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Exodus I

Therefore he set over them masters of the works, to afflict them with burdens.

—Exodus 1:11

Shipyear 3830

"Well, well, well, look what we've caught. A little guppy."

Danil Fougere jumped and spun, taken by surprise. The gang leader was named Hatch. He was three or four years older than Danil, and a lot bigger. He advanced with a confident swagger, a subordinate boy close behind him. At the other end of the alley another pair of gangers appeared, blocking the exit. Danil stole a glance back the way he had come, saw another figure waiting there. He was trapped.

"What you got there?" The leader smirked and pointed at Danil's belt-bag. "Anything I might like?"

"Just an axe head," said Danil, backing away. "I found it."

"Really? Well, I just lost an axe head. Why don't you show me and we'll see if it's mine."

"It's mine." Danil put a hand protectively over his belt bag. The axe head was a prize, tradable to a smith for three or four days of food. Losing it would mean hunger, and Danil was already very hungry. "I found it where the Prophetsy crew works."

Hatch lunged and grabbed him by the shirt front. "Give it here, guppy." His voice was suddenly hard. He was done playing with his prey.

"Alright, alright." The other gang members had closed in, and Danil was surrounded. "Just let me get it untied."

"Do it fast, guppy." Hatch released Danil's shirt front, shoving him backwards at the same time. "You don't want me getting bored."

Danil fumbled with the leather laces that held the bag to his belt. When he had it undone he held it out to the bigger boy. Hatch reached to take it, but when he came close Danil swung the bag, catching him hard in the side of the face. The larger boy yelped in pain, and Danil darted for the far end of the alley. The boys who were blocking his path lunged to grab him but he swung the heavy bag again, smacking the larger one on the skull with an audible crack. His assailant went down. The second one snatched at the bag, but Danil drove his knee into his groin and the other collapsed to writhe in agony in the dirt.

Danil ran as shouts rose after him, desperate fear driving him to speed. He swerved into a side alley, caroming off the wall to make the corner. As he did so, he stole a glance back to see Hatch and two more boys chasing him. They were all bigger than he was, and if they caught him now they would do worse than steal his axe head. His breath came in gasps as he forced himself to run faster. He had an escape route, if he could get that far.

Fifty meters further on, he came to a narrow gap, an accidental feature formed where a stable yard and a fishmonger's shop didn't quite meet, not wide enough to be considered an alley, but big enough for him to squeeze in sideways. It was a shortcut he'd discovered, when he'd first come to Far Bay. The pursuing boys nearly caught him then, but they had to squeeze into the narrow space themselves and Danil recovered his lead. He moved as fast as he could, ignoring the small hurts inflicted when the building's sideboards caught at his skin.

"You're not getting away, guppy," Hatch yelled.

Danil ignored him. If he was yelling it was because he was frustrated, and if he was frustrated it was because Danil was getting away. The confined space was more an obstacle for the older boys than it was for him. It dead-ended at a fence that surrounded a cut-yard, and under the fence was a space just large enough for him to slip through. Normally he looked carefully first, to make sure none of the yard hands were watching. This time he thrust his head and shoulders under the fence without so much as a glance. It was a tight squeeze, and he had a moment of panic when his belt caught against the fence boards. It took him precious seconds to wiggle free, and then he felt hands grabbing his ankle, pulling him back. He kicked desperately, felt one foot connect with something solid. There was a grunt of pain and the hands let go, and he pulled himself through to the other side.

He stood up and dusted himself off, breathing hard. While he recovered he watched to see if the gang would try to follow him, but they weren't stupid enough to wedge themselves into the narrow space while he was free to kick them in the head as they came through. Curses and threats came through the fence, but they weren't important. Danil found himself trembling. That was too close, too close by far. Coming to Far Bay had been an act of desperation, and the city had no welcome for a lone runaway. He had managed to survive so far on his wits, but the gangs were hard to evade, and every time he ran into one he made more enemies.

The voices on the other side of the fence faded. Danil turned to see if he'd been spotted, crouching behind a pile of timbers to see where the yard team was. Fortunately they were preoccupied, working the big two-man vertical crosscut in the center of the space and stacking the sawn boards in piles. The clean, fresh smell of cut timber filled the yard, somehow making him feel even dirtier in comparison. He crept to the next timber pile and then to the next, keeping them between himself and the hands. At the far end of the yard, a pile of stacked logs formed an impromptu staircase that would take him over the fence to the next street.

He was halfway to it when he spotted a worktable covered in rough hewn boards. It was unattended, with a buck saw and a big chisel lying on top of it. He paused, considering. Either would make a nice prize, both together would feed him for a week. He looked again to where the yard hands were working the crosscut. They were preoccupied, and looking the other way. It would be so easy . . . he pushed the temptation aside. It would be easy this time, but he needed the cut-yard route. If tools started disappearing the yard hands would look to find the reason. Dock rats like Danil were already assumed to be thieves, and he would be beaten if he were caught in the yard. If he were caught stealing, he might get some bones broken, and that would leave him easy prey to the gangs.

He slipped over to the lumber pile, checked to make sure no one was looking, and scampered to the top. From there it was a short jump to the fence's top rail, and then he swung himself down to a narrow street of hard packed dirt. He checked left and right, just in case Hatch had anticipated his route, but the way was clear. He dodged around a fishmonger's cart, jumped up onto the rough-hewn boardwalk and ran along it to the bridge that crossed the Silver River just before it emptied itself into the ocean. On the other side of the bridge, a brick and timber forge dipped a waterwheel into the lazy current, smoke pouring from the clay-plastered chimney. He heaved a sigh of relief. Era was there, and working. He ran across the bridge and into the open shop front. The broad-shouldered smith was at the furnace hearth, holding a work piece in the coals with a pair of steel tongs.

Danil watched in fascination. He loved to watch the shop's machinery moving. The waterwheel drove a tacklewheel that turned a beltrope to work the furnace bellows. Every blast of air made the furnace roar, and sent a wave of heat rolling into the shop and against Danil's face. When the shipsteel glowed red hot, Era turned to put it on the anvil beneath the drop hammer. He caught sight of Danil then, and threw him a wink. A long wooden lever engaged the waterwheel to the hammer's shaft, and the hammer began to rise and fall, clanging with loud rhythm. Danil watched in fascination as the red-glowing shipsteel yielded to the hammer, trying to determine what it was Era was making. Eventually the blacksmith was satisfied with his handiwork, and thrust the work piece into a bucket of water where it sizzled and steamed. He put down the tongs, and disconnected the waterwheel from the hammer, then moved another lever to disconnect the bellows as well.

"That will do for now." He smiled as broad as his shoulders. "What have you brought today, lad?"

Danil took his prize from his belt bag and held it up. "An axe head."

"Not stolen, I trust?"

"Not from any fisherfolk."

"From a lumber crew?"

"Maybe."

Era laughed. "Young man, you'll live to regret stealing from the Prophetsy."

"I don't steal, I scavenge. It's not my fault they leave so much behind."

"The Prophet already thinks he owns us. He might yet own you, and you'll be hauling those trees instead of climbing them." The blacksmith took the axe head and hefted it. "This is nice. How much do you want?"

"Whatever you think is fair."

"We'll say thirty hooks."

"Thirty? There's a good kilo of shipsteel there."

"Forty, then."

"Islan Keenn would give me sixty."

"Islan wouldn't give his own mother sixty, but you're welcome to ask him."

"Fifty, Era, that's fair."

"I don't have fifty hooks, so let's say thirty hooks and a token, since you drive such a hard bargain." Era went to a shelf filled with ranked wooden boxes, took one down and counted out thirty fishhooks, then added a silvery trade token to the pile.

Danil swept the hooks into his belt bag, careful to avoid pricking himself on the points, and slipped the token into a pocket.

"Thanks, Era." He hesitated. The token alone was worth thirty hooks. He wanted to say more, but he didn't know what to say. Era was the only person who'd been kind to him since he'd come to the city, and his wife Sall would sometimes slip Danil a heel of bread or some dried trout. He wanted to thank Era for that as well, he wanted to find a way to win the big man's friendship, he wanted . . . he wasn't even sure what it was he was looking for. He didn't know what words to say, and didn't want to risk the fragile connection by saying the wrong ones.

"No thanks required for a fair trade." The big man smiled and the transaction was over. It was Danil's cue to leave, but he didn't want to go. Hatch would be angry and looking for him, and the forge was safety for as long as he could stay.

"What's are you working on?" he asked, because he couldn't think of anything else to say.

Era fished the now cooled work piece out of the water with the tongs. "It's a better wheel hub." He handed it to Danil. The piece of shipsteel was round and as big as his hand, with a flange on the outside to hold the spokes and a hole in the center to take the axle. "Try it, see how it works." He pointed to a rounding jig with a finished wheel on it.

Danil put down the hub and took the wheel from the jig, held it by the axle and gave it a spin. It turned smoothly and easily, and he smacked the edge of it to speed it up, until finally the spokes were a blur.

"It's so quiet." Danil had little exposure to wheels or hubs, but every wagon he'd ever seen squeaked and rattled while the wheels went around.

"No other wheel in the world spins like that."

Danil nodded silently, unable to take his eyes off the simple magic he was holding. "How did you do it, Era?"

"A smoother bearing surface. Two pieces of shipsteel, shaped against each other hot so they fit perfectly."

Danil nodded, so engrossed with the motion that at first he didn't notice the subtle force twisting the wheel in his hands, but it grew steadily until finally it threatened to take the axle right out of them.

"What makes it twist like that?" he asked.

"Like what?" Era was puzzled.

Silently Danil handed the wheel back to its creator, spun it up, and watched until the effect manifested itself.

Era's eyes widened. "I don't know what it's doing. It's a perfectly ordinary wheel, I built it myself. The hub spins better, but there's no magic to that."

Danil shook his head. "Something is pulling at it." He looked closely at the wheel hub, not really sure what he might be looking for that could explain what he had experienced.

Era nodded. "Something is. I never noticed that, but I've always spun it in the jig."

They spun the wheel again in the jig, which resolved nothing, and then spun it a few more times, taking turns holding it. They found that sometimes the wheel tried to turn itself sideways and sometimes it didn't. It was Era who discovered that if you tried to force it to turn it would always resist the movement, which was strange, but it was Danil who discovered that it twisted most if you faced foreward or aftward, and not at all if you faced spinward or antispinward, which was stranger still.

