Nazramin was content to leave the details in Mandes’s hands. The prince said Valaran would provide a potent diversion while his agents got their hands on Tol’s saber, in case it was the talisman Mandes suspected was shielding him from his spells.

The prince was not yet ready to depart. He demanded to see the progress of their other ongoing project. When Mandes hesitated, Nazramin tapped the quirt weightily against the palm of his hand. Bloody handkerchief still pressed to his face, the sorcerer acquiesced with a bow.

On the room’s rear wall was a shelf piled high with pots of dried herbs, mineral powders, and trays of rough crystals. Mandes faced this wall and traced a sigil in the air with his left hand. A vertical line of light appeared, widening steadily as the hidden door opened in the seemingly solid stone wall.

Beyond was a niche lit by a smoky oil lamp. Within the niche was a black-draped table on which rested a statuette two handspans tall. Made of dully glinting gray metal, the image bore the unmistakable features of Nazramin’s elder brother. Affixed to the statuette were two screw clamps, one compressing the figure’s head, the other its chest. Every day Mandes tightened the screws a half turn. Every day, Amaltar grew a little more ill.

“Splendid,” the prince said, and smiled.

“A crude method, but effective,” agreed the wizard. “Almost no one uses image magic any more. Too easily countered if discovered.”

The prince approached the statuette. “Oropash and his people can do nothing. My brother has lost all confidence in their abilities.” He rubbed a finger over each of the clamps, his touch as delicate as a woman’s. Resting his finger on the statuette’s middle, he looked back at the sorcerer, eyes aglitter. “Add a third one. On the belly.”

“As you wish, great prince.” Mandes bowed, but warned, “If too many clamps are used, the emperor will sicken too quickly, and people will suspect his weakness is not natural.”

“How long can he live with the current arrangement?”

“As long as Your Highness wants-a year, two years-or a day.”

Nazramin slowly took his hand away from the cruel, merciless clamps and straightened. “I can wait,” he said. “Many of the older lords feel the loss of my father, and they’ve transferred their sympathies to Amaltar. As time passes and he becomes weaker and more useless, more and more warlords are weaned to my side.”

With a final, feral grin, Nazramin gathered up his dark cloak and departed in a rush.

Left alone, Mandes hunted up a jar of ointment for his wound. Nazramin had been a good client for many years. Mandes could credit his rise in Daltigoth to Nazramin, to the many jobs performed for the prince, the public ones for all to see and the private ones that served darker purposes, but all along the wizard had loathed Amaltar’s brother. All along he had distrusted Nazramin’s ambition and cruelty.

After dabbing the soft unguent on his stinging cheek, he re-entered the niche. He lifted the heavy drape and withdrew a second hollow lead statuette that had been concealed beneath the table. This figure bore the face of Nazramin. Two clamps encircled its head. With great satisfaction, Mandes tightened both screws a full turn.

Three loud thuds echoed through the great house. In the kitchen, Tol and the Dom-shu sisters looked up from the remnants of their meal. It had been a good one, roast beef, prepared by Tol. For all their skills, the sisters were of little use in the kitchen. Miya freely admitted she could not cook. Kiya thought she could, but for the sake of all their stomachs she had to be prevented from doing so.

Tol buckled on his sword belt, and with a casual gesture, made sure the Irda millstone was still in its secret pocket.

Miya picked up the candle from the table. It was a timekeeper, divided into thick rings, called marks, representing the hours of the day.

As they made their way to the front door, the sound came again, three knocks booming through the silent house. Some -one with a heavy hand was pounding on the bronze portal.

Night had long since fallen; the time for casual visitors was well past. Kiya urged caution. Her hand rested on the hilt of her knife.

“Since when do assassins knock?” Tol said, and pulled the doors open.

Four tall figures stood before them, identically dressed entirely in white. Their robes swept the ground, and their heads were covered with stiff cloth cowls, styled to look like war helmets. The two in the rear carried lanterns.

“Lord Tolandruth.” It was hard to determine which of the two figures in front had spoken. “You are summoned to attend upon the emperor.”

“Doesn’t Amaltar ever sleep?” Miya blurted.

“The summons does not come from Crown Prince Amaltar,” the muffled voice solemnly replied. “His Majesty Pakin III requires your presence.”

“But he’s dead!”

Tol, although as confused as Miya, shushed her. “What is this about?” he asked. He decided it was the figure on his right who was speaking.

“The Emperor of Ergoth calls you to duty. Will you come?”

Kiya put a hand on his arm. “Don’t go, husband. No good can come of serving a dead man.”

“You must make yourself clean, and wear these.”

The fellow on Tol’s left held out a bundle of white cloth, its corners tied together at the top.

The bundle was weighty, but soft. Ritual garments, Tol assumed, like the ones the strange messengers wore.

“I will come,” he said.

The sisters exchanged worried glances. Tol was altogether too trusting.

“Come alone at midnight to the Tower of High Sorcery. Follow where you are led, and do not speak.”

The white-clad phantoms departed. Miya shut the heavy door.

“What sort of trick is this?” Kiya demanded. “Husband, you should not go!”

Tol smiled. “It’s all right. I believe they want me to stand vigil over the late emperor.”

This made sense to the sisters. Their tribe had a similar rite. The night before a dead chief was immolated on his funeral pyre, his family was expected to spend the night with him, making offerings to the gods.

Kiya went to the kitchen to heat water for Tol’s bath. He headed to his bedchamber and there untied the bundle. It contained a linen robe, a sash, a short cape, a simple cloth skullcap, and slippers. Even smallclothes had been provided. Every item was spotlessly white.

Miya watched as he laid out the funerary garments. “Honor or not, I still don’t like you going through the streets alone,” she said. “Wear that dwarf blade, will you?” He assured her he would.

Kiya arrived bearing a steaming kettle. Tol stripped and splashed hot water on his face, arms, and feet. The sisters watched with critical eyes, as though inspecting a prize bull.

“He’s held up well. Wouldn’t you say?” Miya asked her sister.

Kiya nodded. “Quite a few scars, but strong for a man his age.”

Tol paused in his ablutions. “What do you mean, ‘a man his age?’ ”

“His hair’s too short. Looked better longer,” Miya said with a frown.

“What do you mean, ‘a man his age?’ ” Tol repeated.

Kiya shrugged. “Well, you are past thirty-”

“Just past,” he said quickly.

“A man’s vigor peaks at twenty,” Miya said, “but you are holding up well.”

Tol planted fists on his bare hips. “Would you like to check my teeth while you’re at it?”

Miya waved his pique aside. “We see you chew every day. We know your teeth are good.”

She started to discuss other, more intimate facets of his physique, and Tol stamped his foot in warning. Grinning, the sisters fell silent.

Clean and dry, Tol donned the smallclothes, tying the drawstring waist snugly, and pulled the long robe on over his head. In short order he was dressed, down to the slippers and skullcap.