"And at his age. Sorcery? Or is he even human?" Drear respected Renfrow but did not like the man. Points he had striven to impress upon his charge.

"What do you mean, at his age?"

"Just that he's been around forever. Doing the same work. Steering the Empire. Subtly. Some think he engineered your father's election. And the Act of Succession, too."

"Father did say that Renfrow knows all the secrets. And isn't reluctant to use them."

"Lucky you're too young to have secrets."

"Lucky me. Like I've ever had a chance to do something I'd want to hide." Her women were closing in, to separate her from her desperado chief bodyguard. Reputations were at risk.

Katrin's court was undismayed when the Empress closeted herself with three priests, without benefit of chaperone. When priests had worse reputations than any other variety of man. Their opinions shifted dramatically when Katrin announced that she would rectify her father's error by shifting the Empire's support from Viscesment to Brothe.

If that was not enough to poleax the Imperial aristocracy, Katrin then announced a pilgrimage to the Mother City. Where she would be crowned by the Patriarch himself.

Algres Drear observed, "The Grand Duke must be apoplectic." While packing.

"I can't see Hilandle having that much imagination. This was his fault. He could have been here. But he wanted us to think the Empire can't function except at his pleasure. He thought an Ege daughter would swoon. Katrin's as clever as Mushin was. More so, maybe. She isn't shy about revealing her contempt for those people. But she shouldn't have shown her independence that way."

Drear grunted. Helspeth's women were close by. As always. Eavesdropping. Some would report to the Empress. Others would inform the Council Advisory.

The Imperial nobility included a pro-Sublime faction. Sentiment against Sublime appealed to a larger bloc of folk more exalted and emotionally committed.

When her household was ready Helspeth sent for permission to return to Plemenza.

Lady Chevra approached nervously. Her expression would not remain fixed. One moment it was worried, the next sheepish, after that maliciously triumphant.

"Yes?" No doubt the old cow brought bad news. She wanted to do right but could not help taking joy in the misery of others.

"Her Majesty denies your request. You are to join her pilgrimage to the Mother City."

"We're enjoying a change of plan, Captain Drear."

Drear nodded.

"Coordinate with the Empress's people. We can reduce costs if we make the progress through the Imperial cities of Firaldia."

Lady Chevra was unhappy. The girl she wanted to torment had taken disappointment without a whimper.

Helspeth Ege would not whimper or whine. Ever. Not for Grand Duke Hilandle, not for the Empress Katrin Ege.

There was a positive side. To assert his influence the Grand Duke would have to follow Hansel's girls into the heart of Firaldia. Which he loathed. In that land no one knew who he was. Nor cared.

In that land, she reflected, lay Brothe. Where the Captain-General of the false Patriarch's armies made his headquarters.

She felt a rush of excitement.

This might not be so bad after all.

"Are you all right, Princess?" Lady Delta va Kelgerberg asked. "You just turned red as a beet."

Her breath had gone shallow and wheezy, too.

The Grand Duke did not give the new situation adequate thought. He favored himself too highly to accept defeat by the Ege bitch.

He plunged into an intemperate rush south from Alten Weinberg. He should reach Firaldia in time to quell the chit's insanity. She would not get down on her knees in front of that pox-ridden Brothen boy-lover, Sublime V.

Hilandle's party numbered forty-three to start. It began to dwindle almost immediately. A half dozen disappeared at Hochwasser. Swearing, he drove on into the Jagos range. Into a fierce, unseasonable snowstorm.

Some wanted to den up and wait. But the band did not have enough provisions. They had to turn back or press on.

Several turned back.

Thirty-two pressed on.

One day of biting cold cracked the sense of obligation of more of the Grand Duke's companions, who turned back to Hochwasser. Where the troops Lothar had begun to gather still awaited instructions. While they lived off Imperial stores.

In the deep night, with snow swirling like sudden ivory embers in the light of small fires, the camp wakened to screaming. Four men had sentry duty. Three could not be found. The other had seen and heard nothing but the screams.

No one got any more sleep.

The snow stopped next afternoon. The accumulation showed no sign of melting. The Grand Duke's party climbed above the tree line. They had only what firewood they could carry.

There were no inns, hostels, or way stations. Those had been abandoned. Even the Imperial post remount stations stood empty. A couple of small castles held out, supporting the post. They would not open their gates. The Empress's party had picked their bones already.

Another night brought more screams.

Wrapped in blankets, shaking in the cold, his sword bared upon his lap, the Grand Duke crowded the only fire and fought to stay awake.

Omro va Still-Patter, the Protector, was a loathsome old man today. In his youth he had been bold and fearless. He had spent three years in the Holy Lands and two with the Grail Order knights converting the savages of the Grand Marshes. Age might be gnawing his bones and his tolerance for discomfort, but it had not stolen his capacity for staying calm in the face of terror.

Screams startled Hilandle awake.

They came from just a dozen feet away.

He jumped up, both hands gripping his sword.

Something came at him. Something he saw only for a moment. Something huge. Something carrying a bleeding man. Something insectile, like the biggest walking stick that could be imagined, with more legs. Its bulbous eyes seemed filled with fire.

It thrust a claw at Hilandle. The Grand Duke met the thrust. The grasper separated from the limb and fell. A second tore at his blankets, his armor, and left shoulder. The collision flung him aside.

In the instant of contact torrents of thought smashed into Hilandle's brain. A fraction seemed quite rational. Almost philosophical. From a mind that observed and cataloged. But overriding that was madness, founded in hatred, blood-lust, and a compulsion toward revenge unending, with a thousand images of murders past and hoped to come.

Then it was gone, still dragging its prey.

Sprawled in half a foot of bloody snow, stunned, trying to push the cruel visions away, the Grand Duke banged his nose on the severed grasper, which continued flexing.

"Hartwell," he gasped at the first man to arrive. "Find something to put this in. I want to take it along."

"Your Lordship?"

"I didn't stutter, man. That may tell us something about that thing."

The monster did not return. Not then.

To Hilandle it seemed he lay there for hours, mind ensnared in the thing's blood madness. In truth, it was minutes. One of his grooms began cleaning his wound. "Did you see that thing?" he asked the man.

"What thing, sir?" Hilandle did not insist on formality in she field. Which surprised his enemies. They considered him a pompous, self-important stiff.

"The monster."

"No, sir."

"It was like…" A vengeful god. But he could not say that. There was only one God. And He was not a gigantic, ugly carnivorous bug. "It was one of the Instrumentalities of the Night. One of the Great Devils, surely."

The groom, Horace, appeared unconvinced. Despite the screams, the bloody snow, and the absent companions.

Twenty-three men moved on next morning. The missing left little evidence that they ever existed. Except equipment and possessions abandoned because there was no one to carry them.