"How can it know the difference?" he wondered. "It's just a piece of wood and shipsteel."

Era shrugged. "I don't know."

"Do other wheels do it?"

"I don't know that either. Other wheels don't spin so well as mine."

Danil faced foreward and spun the wheel again, and held it as it turned slowly through a full circle. Something about the motion seemed familiar . . . 

"Let's take it outside," he said, sudden inspiration in his voice. "I have an idea."

They went out the back into Era's yard, full of piled scrap and ingots of shiny shipsteel. Danil pointed up at the foredome, where the faint stars revolved in the blackness between the central glare where the suntube touched it and the grey mist that shrouded the top of the forewall. "Watch the stars . . ." He faced foreward, held the wheel vertically and spun it up. " . . . and watch the wheel."

They watched and Danil shifted his grip as the wheel twisted, allowing it to move the way it wanted to and spinning it up again when it started to slow down.

"What should I be seeing?" asked Era.

"The wheel stays aligned with the stars. It's moving with them, but we aren't, so to us it looks like it's the wheel that's twisting."

Surprise came into the blacksmith's face. "You're a clever one. How did you guess that?"

"Something seemed familiar, and it was the rate of twist, the same as the speed the stars go around. You could keep time with it, if you could keep it spinning somehow."

"That's clever, though you'd put the timeringers out of business," said the smith. "You could be a mechanographer, young man."

"Do you think so?"

"I do. Now I have that hub to finish, and I'm sure you've got something to trade those hooks for."

Danil nodded. He'd stayed as long as he could. They went back into the forge. Era restarted his bellows, and Danil went out, his hunger returned, and his temporary respite from Hatch over. He checked carefully at the doorway, saw no one hostile, and stepped into the street. It was crowded with horses and wagons, merchants and customers, and he threaded his way through the throng, staying to the side where he was out of the way, less likely to attract attention. Six hooks bought a couple of loaves of dark bread from a baker, three more bought some smoked trout. He split one loaf in half and made a sandwich of the trout, and devoured half of it on the spot. That tamed his immediate hunger, and he put the rest of it under his shirt and made his way back to his nest on the waterfront, hidden behind a fence-board rigged to be a doorway just big enough for him.

His nest wasn't much, just a dilapidated wooden box by a net spinner's shop on the wharf, once used to hold carved balsa floats, and now used to hold nothing. He had made it more comfortable with a section of discarded sail canvas to sleep under. The float box was part of a tangle of disused gear by the side of the shop, most of uncertain purpose and all of it broken. The net spinner was an old man with failing vision, and his business was slowly dying. Neither he nor his customers ever came to Danil's side of the shop, and that suited Danil just fine. He had slept under a wharf his first week in the city, and it hadn't been pleasant.

He climbed into his box and left the lid open. A loose board on the bottom lifted to reveal a tiny, hidden space and he undid his belt bag and put hooks and the token in it. Only then did he lie back to enjoy the rest of his sandwich. He felt safe in his nest, and the suntube was warm on his face. He could look up and around the arch of the world overhead, watch the fishing rafts high up on the ocean's curve, sails bright in the sun. It seemed they should slide down, that all the water arching over his head should slosh down to flood the bottom of the world's cylinder, that the people who lived on the other side of the suntube should fall, as everything fell from a higher place to a lower one. They never did though, regardless of what Danil Fougere thought they should do, so he just looked up at it and wondered. Somewhere up there was Cove, where he'd grown up, and he was suddenly filled with longing for the home he'd had there, for his parents, for his brother and his sister. It was always like that after he had been to Era's. It was nice to spend time with the big blacksmith, to not have to be afraid for those few precious minutes, but it always reminded him of what it was he had lost. A flight of ducks flew over in V formation, and he found himself wishing he could fly as they did, just fly across the world to home and safety. He was suddenly overcome with loss and sadness, and he pulled the lid of his box down over himself, and finished his sandwich in the dark. When it was done he curled up tight in his sail, stomach full, but still empty in a way the meal could not satisfy. He felt that he should be crying, but he had no tears. Instead he closed his eyes and willed himself to go to sleep.

Sleep was slow in coming. The fight with Hatch's gang had been frightening, and he wondered if he should leave Far Bay. For most of his life he'd known the city as nothing more than a shape, an outline blotched in buildings against the ocean shore, halfway up the curve of the world. It was the place he looked to when his father was away to trade their catch, a place the older fishers told stories of, a place that seemed mythical even though he could see it directly. It touched the ocean with a tangle of docks and fishing rafts and the forest with rows of neat houses set into the rising upper shore. The space between was a bewildering maze of merchants and mongers and crafters, smokesheds and warehouses. Danil wasn't comfortable with so many people doing so many things in such close proximity, and moreover the place smelled, of dried fish and wood smoke and leather and sweat and too many people in too little space. He didn't like that at all. He'd had a plan, when he first arrived. In Cove, all the children dived for clams. All you had to do was line up at the dock and get on the next raft going out clamming. It was hard work, but fun, and you got a quarter of all you could bring up. He'd gone down to the docks his first day in the city, expecting it to be the same, but in Far Bay there were more children willing to dive than there were spaces on rafts to take them out to the clam beds. Every gang worked with a certain raft captain, and Danil had gotten his first beating for intruding on someone else's turf. He'd gone hungry that first night, and the next as well. He'd had to learn quickly to scavenge for what he could sell, to hide while the city worked and move in the sleeping hours. At least I'm surviving now. More than that the world seemed unwilling to grant him.

He fell asleep at last, listening to the gentle waves lapping against the dock pilings, and woke up to the distant chiming of the mid-sleep bells, feeling better. He yawned and stretched, and opened the lid of his nest, squinting his eyes against the suntube's brightness. Today's work feeds tomorrow's hunger. His father's words overcame his residual drowsiness, and he climbed out of his nest and went out into the wharf street, idly munching on his second loaf of bread. The shop fronts were closed and shuttered, the streets silent. It felt strange to be alone in the city, but it was safer than going out in the waking hours. He followed the suntube forewards, towards the thick band of forest that separated the ocean from the patchwork farm fields of the Prophetsy. A couple of times he had to duck into doorways or behind fences to stay out of the way of the sleep-watch. Soon he was out of Far Bay, into the forest and away from anyone who might care that he was awake while they slept. For a short distance he followed the trading road. It was a good road, the quickest route through the trees to the forelands, and laid with baked clay bricks to prevent rutting. It was also patrolled by the sleep-watch, and at the forest's edge it met the barricade wall controlled by the Prophetsy's elite inquisitors. Getting caught by either group was not in his plan.

Instead he cut into the woods, following a faint animal track that he knew. This part of the forest had never been logged, and the tall oaks and ironwoods towered overhead, creating a permanent twilight beneath their shade. He kept his eyes open in case he ran into one of the rare leopards, but saw nothing. Occasionally a rustling in the undergrowth told of a squirrel or other small herbivore. Yesterday's rain still dampened the ground, and the air was rich and humid as the moisture steamed from the saturated ground. Some of the ancient trees were hung heavy with kudzu vine, the others had their lower reaches covered in moss. A couple of kilometers foreward the forest changed, with younger trees interspersed with tall bamboo. The underbrush was thicker there, and it made for harder going. He pushed his way forward, until he broke through at a hundred meter wide clearing, broken only by a few low thickets of blackberry. On the other side of it was the tall resined-brick wall that separated the forest and the fisherfolk from the Prophetsy. It was a good five meters high, and every two hundred meters there was a watchtower on the forelander side. At the clearing he paused, looking carefully left and right, because sometimes the inquisitors had spotters patrolling the forest side of the wall as well. He couldn't help but marvel at the way the wall curved up and around the world, gradually thinning to a line as it climbed the world's arch, to a thread as it went vertical in the distance and then circled overhead, until finally it vanished in the glare of the suntube.

He returned his attention to the closest watchtowers. Not every tower was manned all the time, especially in the sleeping hours. When he was satisfied that the coast was clear he ran across and, cat-agile, leapt up to grab for the rough edges of the bricks, climbing as easily as he'd climbed the trees around Cove. He paused as his head cleared the top, checking again for patrolling inquisitors. On the top of the wall there was a walkway three meters wide and a meter and a half down from the top, and when he was sure no one had seen him he pulled himself up and over in one fluid motion, rolled across the walkway and grabbed the lip to flip himself down on the other side of the wall. He held on just long enough to check his fall, let go and rolled again when he hit the ground. He smiled to himself as he came up running. No doubt the forelanders thought their wall was an obstacle, and maybe to the town boys it was, but the children of Cove grew up swimming and climbing, and he had always been the best at both in his peer group. The forelands were mostly a patchwork of cultivated fields, but next to the wall it was all pasture, and five hundred meters foreward there was a plot of woods. He ran hard, made it to the trees, and slowed once he was among them.

The trees were mostly oak and beech, not as big as they were in the aftward forests but big for a foreland forest. He came to a clearing surrounding a crude, rutted road and he slowed, moving cautiously now. Up ahead came the rhythmic ringing of axes on wood. It was still two hours short of the breakfast bell, but the Prophet's slave crews worked sixteen hours a day. He stole closer to the sounds, choosing his route carefully. The road turned a corner, and the clearing widened. At its edges a crew of Prophetsy slaves were felling trees, sweating under the suntube's heat, and Danil crouched down beside a thick oak trunk to watch. There were three dozen or so, and the rhythmic thunk, thunk of their axes echoed through the woods. Half a dozen crew-drivers guarded them, occasionally applying their leather short-whips to encourage the work along. He watched the activity for a while, satisfying himself that his arrival hadn't caused any change in the rhythm of their work. Once he was sure they hadn't seen him he clambered up the oak, keeping the trunk between him and the workers. He found a comfortable fork ten meters up and settled himself down to wait.

