keep the money. It'd ruin Immaculate's treasury."

Meaning the conspirators were never meant to be paid. "Why?"

"Because we have almost no income anymore. The Usurper's…"

"I mean, why kill me?"

"I told you. You're the only…"

"Not true." There was no sense whatsoever in that claim. He was not that important. He was not irreplaceable. Ghort could do what he did.

Ghort said, "He believes it, Pipe. Somebody sold him."

Hecht growled. "Stupid."

"Can't fix stupid. Hey, Pipe! You know you've made it big when people you don't even know think they got to kill you."

"Jealous?"

"Not quite. Brother, I don't need nobody wanting to cut my throat. Unless maybe a jealous husband. Sometime next century."

"You say that only because your faith is weak," one of the priests said.

"Weak ain't the word, godshouter. I been around damn near forty years. I ain't yet run into an Instrumentality what's out to improve my life."

Hecht interrupted. "No religious debates. It's the middle of the night. I'm tired. I'm crabby. This is what's going to happen. You're going back to Viscesment. With a message. Anyone tries this again, I take it personal. The men I'll send won't be incompetents like Sublime's. There won't be any warning ahead of time from the Empire's spies." Osa Stile's espionage had thwarted an attempt on Immaculate II by Sublime's agents.

Ghort eased past the wounded man. He moved a few sacks of oats, came up with a leather money bag that was almost empty. "This is sad. It looks like they did give it all to Aubero and Ogier."

Hecht said, "We'll take their horses, then. You don't mind walking in order to stay alive."

One priest responded with a sullen nod.

Ghort offered battlefield medical advice for the care of the injured man. "Keep the wound clean. He'll be fine if it don't get infected. Find a healing witch. Have her make a poultice."

"Let's call it a night, Pinkus."

"What? You don't want to find out who handed these guys the job in the first place? You guys didn't make this up yourselves, did you? Neither did your hero, Immaculate. You set up for something like this, you do a lot of spying and recruiting and training and rehearsing. You guys are just paymasters. Maybe with different sets of instructions, depending on what happened in Brothe. Right?"

Both uninjured men grew more frightened.

"You see?" Ghort said. "You need to ask the right questions. Who sent you guys?"

A short course of vigorous, nonphysical interrogation produced a name. Rudenes Schneidel.

Rudenes Schneidel had managed everything. Planning. Personnel. Scouting the target. Paying bribes. Recruiting the paymasters, who were otherwise unemployed lay brothers. Offered easy money, in hard times, they had no problem signing on.

Ghort asked, "Rudenes Schneidel? That somebody from back home with a big-ass grudge, Pipe? You ruin his sister?"

"Never heard of him before."

"Sounds like it comes from those parts, though."

It does. I admit it. Any of you deal with Schneidel directly?"

The spokesman shook his head. Feeling bad for talking too much. "He used an interlocutor."

"Can you describe him?"

Of course not. Not well. The spokesman volunteered, "I asked the go-between about Schneidel. He said he only saw him once. If it was really him. He had a foreign accent so thick you could hardly understand him." The physical description suited every typical short fat thin tall dark brown white man you could run into on any Firaldian street.

"I've been here before," Hecht said, recalling trying to get a useful description of the witch Starkden, who had been behind a scheme meant to facilitate the premature demise of Else Tage of the Sha-lug, then pretending to be the Episcopal Chaldarean crusader Sir Aelford daSkees. "He wouldn't be a sorcerer in addition to his other transgressions, would he?"

Ghort leaned in. "We got a name. I can give it to Bo. Right now we need to get back into executive mode."

Hecht nodded. "Enough, then. Good night, gentlemen. Brothers. We'll include you in our prayers."

PELLA WAKENED HECHT AN HOUR BEFORE FIRST LIGHT.

"Sir, them priests are stealing their horses and running away."

"How do you know?"

"Vali saw them. She woke me up."

"I see." Before he finished getting his trousers on he heard horses crossing the rude pavements out front. "They have the moon, don't they?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'm a sir, now?"

"Yes, sir."

Hecht was amused but had no time to explore the workings of Pella's mind.

He might as well have taken time. The men from Viscesment got away easily.

There seemed little reason to hurry. Without horses the journey to Brothe could not be hastened much.

Ghort said, "Let's just be folks headed south looking for work. So stop looking prosperous."

Ferris Renfrow materialized. Hecht wondered how close the man had followed events last night. He seemed satisfied to watch them go. Pinkus Ghort's paranoid side wakened. "He might plan to have us snatched out in the country somewhere."

"Would there be a point?"

"Hell, yeah. He'd ruin Sublime's hopes for decades. Where would that fool find two more men like us?"

"A telling point. But I doubt he rates us as highly as we rate ourselves. But to reassure you, I'll just go ask."

"What? Are you out of your bean?"

Hecht approached the Imperial. "The name Rudenes Schneidel mean anything? Especially in connection with Viscesment?"

Renfrow raised an eyebrow. "It's turned up inside a few unpleasant rumors. Evidently a sorcerer. Of some attainment. But a complete blank otherwise. Why?"

"There was an assassination attempt in Brothe. You'll be hearing about it. Schneidel was behind the play. If that's something you can use."

"Probably not. The folks at Viscesment have grown increasingly independent. Tell your friend I'm going to let him get away. This time."

Hecht laughed. "Is his act that obvious?"

"It is."

"I'll pass the word. One more name I want to toss up. Dumaine."

"Dumaine?"

"That's all I've got. I heard it in Sonsa. Overheard it. Someone who's part of a plot involving the Durandanti family."

The only Dumaines I know are minor Arnhander nobility. The current Viscount Dumaine is an enemy of Anne of Menand. With the enmity mostly on her side. Dumaine is a minor marcher, unimportant in Arnhander affairs, except as a scapegoat when Anne's plans go bad. Although he spends all his time at home, fending off his cousins who are enfiefed to the King of Santerin. He evidently had the bad judgment to turn down an offer Anne made. Doing so publicly."

Anne of Menand was the mistress of King Charlve of Arnhand, who was mentally incompetent. She wanted her son Regard to succeed. Charlve had no legitimate children. Her physical appetites were legendary. As was her malevolence toward those who crossed her.

"That wouldn't fit. I don't think. I must've heard wrong."

"Ah. This doesn't look good."

A rider was coming down the West Way astride a mount so blown it could barely keep moving. The beast would be ruined forever. Yet the rider's was not the will driving it. He was unconscious. He had tied himself into the saddle.