They kept at it steadily as time slid past. It took two or three backbreaking hours for a pair of men to chop their way through one of the thick trunks, angling their cuts to bring the big trees down onto already cleared land. When the tree fell they could be injured or killed if they didn't get out of the way, a task made difficult by the short neck-rope that linked their shipsteel slave collars together. A buck crew cut the fallen giants into manageable logs to be dragged away by the toiling haul crews, forty or more men yoked into traces and straining under a driver's lash. The crew's passivity puzzled Danil. Why don't they fight back? To him it seemed the obvious thing to do. Their axes were only slightly less effective weapons than the spears the drivers carried, and the advantage the guards enjoyed in armor was more than offset by the imbalance in numbers. If the slaves chose they would make short work of their captors. Instead they endured the abuse and worked on. Why don't they even run away? All a slave had to do was cut his neck rope and vanish into the forest. But they don't. It didn't really matter, the forelanders were strange in a lot of ways. What did matter was that, sooner or later, the food wagon would arrive, and the drivers would herd the slaves over to eat. When that happened the odds were good that someone would leave a tool unguarded, and Danil could be able to keep himself fed for a few more days.

A foraging squirrel caught his attention, and he watched as the small creature diligently scoured acorns from the forest floor and ran them up to its hidden storehouse high in another tree. Unlike the laboring slaves it was well aware of his presence, and carefully avoided coming too close to his tree. He slowly became engrossed in its antics, so much so that the sudden silence in the forest took him by surprise. He looked up to see the clearing emptying, the slaves filtering foreward. The food wagon had arrived. Danil looked around carefully, alert for any stragglers, and then, as agile as the squirrel, swung himself down through the oak's thick branches. The forest floor was soft against his toes, and he crouched instinctively. It wouldn't be good to get caught. Carefully he crept towards the work area, keeping to the shadows where the leafy canopy blocked the suntube, and choosing his path for both cover and silence. Still-white stumps dotted the area, and the ground was churned by dragged logs. He could hear voices coming faintly down the crude logging road; the forelanders weren't far. He went to one half-felled forest giant, quickly checked around its base, found nothing. He moved to the next and the next, again coming up empty handed. It seemed the slaves had taken their tools with them. The axe-head he'd traded to Era had come from this very crew, and the slave who'd lost it would have been punished. The rest would be more careful for a while.

He checked the remaining trees the crew had been working on and found nothing. That was disappointing, and there was a temptation to look further, but the key to scavenging shipsteel from the Prophetsy was caution. Impatience would get him caught, sooner or later. He turned to go, and then he saw it, so obvious that he was momentarily astounded that he hadn't before. It was not just an axe but a whole pile of axes, arranged to lean against each other and form a neat pyramid, and he found his heart suddenly pounding. This wasn't just a score, this was wealth. The pile was just down the crude road, close to the edge of the clearing, but out of sight of the meal wagon. He ran to it, checking down the road to make sure the slaves weren't on their way back. There were eight axes, and it was immediately apparent he couldn't carry them all in a bunch, not easily anyway. Working quickly and quietly he disassembled the pile, being careful not to let it clatter to the ground. He stacked his prizes head to head and haft to haft, and stripped off his shirt to tie them into a bundle. Once that was done he picked the burden up and turned to steal out of the clearing.

Something slammed into his head, flashing pain and sending him sprawling forward. He scrambled up, ready to run on reflex and found himself facing a leveled spearhead. He saw crimson cloth and shipsteel, and looked up to find hard eyes on his. He froze. Where the crew drivers were to be avoided, the inquisitor warrior-priests earned dread.

"Don't try to run, little boy," his assailant warned, lethal intent clear in his voice. "We've got arrows on you."

Danil darted his eyes left and right, saw the scarlet uniforms in the tree line on either side, bows drawn. He was caught.

"Smart move." The inquisitor nodded approvingly as he saw Danil's realization that he had nowhere to go. "Get on your belly." Danil complied, felt a knee forced into the small of his back, and then his arms yanked back and expertly tied behind him. The soldier cinched the knots tight and secured the rope to Danil's belt. A second length of rope went around his neck in a tight loop.

"Mik!" The man yelled. "Get over here and take him up to the camp."

Another soldier came running, this one shorter and not quite as lean. He took Danil's neck rope and led him up the road. As they came up to the slave crew he saw a familiar face standing beside the head driver, younger than the others, smirking in triumph. Hatch. The pile of tools hadn't been left by accident, the inquisitors were no coincidence. Danil had been sold out.

Shipyear 3839

Prophet Polldor paced impatiently around the confines of the Prophet's tower. The room was sumptuously appointed, the shipsteel floors covered in thick rugs and the walls in intricately dyed quilts. They served both to keep out the damp and the chill of the forewall lands, and to advertise to any visitor the refinement of the Prophet's taste. The tower was the highest point in the Prophet's temple and, when the mists allowed it, the view was the best in the world, encompassing everything from his temple aftward, over the close-crowded buildings of Charity to the blue ring of the ocean against the aftwall. It was his world, every last square meter of it, though the fisherfolk didn't yet acknowledge his rule. They will though, and soon. His people outnumbered them by five to one at least. When he was ready, he would move, and when he was finished, his authority over his world would be absolute.

He frowned at the thought. So why is it I have no authority in my own house? He shot a glance at his chief slave, who waited silently in his niche to be called for. The man carefully didn't meet his master's gaze, and the Prophet smirked at his subservience. He knows when to avoid calling attention to himself. For a moment he considered sending the servant out of the room, but he dismissed the thought. The man had outlived his usefulness anyway.

There was a knock at the door and he looked up sharply. "Enter."

The door opened and his daughter came in, dressed in blue, looking beautiful. Her eyes were quick and intelligent, and she carried herself with the aloof confidence of a woman who knew she aroused desire in every man who saw her.

"You sent for me, Father?"

Polldor looked at his child, momentarily unable to speak. She looked like her mother, who had been by far his most beautiful wife. Also like her mother, she was willful, disobedient and devious, a never-ending source of trouble. She smiled, and his frustration faded. No matter what she did, he found it impossible to stay angry with her. It's not her fault. She was his firstborn, and her mother had died in childbirth. And what did I know of parenting a girl? She was his firstborn and was still his favorite, and he had spoiled her. He was paying for that now. But she's not a child anymore, and this needs to end for once and for all. He suppressed the urge to embrace her in greeting, and turned to look out the windows, to steel himself for what he had to do.

"Father?"

Polldor took a deep breath and turned around. "Annaya, are you pregnant?"

His daughter blushed. At least she still has the decency for that. "No, Father, of course not."

"Of course nothing. I know what you've been doing."

"Father! I . . ."

Polldor slashed a hand through the air to silence her. "No. I won't hear you lie about it." He turned away to look out the window again. "Did you think I wouldn't find out? Here in my own temple?"

Her eyes flashed with sudden anger. "I thought you would respect my privacy."

"Privacy? You're the Prophet's daughter, and you expect privacy?" He cut her off before she could answer, his affection overcome by resurging anger. "Nothing you do is private. Nothing!" He pointed at his chief slave. "This man here is witness to everything happening right here, right now. Do you think it won't be all over the temple by the evening bell?"

In his niche the slave stood stock still, his face a mask of fright, and Polldor smirked. At least someone still fears me.

"Do you think I care what a slave knows?"

"Do you think nobody listens to slaves? Tell me who he is!"

"I won't." She spat the words, her anger changed to defiance.

Polldor felt his face darken. "You'll regret it if you don't."

"I'll regret it more if I do."

"You stupid little girl!" Polldor shouted, now angry beyond recovery. "You stupid, selfish little girl." He saw the impact of his words in her face and instantly regretted them, but it was too late. And she gets her temper from me, I can't deny that.

"Go on, why don't you just hit me and get it over with," she screamed back. "Hit me again, maybe it will make you feel better."

Polldor looked away, his throat working, wondering at how quickly the interview had become a fight. He had hit her once, when she was twelve, when she had stolen something—he couldn't even remember what now. She'd lied about it, and he'd hit her and bloodied her nose, and felt guilty about it every day since. She had never, ever let him forget it.

"No, Annaya." He fought to keep his voice calm, to de-escalate the situation. "I won't hit you. I've never been able to punish you, and that's the real problem. I didn't know how to raise a daughter."

"You didn't know how to raise a son either," Annaya shot back.

Polldor's lips compressed at her words. "Don't speak that way about your brother."

"What? Are you going to tell me Olen is everything you ever hoped for in an heir?"

"He's young. He'll mature."

Annaya snorted. "By which you mean he'll grow breasts. He's more of a girl than I am. And he's not my brother."

"Olen is not what we're here to discuss."

"Which is what? My sleeping habits?"

"You are the Prophet's daughter, not some crew-begotten concubine! What do you think the Elder Council will say when they hear about your indiscretions?"

"That collection of dried fruit? They'll all be jealous I wasn't in their beds."

"Annaya! Don't speak like that!"

"What, you don't like that I have sex?"

Her words struck him like a physical blow. "In the name of Noah, please tell me you're not pregnant!"

"What business is it of yours?"

"I'm your father!"

"It's my body, Father." She put sarcastic stress on the last word. "I'll do what I want with it. Including get it pregnant, if that's what I want."

Polldor felt his anger return full force. "It is not your body. Do you think this is only about you? You think Olen is weak? Well, so what if you're right; he'll be Prophet, weak or strong. And what do you think will happen then?"

"Why would I care?"

"Because you need to care. Do you think Bishop Nufell of Sanctity is going to let a weak boy rule the round world from here to the ocean? Do you think the Mertells of Charity will? Olen is going to need support." He pointed his finger at her chest. "He's going to need support from you. And you are going to get support from the family you're placed with." He held up a hand to forestall her protest. "Which will be someone with position and title and something worthwhile to offer, and not be some landless second-son inquisitor mark-leader with come-hither eyes." He saw the look of shock come into her eyes. "Oh yes, I know who it is."

Annaya set her jaw. "So why did you bother to ask?"

"Because I wanted your cooperation." Polldor threw his hands in the air. "For once!"

"Well, you aren't going to get it." His daughter folded her arms across her chest with finality. "Are we finished yet?"

"Don't defy me, girl." A note of warning crept into the Prophet's voice.

"Or what? You're going to take my dolls away?"

Polldor sighed heavily. "I'm not going to punish you, Annaya."

"Well then, I think we're done." She turned up her nose and turned to go.

"No, we're not done." Polldor's voice was suddenly cold, and he jerked his head at his chief slave. "Bring him."

The slave bowed. "At once, your Holiness." He came out of his niche and pulled a bell-rope fastened to the wall beside it. The ropes led over a set of small tacklewheels and out one of the windows, down to the servitor level below. A minute later the doors burst open in front of two drivers. They were dragging a crucifix with a third man nailed to it, blood crusted on his wrists and ankles. He was dressed in the remnants of an inquisitor's cloak, what was left of it hanging in shreds, and had a mark-leader's scarf still fastened at his neck. He had been savagely beaten, his body covered in bruises, bleeding where short-whips had stripped off his skin. He hung there semi-conscious, his eyes swollen shut.

"Sem!" Annaya's eyes flew wide in horror.

Polldor made a gesture and the drivers dropped their captive on the floor, and his daughter ran to his side and knelt by him, putting a hand to his cheek. The beaten man looked up at her and tried to say something, but couldn't form the words. "Sem!" She looked up at her father. "You bastard! It wasn't his fault."

"Someone has to be punished, Annaya." Polldor gestured to the drivers. "Finish him."

"What? No!" Annaya screamed and threw herself on top of the prostrate figure. The senior driver lifted his spear at the Prophet's command, but hesitated. Annaya looked up at him, eyes blazing. "Touch him and I'll kill you myself."

"Finish him!" Polldor commanded again, but still the driver hesitated, looking for an angle where he could thrust his spear without committing the fatal error of injuring the Prophet's daughter. Polldor spat in disgust and advanced on the tableau. He wrenched the spear from the hapless slave keeper's grasp. "Get her off him."

Relieved to have an easier command to obey, the drivers grabbed Annaya and hauled her, struggling and kicking, up and away from her lover's body. Polldor took the spear and drove it into the crucified man's throat. He convulsed and his eyes flew open in sudden recognition that he was about to die. Blood gurgled as he struggled to breathe, thrashing against the nails in his wrists and ankles, until finally his body twitched and went limp.

"NO!" Annaya tore herself free of the drivers and leapt at Polldor, knocking him over in her fury. He cracked the side of his head hard against the table on the way down, and then the guards were on her, pulling her back.

Polldor stood up slowly, putting a hand to his head where it'd struck the table. "Let her go." He waved a hand, feeling suddenly tired. "Let her go."

The drivers did as they were told, and Annaya went to her lover's body and knelt there, sobbing, putting her arms around him as though she could bring him back to life, oblivious to the blood soaking into her clothes.

"You two, go down to the first watch post and wait there. Discuss this with no one. I'll be down shortly." Polldor turned to his chief slave. "You, back to your alcove." He didn't bother to watch them obey. His anger had evaporated, leaving him feeling . . . hollow. Annaya was still crying, and he wanted, more than anything, to go to her and comfort her, as he had when she was small. He fought down the urge. The last thing she wants right now is anything from me. Instead he turned and went out the main door, down the stairs to the antechamber below, absently rubbing his chest where she'd slammed into him in her charge. It hurt almost as much as his skull did. And she fought off two drivers to do that. He was proud of his daughter, despite the trouble she caused him, proud of her ferocity and her strength. If Olen had her spirit, I wouldn't have to worry so much about who she was placed with. But Olen's mother was a woman of exceptional beauty and little substance, and he had inherited none of his father's strength of will. He went through another door into his day-room. One wall was layered with ironwood boxes ranked on polished shelves, each containing the ashes of one of his ancestors. A lone crucifix adorned the opposite wall, weapons and crimson inquisitorial banners adorned the other two. A heavy chair sat facing the encircling windows, a carved oak side table beside it. Most of the windows were glass, but two of them had been broken long ago, and wooden shutters covered the empty spaces.

He went to the chair and sat down heavily. "You heard, Balak?" he asked.

"Enough, your Holiness." A figure moved from where it had been standing, so still it seemed merely part of the furniture. Polldor's High Inquisitor came forward to stand beside his Prophet. He was not a large man, but he was corded tight with muscle and his calm face held dangerous eyes.

"Such a waste. Sem Vesely was a fine leader." Polldor poured himself a mug of wine from the baked clay flask on the table, and swallowed it in a gulp.

"He broke his vows, Prophet. He sullied the holy flesh of your daughter." There was an edge in Balak's words. "His life and soul are forfeit."

"No doubt." Polldor poured himself another mug of wine. "Also no doubt it was Annaya's idea."

"What must I do?"

"The slave needs to die. He'll be waiting in his place."

The High Inquisitor bowed, a deference he gave only to the son of Noah. "And the drivers?"

"Them too."

"Noah's hand guides you, Prophet."

Polldor nodded. Noah's hand guides me, and the fate of the man who touched Annaya will go around the gallery by the evening-meal bell. He smiled to himself. Fear was not his preferred tool of rulership, but there was no questioning its effectiveness. And Balak will reinforce that. No redcloak would dare touch his daughter again.

Balak had turned to go, but he paused. "You're concerned?"

"Annaya . . ." The Prophet sighed heavily and drained the wine mug again. "I only pray she isn't carrying that man's child."

"God has not willed it so."

"I wish I was as certain as you, Balak. Just watch her. We need to make sure this problem doesn't occur again."

"That's impossible."

"Impossible?" Polldor looked sharply at his High Inquisitor. "I'll lock her up if I have to."

"That will only delay the inevitable. Do you think the man you place her with will be able to control her? She is of Noah's line. Her will is celestial, subservient only to you and her brother."

"Not subservient enough to me, that's one thing I'm certain of. She's ripe and she knows it, and she'll bear children for the man she chooses, regardless of the man I choose for her." Polldor mopped his brow. "I just need her to wait until after she's placed."

Balak raised an eyebrow. "Why not place her now?"

"Her value is in the desire of the senior families to tie their lineages to mine. As long as they're competing for her she brings me power, and they'll compete as long as they think she's still untouched." The Prophet bit his lip. "Once she's placed she can do what she wants. In fact I hope she does. Not one of the Elder Council is fit to sire me a grandson, inbred bootlicks, all of them."

"None of them are worthy, but whatever child she bears will be exalted, Holiness. The chosen family will be honored no matter who the father."

"Yes. And more important, no senior son of a senior family is going to admit he's been made cuckold by the Prophet's daughter. His humiliation would be total. Whatever she does, they'll hush it up. They'll have to. No, she needs to be controlled until she's placed. After that, I don't care."

"Controlling her will be difficult, even for that much time."

Polldor turned to examine one of the tapestries. "I know. It's my own fault. I should never have allowed her to play in the gallery, but she loved the horses, and the inquisitors. She wanted to shoot and ride. She had such spirit! And it seemed so innocent when she was young."

"I'm sure it was innocent, Prophet. When she was young."

The Prophet looked back to Balak. "She's grown up so fast. What was I thinking?"

"Could you have stopped her?"

Polldor pursed his lips. "Perhaps not. She's so headstrong. And I suppose I encouraged her. I saw in her what Olen lacks. I wish I could let her do what she wanted. What a waste."

"He betrayed his oath to Noah's line." Balak's tone carried the weight of final judgement.

Polldor gave his High Inquisitor a look. "Your strength and your weakness is your faith, Balak." He threw his hands up. "I'm cursed, do you know that? I've got a dozen wives, mounted more women than any man in this Ark, and what have I sired? Two children, that's all. Two children, a weak boy and a willful girl, Noah's idea of a joke. She could do what she wanted if I had more daughters, or a single son with yats." He brought his arms down and paced impatiently. "If word of this gets out, what can I offer the senior families?"

"They should follow you because of who you are, Holiness. It is unseemly that they require more than that."

"Unseemly perhaps, but that's the reality."

"Those who don't recognize the ascendance of Noah's line should be punished, not rewarded."

"Also true, but I can't unleash your blade on all of them. No. I need Annaya. I need their competition for Annaya."

"You have land enough, and soon you'll have much more. Offer them that instead."

"If I give them my daughter, I get their land and their allegiance together. If I give them my land—they get my land and still owe little allegiance. Better they supplicate for the chance to marry into it. No, she'll stay pure until I'm ready to place her. She'll obey. By my name, I'm her father!"

"As she should. The Prophet's word is as sacred as his line." There was something intense behind Balak's eyes, something dangerous. "Take my word that no inquisitor will dare touch her again." Balak moved and suddenly his blade was in his hand, shipsteel glinting. "I'll cleanse the slave now, and the others."

Polldor nodded, and his High Inquisitor went out. For a long time the Prophet just sat where he was, contemplating the shutters where the broken windows had been. From upstairs he could still hear Annaya sobbing. It was necessary. He repeated the thought to himself. It was a lesson she had to learn, and she'll be thankful, eventually. But he couldn't shake the feeling that in winning this last battle with her he had lost everything.

 

"Wake up you sons of dogs, wake up!" The head driver walked down the line of slave pens, drumming his spear haft against the bars. "Today is a beautiful day to serve the Prophet."

In his pen Danil stretched and stood, along with the other half dozen slaves in his crew, blinking sleep from his eyes. With well practiced motions he folded the worn flax tarp that served him as a blanket and tucked it into the accidental niche between the board that served as his bed and the corner of the cage. Already the ropemaster was coming down the line. Obediently the men lined up against the bars and held their leash-lines out through the harnessing slot. When the ropemaster got to them he deftly threaded the harness line through the loops. The other ends of the leash lines were spliced to their shipsteel slave collars. Behind him came the drivers with their keys, unlocking the cage doors and leading their charges out for breakfast. Danil's crew had a new driver that day, a heavyset, muscular man of about his own age. Something about him seemed familiar, but it wasn't until he spoke that Danil recognized him. Hatch! At first he couldn't believe it, but there was no question that it was his childhood nemesis. The man had the same arrogant swagger as the boy he had known. It was Hatch, no question. But what is he doing here?

Their new driver prodded them out of the slave shed. Breakfast was already waiting for them, boiled grain and boiled yam and boiled pork. It was unappetizing fare, but filling. The Prophetsy's slaves ate well enough, if only because the Prophet recognized that starving slaves did little work. The cooks ladled out the food into wooden bowls, which were passed down the line as each crew filed past. The men gulped down their morning meal standing up, and the bowls were passed back to be used by the next group. Hatch herded them along to the road that led down to the brickworks. He didn't seem to have recognized Danil, and Danil was content to leave it that way. As they walked, Danil looked longingly aftward, to the green band of the forest, and the blue of the ocean beyond it. He could recognize Far Bay, halfway up the curve of the world, but his home village of Cove was too small, and too close to the suntube to see at this distance. And there's nothing left for me in Cove anyway. In truth there was nothing for him in Far Bay either. He'd had little enough when he was there, and he hadn't been there long enough even to consider it home. How many years has it been? Too many to count.

It was still an hour before the breakfast bell when they got to the brickworks, and the overseer assigned the crews to their jobs as they came in the gate, gesturing with the staff that was his badge of authority, and his tool of control should any slave step out of line. Danil's crew was assigned to the digging, shovelling heavy bottom-clay from the dig pit into wooden wheelbarrows so the carriers could push it up to the worksite above. When he'd first come to the forelands Danil had been surprised to find houses built of brick, like the Prophetsy wall. It took so much more work to build with brick than timber, the way the fisherfolk did. Only slowly had he come to realize the underlying reality. The Prophetsy had only a few patches of woodlot left, and the fisherfolk controlled the aftward forests. That made brick cheap and lumber expensive. The brickworks were a good three kilometers from the forewall, as close to the Prophet's temple as it could be without having the foredome mists interfere with the drying of the bricks. For the slaves it meant laboring under the suntube's relentless glare, and longing for the fleecy clouds that spiralled up from the aftwall to bring a cooling rain.

Hatch let them know he intended to set a production record that shift, and laid on his short-whip to reinforce the point. In a bell their smocks were caked in mud, in two they were barely recognizable beneath it. Four of the six slave crews worked at once, on overlapping shifts of sixteen hours. At the noon bell the crew that had been on before theirs was replaced, and they had time to gulp another quick ration of yam and pork stew before moving up from the clay pit to take their turn at the mixing trough, churning cut straw into the clay with paddles until it was ready for the molders, then carrying the finished bricks off so they could dry in the suntube's heat.

It was gruelling work, and by the evening-meal bell sheer exhaustion had slowed their pace, though there were still two hours to go before shift-end. Hatch grew more impatient as the bells passed, determined to see his crew exceed the day's quota, plying his whip so hard he was sweating almost as much as the slaves. He constantly threatened to send them to the finish crew, who did the backbreaking job of hauling the dried bricks to the resin soak to be waterproofed and stacking them on the shipping carts. But he won't do it. Much as the driver would have liked to punish someone with the finish crew, sending slaves away would only put the driver farther from his quota. Finally the overseer blew his horn, and the welcome sight of the relief crews came through the gates. They began the cleanup routine, shuffling down to the river to rinse their paddles and themselves, and then to fill buckets to wash the dried mud off the mixing trough. It was on the second trip that Hatch brought Danil up short with tap of the whip-handle against his chest.

"Do I know you?"

Danil shook his head, trying to suppress his sudden fear. "I don't think so, sir."

Hatch looked him up and down slowly, settled his eyes on Danil's face. "I do know you. Where are you from?"

"The aftlands," Danil answered. It was technically true, though in Prophetsy usage the aftlands ended at the Prophetsy wall.

"The aftlands." Hatch considered that. "No, I don't think so . . ." Recognition slowly dawned in his eyes. "You're from Far Bay, that thieving guppy . . ." He smirked. "Well guppy, it's been a long time. I'm going to have a lot of fun with you."

Perhaps it was the cruelty in Hatch's smile, perhaps the remembered humiliation of being bullied and chased, but something in Danil snapped, and in an instant his fear was replaced by red rage. He brought his full bucket up and around, catching Hatch in the side of the face, knocking him sprawling and soaking him at the same time.

"You son of a dog!" Hatch spat in anger and advanced on Danil, short-whip upraised. "You're going to die today, guppy."

Danil took a step back and put his arms up as if to fend off the coming blow. Hatch brought the whip down, and as he did so Danil brought his own arm down to intersect the lash. It hit his forearm and wrapped around it to cut painfully against his side. He ignored the pain and grabbed the whip handle, yanking hard. The move caught Hatch off guard and he fell forward, stumbling. As soon as his enemy was in range Danil swung his now-empty bucket, catching Hatch across the side of the head and sending him sprawling. Danil advanced on him until his collar brought him up short. The driver was still too far away to hit with the bucket again so Danil dropped it and pulled the whip handle into his hand. He raised the lash and swung, bringing it down hard on Hatch's back. Hatch screamed in pain and rolled over, and Danil brought the lash down again, once, twice, three times before the other man managed to scramble out of range. Hands grabbed him from behind, the slaves behind him, and he fought to get free. It seemed a betrayal of the deepest kind for them to do it, though some distant part of him realized they were only trying to avoid sharing in his inevitable punishment.

Hatch was already up and coming at him, his face contorted in fury. He drove a fist into Danil's face, drove another into his solar plexus and Danil doubled over in agony. The other man brought his elbow down on Danil's skull and pain exploded through his head. He saw stars and fell forward, his collar again choking him as the rope to the next slave brought him up short. The man behind him fell too, and Danil tumbled the rest of the way to the ground. He drew his knees up in front of him and put his arms over his head as Hatch started kicking at him. Other drivers came running, drawn by the commotion. Behind them the overseer stepped down from his shack. Work across the site came to a halt as the other crews stopped to watch. For a slave to be whipped, even beaten was a mundane occurrence. For it to happen because the slave had assaulted a driver was very rare indeed.

Eventually Hatch tired of punishing Danil, and the overseer stepped forward.

"What happened here?" His voice was sharp.

"This sooksan hit me. Took my own short-whip and swung it." His anger returned, Hatch landed another kick in the small of Danil's back.

"That so? Cut him loose."

One of the other drivers pulled his blade from his belt sheath and bent down to slice the rope connecting Danil to the other slaves. He hauled Danil roughly to his feet and a second driver grabbed him as well. The overseer looked him up and down, and stretched out his staff to poke Danil in the chest.

"Name?"

"Fougere."

"Fougere," The overseer nodded slowly. "I remember you, never saw you as a troublemaker. Hitting a freeman. I could have you crucified, you know that?" He jabbed his staff into Danil's gut, hard.

"I'm . . . the Prophet's property," Danil gasped out around the pain.

"Smart one too, yes?" The overseer raised his staff and brought it down again, this time across Danil's face. "You think you're too expensive to kill? I do it just to show what happens to smart ones."

"It would be God's mercy."

"That what you want? The easy way out?" The staff rose and fell again, hard enough to break the skin this time, and Danil sagged between the restraining guards. "For you the cross is too easy. We send you to the timber crew, you can die there. But not easy." He gestured with his staff. "Brand him."

The drivers holding Danil dragged him off and Hatch spat at him as they did. His captors hauled him past the drying tables where the fresh made bricks were baking beneath the suntube, to the high wall that surrounded the brickworks. There were a pair of crucifixes on either side of the entry gate, a constant reminder to the slaves of their ultimate master, and of the penalty they faced for rebellion. They yanked him up the stairs, tied ropes to his wrists and hauled him up to dangle from the cross arm. The pain in his arms was excruciating, and he watched without really seeing as they built a fire in the firebowl set into the wall's parapet. Death would be a mercy. But his tormentors were not that merciful. The overseer came to watch as the fire was stoked high, until the coals at the bottom flared white-orange, until the branding steel thrust into them glowed red. Danil was lowered again, and a thicker rope passed around his neck, to force his head back against the cross's hard wood. It was chokingly tight, and he struggled to breathe against its constriction. One of the drivers held the rope, the second raised the burning steel.

"Hold still for it, sooksan, or you'll make a mess and we'll do it again."

The instruction was wasted, Danil couldn't move his head a hand span in either direction, though he instinctively strained away from the approaching heat. The driver pressed it against his cheek and the seared flesh exploded into agony. The branding took only a second, but the pain went on and on, an intense, steady throbbing that suffused his skull. The driver holding the neck rope let go and Danil sagged as far as the ropes at his wrists would allow. The other put down the steel and examined his handiwork. Satisfied he gestured to the first, and together they hauled Danil back up to dangle from the cross arm once more.

"Two days on the cross." The overseer gave a satisfied smirk. "You're marked now. Out of line again and I'll nail you to it. No coming down then."

Danil didn't answer, he wasn't expected to. He was expected only to suffer. After a while the pain in his face faded to something that allowed thought, and a while after that his wrists went numb. There was no one on the cross on the opposite side of the gate, and so he suffered alone. A long time later he watched his crew trudge out, back to the slave shed. The next shift of slaves was already heading in to take over where they'd left off, twenty-four bells in a day were barely enough to labor for the Prophet's glory.

Danil barely registered the change. He had been exhausted from the work shift, and already in pain thanks to the beating Hatch had given him. The cross's tortures were progressive, as his wrists had become insensible the pain began to seep into his shoulders until they burned in agony, and as they in turn went numb the pain spread to his back. Soon hunger and thirst added to his miseries.

Despite his fatigue sleep was impossible, and time seemed to slow down and stop. There was nothing he could do but hang there. The new shift ended, and another came to replace it. The overseer came by, once, and Danil briefly hoped that his time of punishment might be over, but the man simply looked him over and then went back to supervising the work. He started counting bells, but they came so far apart that he lost track.

His mind drifted, wandering back to the time in Cove, the time before his father had died, before his mother had remarried. He remembered her tucking him into bed, and singing to him until he fell asleep. It was a time so long ago that it seemed to belong to another life, lived by another person. The suntube beat down on him relentlessly, and he began to dream of the cool, fresh water of the ocean. He could see it clearly, blue and inviting against the aftwall, seeming so close and yet so far away. He would have wept in frustration, but he couldn't spare the tears. Another shift came and went, and he wondered what had happened to his mother, to his sisters, and dreamed that they were all together again, that his father was there too.

The sharp crack of the overseer's staff against his shins shocked him back to the present. How many bells have gone by? It was impossible to know. At least a day's worth, which meant the overseer had gone home and come back again. It felt like it had been an eternity.

"So, a little calmer now, yes?" The overseer looked up at him smugly. "Ready for the lumber crew?"

Danil said nothing. The overseer had brought a driver with him, a man Danil hadn't seen before. Together they undid the ropes and lowered him, and unexpected fire shot through his feet when they touched down. He staggered and fell as his exhausted muscles took his weight. They unceremoniously clamped steel wristbands onto him and shackled them to his collar. A rope was securely knotted to the end of his leash line, and the driver led him away, past the rectangular ranks of sun-dried bricks and the laboring crews. A horse was waiting at the brickyard gate, and the driver lashed his neck rope to the saddle, then turned to Danil.

"It's like this. I'm already late for my wife, and we've got fifteen kilometers to go so I'm not stopping. Walk or be dragged, I don't care."

Without waiting for a reply he swung himself up into the saddle and stirred up his mount. The rope pulled taut and Danil was nearly yanked off his feet. He stumbled but didn't fall, and then they were off. Mercifully the driver kept the horse to a walk, but Danil's strained muscles found even that a challenge, especially as he was unable to swing his arms to balance his gait. He concentrated on moving fast enough to keep the rope slack, but time and again it tightened, earning him an unpleasant jerk on the collar. Pain shot though his abused joints with every step but there was nothing he could do but keep moving, doing his best to keep up. On the cross, he could at least escape into the refuge of delirium, but here he couldn't even do that. Every step demanded a maximum effort and soon sweat was soaking into his mud-stiffened shirt. He legs felt steel-heavy, and his bare feet throbbed under the abuse they were taking.

The driver had been serious when he'd said they weren't stopping, and Danil was utterly spent by the time they reached their destination, a slave stockade by a cut-yard full of half-finished timber. The driver turned Danil over to the cut-yard boss, who took him to a stack of felled logs. He was given an ironwood adze and put to stripping bark from the logs alongside a half dozen other slaves. His leash line was tethered to a rope that ran along another line that strung overhead, well out of reach. The arrangement gave him enough freedom of movement to do the job, but ensured he couldn't use his tool to cut the rope and run. There were six other slaves on the barking crew, and their condition wasn't encouraging. All bore cross-brands on their cheeks, and they were gaunt and listless, moving just fast enough to avoid the lash. Their eyes were dull, and they didn't speak as they mechanically went through the motions necessary to carry out their task. Danil emulated them, trying not to draw any extra attention to himself. The Prophetsy's lumber camps were notorious. Those who came back from them were changed men, broken in body and spirit, but few ever came back. Danil bit his lip. I'm going to have to get out fast if I'm going to get out at all.

It took Danil a while to realize that he'd made a decision to escape or die trying, and with the decision came a strange feeling of freedom. How he might carry it out in his present condition was another question. Fortunately the driver in charge of them was a fat and lazy man, who sat on an already stripped log and only bestirred himself when a slave actually stopped working. His slothfulness allowed Danil that day to recover somewhat. As long as he kept his aching limbs moving he was spared further punishment. The hardest part was simply keeping his eyes open, and he took to closing them as he worked, catching snatches of not-quite-sleep five or ten seconds at a time. Once he actually fell asleep standing up, and was rudely awakened when his collar caught him falling and nearly broke his neck.

The shift dragged on to the evening-meal bell, but there was no pause for food. The lazy driver was replaced by a younger man with something to prove, and the pace of work picked up as he plied his lash. Danil found himself unable to keep up and earned a new set of stripes for his slowness. The pain brought tears to his eyes, but he swallowed hard and refused to break down. This is a test, and if I show weakness now I'll mark myself as a victim. Survival depended on being tough, and how he behaved would mean the difference between getting strong enough to escape and dying slowly in his collar. And I need a plan. His crew was working by the forewall, where the constant mists still nourished a few stands of fast growing dougfir, and he had a long way to go to get free.

Finally the shift ended and the slaves were herded back to the pen, a crude stockade of heavy pine poles that surrounded the slaveshed, the cookhouse and a couple of other buildings of uncertain purpose. Danil was so exhausted he could barely think, but he retained the presence of mind to bring a short stick back with him, scavenged from the pile of bark and wood scraps where he'd been working. He didn't yet know what purpose he might put it to, but even in the brickyard survival had depended on seizing the smallest opportunity the instant it presented itself. They were fed the standard slave fare of boiled grain, boiled yam, and boiled pork, but the ration was half what it had been at the brickworks. The slaveshed was even more primitive than the one he had left behind. The floor was dirt and instead of separate cages there were only low shelves, three tiers of them, running around the walls of the building and covered in dirty straw. There was not even a separate latrine, just a barrel in a corner, and the place stank of urine and excrement and unwashed bodies. The preferred sleeping spaces were those far away from the barrel, but Danil lacked any status within the lumber crew hierarchy, and also lacked the strength to fight for it. He wound up right next to the stinking container, but by then he was far beyond caring. He fell immediately into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Sudden pain woke him, and it seemed he hadn't slept at all. He opened his eyes to find himself looking up at a muscular driver, his short-whip upraised.

"Get up." The guard's voice was curt and impersonal. Danil struggled to his feet. The rest of the slaves were already shuffling into crew lines to be harnessed for the day's work. He left his stick lying in a small gap between the sleeping boards and got up to join them. At the brickworks the drivers were well disciplined, and had taken great care to make sure that the slaves were always, always under control, but here they seemed lackadaisical. As Danil looked around at the gaunt, cowed faces of the other slaves he understood. The omnipresent cheek brands meant every man there had once had the will to rebel. The Prophetsy had sent them to the lumber crew to be broken of that, and it did that job very effectively, through brutality, backbreaking labor, and semi-starvation. But lazy guards are an advantage to me. He took note of the fence as they filed past. It was four meters high and made of pine poles, each as thick as his thigh, driven vertically into the ground side by side. It would be easy enough to climb in one of the corners, where he could brace himself against opposite walls. First I need to recover my strength. His stomach growled as the familiar scent of breakfast rose in the air, and the drivers ordered them out to the cookhouse. He was ravenous, but when he filed past the meal line the ration was no larger than it had been the night before. Recovering himself was going to be difficult.

He was assigned to the haul crew, yoked up with sixty others and marched past the cut-yard where he had worked the other day. They passed a squad of inquisitors on horseback, their striking crimson uniforms and evident discipline putting them in marked contrast with the sloppy drivers. Behind them was a small, well-kept building with the white, square inquisitor Cross on it, and Danil could see by their expressions that the soldiers considered themselves superior to the drivers and kept themselves apart from them. The building passed behind, and they trudged up the crude logging road to a huge dougfir trunk already levered up onto a logging arch. Their job was to drag it back down to the cut-yard to be bucked into boards and beams. They were marched around it and back, to get the array of yoked slaves facing in the right direction.

"Stop there! Hook up the lines," the overseer barked, and a couple of the drivers took the drag lines from the back of the yoke array. The heavy ropes ended in shipsteel hooks that were run into rope loops on the arch's harness.

"Take slack!" the overseer yelled, and the haul crew shuffled forward, pulling the drag lines taut while the drivers moved into place alongside the group.

"Brace!" The slaves leaned into their harness bars, ready for the next command.

"Heave! Heave hard!" the overseer yelled, and sixty bodies dug in their feet and grunted with the strain. After a second's hesitation Danil's harness bar lurched forward half a meter as they hauled the heavy tree forward. Up and down the line came the sound of whips, and the pained cries of the men who hadn't satisfied the drivers that they were pulling hard enough.

"Brace!" the overseer yelled again, and once more Danil set himself against the yoke.

"Heave! Heave hard!" Again sixty men strained to haul the huge trunk another arm's length. "Work fast, go home early."

Nobody laughed at the overseer's black humor, and nobody was going home early. The haul crew was the worst job in the camp, and the drivers needed little excuse to mete out punishment. The man behind Danil slipped and stumbled on the next pull, and the nearest driver cursed and cracked his short-whip down. Most of the stroke caught the fallen slave across the back, but the tail of the lash curled around to burn Danil's shoulder. He ignored the unexpected pain. Pain didn't matter, only survival. The man beside him was tall, with sticklike arms and legs and hollow eyes. Danil tried to start a conversation with him, hoping to get some sense of how the camp worked and what the security was like, but the slave's answers were monosyllabic and his expression was far, far away. The slave responded only to the driver's commands, and then only to the extent necessary to avoid the crack of the lash. His body functioned, but inside he was already gone. And he was one of the better off ones, as Danil looked around between pulls and realized most of the other slaves were beyond the point of no return, walking dead, waiting only for the final peace of the pyre.

The day became a blur. The overseer's voice rose and fell in steady rhythm, and Danil set his feet, leaned into the yoke and pushed in time with it, trying to move with a maximum economy of effort. A few bells into the day a man collapsed in his harness, and the drivers lashed him until it was clear he was dead. They cut his body from the traces and left it by the side of the logging trail. Danil found himself strangely unmoved, thankful only for the brief respite the incident had given from the grinding rhythm of the work. The work resumed, until at long last they were led once more to the slave pen, given their meager meal and herded into the shed. Again Danil kept his eyes open, noting the way the stockade gate was hinged and barred. From the outside he could see a walkway that ran around the entire fence, a place for guards to patrol and look down into the compound. That presented a problem, and once they got inside he took care to note where the outbuildings might provide cover for a man to hide. The problem wouldn't be getting over the wall, it would be getting over it unseen. Still, the passivity of the slaves meant that escape attempts must be vanishingly rare. Given endless sleep-shifts of stultifying lookout duty and the evident lack of discipline, the drivers on watch would be slack. It was possible that they'd be asleep themselves. He had planned to wait until he better understood how the lumber crew was guarded before he tried to escape, but he realized he couldn't afford to do that. Every day, every bell that he stayed cost him strength that he would never recover. It has to be now.

The guards closed the door behind them, and he took the same place he had before, lying down beside the malodorous waste barrel. He waited there, eyes wide open in the dim suntube light that filtered through the cracks in the walls, until the sounds of breathing and movement around him slowed and quieted. When he was sure the other slaves were asleep he went to the door. He had seen the heavy wooden bar used to close it from the other side, and he didn't expect it would open. It didn't, but closer inspection showed a narrow crack between the door and the frame. If he could get something thin enough to slide into the crack, he could possibly lift the bar out of its cleats and get out into the stockade, at least. And now I know why I saved that stick. He went back to his bed space and got it from where he had left it the previous night. He slid it into the crack and the narrow end fit, but the stick thickened along its length, and it stuck a thumb length in. Danil made a face, sat down cross legged in front of the door and began moving the stick rhythmically back and forth in the crack, wearing it down where it was too wide. He was making steady progress when the stick was suddenly snatched from his hands. There was an aggressive growl from the other side of the door, and Danil jumped back, startled. When he had recovered himself he looked through the crack, saw a nose, teeth, an eye. A large, black dog had taken his tool in its teeth and was pulling at it, snarling. A sudden realization struck him. Those other buildings are kennels. The guards were lazy because they could afford to be, with the dogs let loose in the slave pen while the slaves were asleep they had no need to worry that someone would get out unseen.

A second dog joined the first, and Danil yanked the stick out of the crack and went back to his bed space. There was nothing to do now but sleep, but sleep was elusive. The dogs changed the equation. How to get out? Digging a tunnel was out of the question, he had neither time nor energy, nor any way to hide the work in progress. Maybe get some rope, get up on the roof . . . If he got a length of rope long enough to reach from the roof to the slave pen fence . . . Perhaps . . . He got up again and climbed up to the top tier of the sleeping shelves, trying to avoid stepping on any of the other sleeping slaves. From the top tier he grabbed an overhead beam and pulled himself into the rafters. It was harder than it should have been, and his weakened muscles ached, but he made it up, scraping a knee and an ankle in the process. What he found was encouraging. The roof was a single layer of dougfir shingles laid over poles, and poorly maintained. He pushed gently and felt them yield. Getting through them would be easy. The roof beams themselves were substantial enough to hold his weight. As long as the dogs don't bark when I go across. It remained only to find a way to secure a rope to the opposite side of the fence. And to find some rope . . . 

He climbed back down and went back to his sleeping space. This time exhaustion overcame him, and he slept at once. The next day began as the previous one had, with a shouting guard and the stroke of the short-whip. There were paw prints in the dirt outside the slave shed, more paw prints in the yard by the cookhouse, and he was surprised he hadn't noticed them before. I'm overtired, and I'm missing things, making mistakes. That could be fatal, and he resolved himself to pay full attention to his surroundings every waking moment. They were fed their inadequate morning meal, and he took care to examine the fence more closely as they trudged past to the day's labor. From the outside horizontal cross braces tied the vertical poles together at the level of the walkway. Climbing down from the top would be simple. The top of the fence line was uneven, with gaps where shorter poles came between taller ones. That offered a possibility. If he could get something wedged into one of the gaps, it would hold a rope.

They were led away before he had time to carry the thought further, but he had the seeds of a plan. It made the day easier, despite the barking overseer and the driver's curses and lashes. He ignored them, moving unconsciously to the rhythm of the commands, and focused his efforts on the ropes that connected his yoke on the dragline. There were three—two heavy ones to carry the load and a slightly smaller one to stabilize the yoke. He focused on that one, picking at it steadily, breaking a few more strands between every "Brace!" and "Heave!" Another man died on the shift, but Danil barely noticed. Before the mid-day meal he had one end of the rope free. Without it the yoke was harder to control, and several times it twisted as he hauled forward, causing him to slip and catch a bruise when it smacked against his ribs. It was also harder to work on the other end of the rope, where it was tied into the dragline, but he persisted, and by the end of the shift he had his first meter of line tucked into his shirtsleeve. That night he got a better space to sleep, the dead man's place, further from the waste bucket, and on the top tier. He used his short coil of rope as a pillow, and slept better than he had since he'd struck Hatch.

The next morning he put the rope up in the rafters, praying no one would find it, and worried about what he would find when he got to the dragline. The rope-work was maintained by Prophetsy saddlers, who had their own shop near the cut-yard. It couldn't be that unusual to have a line break and need repair, but the dangling, broken piece should still be attached. To have something like that go missing altogether would have been grounds for a search at the brickyard. If that happened his plan would be uncovered before it even began.

As they were lined up, he made sure to get himself into a different yoke on the haul gang, so at least no one could connect the missing rope with him. He got away with the change, which gave him hope. At the brickyard every slave was put in the same position every day, and any attempt to deviate from the routine was immediately punished. Here there weren't even any headcounts. If he could somehow manage to cover the evidence of his escape they might not even notice him missing. He got himself through the gruelling day by focusing on how soon it would be over, and came back from the shift with another length of rope. He found a better way to hide both ropes, laid out along the rough hewn top beam of the wall by his sleeping space, hidden between the curve of the timber and the wall.

As he was settling himself to sleep there was a commotion by the door, a small altercation over who was going to spend the night by the waste barrel. Two new slaves had joined them that day, young men with hard expressions, their cheek brands still healing. Their attempt to force themselves up in the timber crew's internal pecking order brought on what the Prophetsy's systematic brutality could not—a unified front among the slave population. Men who Danil had not heard a word from since he'd arrived suddenly stood up to back up the man who the newcomers had tried to displace. The new arrivals were still fresh, not yet wasted by the punishing routine. They could have held off any two, any four of the other slaves, but as more and more men stood up it became clear they'd have to take on the whole shed. The newcomers backed down and accepted their place, but deep anger smoldered in their eyes. It was an energy wholly lacking in the rest of the crew, who returned to their places and went to bed as soon as the incident was over. The new pair had not yet been broken, whereas the one thing the lumber crew veterans were willing to fight for was their right to rest. It occurred to Danil to wonder what his own face looked like, and his hand moved to his own still-healing brand. They might prove useful, if I need allies.

The following day he watched the newcomers. They kept together and talked quietly, and he could see them sizing up the situation, evaluating the guards, and the structures and routine of the lumber crew. He resolved himself to wait and see what they made of themselves. On the haul crew they were defiant, cursing the drivers, and the drivers matter-of-factly whipped them into submission. They lapsed into sullen obedience, which was the only sensible choice under the circumstances, but what surprised Danil was the change in their eyes. They were no longer looking around, not taking in what was around them. They were not thinking any longer, and he was taken aback at the rapidity of the change. He had begun to hope that he might take them into his confidence, because he could accumulate rope three times faster if he could get them to help. But using them could be dangerous, if they're so easily defeated. He had seen the results of that at the brickyard, where collaborators could earn themselves privileges. It was the most fearful, the most easily hurt, who were quickest to see advantage in working for their enemies. By the end of the day he had his third length of rope, but on his way back to the slave pen he stumbled, not because he had tripped over something but because his knees were suddenly too weak to support him. He recovered immediately, but the incident was a warning. He was losing strength fast. It would take another week for him to get enough rope to go from the roof of the slave shed to the fence, and by the time he had it, he might be too weak to actually make the climb.

And that meant he needed help. After the evening meal he approached them. They were mismatched, one shorter and lean, and with a quickness of movement that the harsh treatment had not yet stripped him of. The taller one was heavyset, almost pudgy, and slower. The smaller one was definitely the brains of the operation, and Danil addressed himself to him.

"What's your name?"

"Bran, you?" The man was reserved, but open. A good sign.

"Danil. I've been watching you two." He nodded to the other man to include him in the conversation. "I'm thinking you don't want to stay here."

"Who would?" The man raised an eyebrow.

"If you want out you'll have to do it soon. Nobody lasts long here."

The pair traded a glance, and Bran spoke. "We're listening."

"I need rope. Take it from the haul yokes, the center line. Work it loose, and give it to me, this time tomorrow."

"How do you plan to get out?"

Danil shook his head. "Rope first." He gestured to the rest of the slave shed, where most of the spent slaves where already asleep. "Unless you think you can get a better deal with someone else."

Bran considered it, traded another glance with the larger man, then looked back to Danil. "How soon?"

"Soon. Are you in?"

Bran nodded. "We're in." He gestured to his friend. "This is Jordan."

Danil shook hands with both of them, then climbed up to his sleeping space. Sleep was vital, and he had far too little of it recently.

The next day dragged by endlessly as he worked to free another length of rope from his yoke. He finally got it free and started on the other end when a driver noticed Danil's broken line, and he stopped the gang to inspect it. Danil's blood ran cold. It was a new section of rope, a replacement for a section he'd already stolen, put in by the saddlers that very morning. Even casual inspection would show that it had been deliberately abraded rather than simply worn out. The driver stopped the haul, and Danil watched his eyes, trying to keep his expression blank and expecting immediate and harsh punishment, but the driver simply reaved the broken piece back through the eye on the yoke and retied it.

"There. That should hold you until the end of the day." The driver didn't wait for a reply, just signalled the overseer to restart the haul, and Danil braced and heaved as the familiar litany of commands washed over him again. He looked at the driver who'd helped him, trying to make sense of the event. The driver had returned to his normal role, shouting and plying his short-whip as required to extract the maximum effort from the slaves, as if the pause hadn't ever happened. The event was so incongruous that Danil sensed a trap, and so left the repaired section of rope in place rather than trying to free it a second time. At the end of the day, as they were unharnessed, he watched to see if the driver would check the rope, but he didn't. Stopping the haul, fixing the line, had been an act of kindness. The driver had acted to spare Danil the hardship of a free yoke. The man is human, after all. The thought didn't sit comfortably in Danil's mind. The drivers were the enemy, and to see one act out of simple human compassion, even for an instant, added a depth and dimension to them that he didn't want to see. Beyond that, it was frustrating to lose the day's rope to the incident, but as they were herded back to the shed Bran and Jordan each handed him a folded length of line, which meant that rather than losing a day he had gained one. So long as they don't do anything to mess this up. Bringing them into the plan was a calculated risk. So far it was paying off.

The next day it paid off again, and when they returned to the shed that night he added three more rope sections to his growing collection. And none too soon. The brickyard had left him lean but physically strong, but he was hungry all the time now and his body was burning muscle to fuel the haul crew's demands. There was also the risk that the saddlers would notice the sudden increase in the repairs they had to make. He lay awake as the rest of the slaves drifted off to sleep, and then got up and very carefully rearranged the way he'd hidden his treasured cache, laying the individual strands end-to-end behind the eaves of the shed, stepping carefully over snoring bodies on the top sleeping tier. If there was a search he might not lose the whole cache that way, and it would be harder for the guards to prove that he was the one responsible. I just need one more day. Occasionally the dogs outside would sniff at the door, but they didn't seem inclined to bark unless they were confronted with something, whether through training or instinct Danil didn't know. As long as they don't bark when we go over their heads.

He didn't sleep well, and the next shift was inhumanly hard. The driver responsible for his section of the haul gang screamed like a leopard, laying on his lash with a will. Still, at the noon meal Danil managed to pick up a stray piece of pine, as long and thick as his forearm. It would serve, he hoped, to anchor the far end of his pieced-together rope, by catching in one of the gaps at the top of the fence. And we'll see how well that works tonight. The afternoon was as hard as the forenoon, and by the end of the shift Danil's back was striped red and his muscles were so sore it hurt to move. Even so, he felt almost giddy as they marched back to the stockade. He had another length of rope hidden beneath his clothing, and when the exhausted slaves filed back into the slave shed to be locked in for the night, Bran and Jordan gave him two more.

"This is it," Danil told them. "We'll do it after everyone's asleep. Be ready."

And then there was nothing to do but wait, counting one, two, three bells. Time for the guards to get bored and, hopefully, to go to sleep. The time dragged interminably, but eventually he got up and, being careful not to disturb the men sleeping next to him, he recovered his lengths of rope and tied them together with double-loop knots, testing each one to make sure it would hold. He tied his length of pine to one end, and then went to get Bran and Jordan. They were both sound asleep, and he momentarily considered leaving them behind. Getting three over the wall was riskier than getting one. But I brought them in, and they've kept their end of the bargain.

He shook them awake, motioning for silence, and quickly explained the full plan in a whisper. They nodded, and waited on the floor beneath his sleeping space while he climbed back up to the third tier bunk and into the rafters. Danil pushed carefully against the shingling, wincing as aged wood splintered, and then he was blinking as the suntube's light flooded into the dim interior of the slave shed. He hadn't considered that, and was suddenly worried that the sudden brightness might wake the other slaves.

A few stirred in their sleep, but none woke. Below him he could suddenly see the faces of his accomplices, looking up in silent concern. There's no point in looking back. He cautiously put his head through the opening, squinting while his eyes adjusted, and ready to duck back if he saw a guard. There were none, and he waited, watching patiently, in case any appeared. He saw a dog, black and shaggy, sunning itself beside the cookhouse. It didn't seem to have noticed him. A second dog came around the corner of the slave shed, sniffing lazily at the ground. The kennel was big enough to hold a dozen that size, but there didn't seem to be enough paw prints on the ground for there to be that many. And dogs have to be fed. Danil wasn't sure of the monetary arrangements behind the slave crews, but this one seemed to be run on the cheap. It seemed there should be more dogs, but it was possible there were not.

And there's no sense in waiting further. Satisfied that the guards weren't paying attention, he gathered his makeshift rope with its improvised anchor and tossed it over the fence. The piece of pine made a muffled clunk on the other side, and Danil instinctively ducked back beneath the level of the roof, but nobody came to investigate. When he was sure no one had noticed he carefully pulled the rope taut, and was gratified when the pine section caught crosswise in one of the fence-top gaps.

Working quickly, he secured the free end of the rope to the cross point where a rafter and a roof-pole came together. He tested it, hung his weight on it, and it held. For a moment he just looked at the rope, hardly daring to believe his plan had worked, and on the first attempt. He turned around and gave a nod to his accomplices before climbing out through the narrow hole he had made. He had to be careful to keep his weight over the rafters, it wouldn't do to crash a hole through the roof and wake up the rest of the slaves. Some would certainly try to follow them, and with so many trying to make it across the rope, the dogs would surely respond and alert the guards.

The need for caution made movement awkward, and the rope wasn't at a particularly good angle, but he managed to get onto it, lying on top of it so the rope ran down his chest to his groin. He hooked one ankle over it to stabilize himself, let the other leg dangle as a counterweight and pulled himself along hand over hand. The rope sagged under his weight and swayed, and he fought to stay balanced. One of the dogs noticed him, and his blood froze when it came over, but it didn't bark or leap. It seemed confused rather than angry. It cocked an ear and tilted its head, as if trying to decide what he was and how he'd gotten there.

The first part of the journey was easy, though the knots were painful as he dragged himself over them. However the sag in the rope meant he had to pull himself uphill after he'd passed the midpoint. By that time there were half a dozen dogs sitting below him, looking up quizzically. He had hoped—planned—that they wouldn't notice him at all, which was perhaps wishful thinking on his part, but they still weren't barking, which was good enough. He reached the fence, got a grip on it and hauled himself up and over. His heart was pounding, but it nearly stopped when he saw a pair of guards at the corner, not fifteen meters distant. The walkway there expanded into a small platform and they were both asleep, their headgear pulled down to keep the suntube's light out of their eyes, their weapons laid down beside them.

He turned to watch as Bran came out through the hole in the roof and got himself established on the rope. He hadn't thought to instruct the other men in how to cross, but Bran had obviously paid attention, though he had a more difficult time of it than Danil had. He had trouble at the halfway point, where the rope swayed the most with every movement. His stabilizing ankle came free and he nearly flipped upside down. The rope rocked violently as he fought to keep himself upright, and Danil could see the fear in his face. One of the dogs yipped, and the sound seemed to echo from the world overhead. For a horrible instant it looked like another would start barking, which would have set all of them off, but it didn't. He looked to the sleeping guards, but they didn't react. On the rope, Bran recovered himself, his face now a mask of fear, and pulled himself the rest of the way across. Danil grabbed his wrist and pulled, helping him up and over the fence and onto the walkway.

"Thanks," Bran put a hand on his shoulder and gave it a quick squeeze. The meaning of the gesture wasn't lost on Danil. Five minutes before, there had been two separate groups, Danil himself, and Bran and Jordan together, brought together only by mutual self-interest. Now they all shared a bond. Danil's risk had paid off. On the roof of the slave shed Jordan was preparing to make his own crossing. The big man was heavier than either of them, and the rope sagged more under his weight. All went well until he came to the middle. What happened exactly Danil couldn't say for sure. It seemed as though a knot caught on part of his clothing. Whatever it was, he stopped moving. He saw surprise come into Jordan's face, then concern. The dangling man tried to reverse himself, but there was no way he could push himself backwards on the rope, uphill against the sag. He tried to pull himself forward again, but couldn't. He was stuck. His look of concern deepened, and he seemed about to say something. Hurriedly Danil put a finger to his lips, warning the other man to silence. Jordan nodded, then carefully, delicately, reached a hand under himself to try and free whatever had hung him up.

That was all it took. The shift in weight made the rope sway, and when Jordan tried to grab it again he overbalanced himself. He caught it, but he was already falling, and then he hung there, dangling. Danil might have been able to swing himself back up and get on the rope, but the heavier man wasn't strong enough to support his own weight. He tried though, struggling upwards, and then his grip slipped and he fell. The encircling dogs immediately erupted in a chorus of snarls and barks, and one of them lunged at the fallen man, teeth bared.

Danil didn't wait to see more. The guards were already scrambling to stand up, grabbing for their weapons. Without thought he jumped to the ground, rolling when he hit. His roll wasn't all it should have been, and the fall hurt more than he expected it to. He got up and started running, glancing over his shoulder just long enough to see Bran following him. Behind him the drivers were shouting. He ran into the forest, his heart pounding in his ears. He deliberately avoided the road. It would take the guards time to organize a chase, and he had to use that time to put as much distance between himself and pursuit as possible. If they thought to set the dogs on him he might not get far, but he was going to go down fighting. And I'm free! The realization gave him wings and he ran on, ignoring hunger and pain and the ache of fatigue that set into his muscles almost at once. He glanced back to see where Bran was, but the other man was nowhere to be seen. Danil felt betrayed somehow. But splitting up is the smartest thing, give them more trails to follow.

The stand they'd been logging wasn't as large as he'd thought, perhaps a half a kilometer across, and he broke out from under the forewall mists as he jogged. The woods ended at a road, and on the opposite side of it was a field of ripening flax. Decision time. If he took the road he ran the risk of running into an inquisitor patrol, but cutting across the field would leave a distinct trail for the guards to follow. Instinctively he looked over his shoulder, but there was no sign of pursuit. Beyond the flax was a field of corn, growing beneath an overstory of olive trees. The high crop would cover his movement, if he could get into it without leaving a trace. The road ran aftward and spinward, and there were more overstoried cornfields in that direction.

Good enough. He took to the road, settling into a steady lope designed to cover ground with the maximum possible efficiency, forcing the movement despite the pain that was already shooting through his legs. He hadn't been running long when a rhythmic sound forced itself into his consciousness. Hoofbeats. He looked wildly around and saw half a dozen red-cloaked riders coming down on him from around the edge of the woods. Inquisitors! He hadn't imagined that they could respond so quickly. Without thinking he turned and sprinted into the flax field. The corn was three hundred meters distant. If I can make it there . . . 

"Halt!" The riders had spotted him, but the shout only spurred Danil to greater speed. The tall flax made running difficult, and it slowed him more than it would slow the horses. The drumming hoofbeats grew louder, and he risked a glance backwards just in time to see the lead inquisitor loose an arrow at him. The shaft buzzed past, wide and long. Zigzagging would spoil their aim, perhaps, but it would slow him down too much. Fifty meters to go . . . A second shaft went by, stabbing the ground right in front of him, and then a third, and then something slammed into him from behind, knocking him sprawling, and a blur of legs and hooves went overhead. He tumbled painfully, and when he recovered himself he was surrounded by levelled spears and drawn bows. Caught.

"That wasn't smart," said the leader. "Not smart at all." He gestured to one of the others. "Take him."

Danil waited, panting, his eyes searching for gap in the circle like a hunted animal at bay. One of the inquisitors dismounted and came towards him with a rope. "Get on your knees, slave," he commanded.

Danil didn't move, and the inquisitor repeated the command. The leader shoved his spear forward to underline the point. Danil could make it easy or hard, but he wasn't getting away. He looked up at the circle of hostile eyes. This time it's crucifixion. He took a deep breath, and measured the short distance to the corn. Another few seconds would have seen him running through the stalks. That was no guarantee of escape, but he would have had a chance. So close . . . 

"On your knees." The dismounted inquisitor's voice was harsh.

In response Danil hit him hard in the nose. The man reeled back, grunting in pain, and Danil dashed and rolled under the closest horse. Shouts rose around him, and an arrow stung his ear, but he was into the cornfield before his pursuers could bring their horses around to give chase. He had bought himself a few seconds at most. From horseback the riders would be able to see him running through the tall crop, but they'd have to duck low to avoid hitting the olive branches, and perhaps that would give him enough of an advantage. He went twenty meters in and threw himself down. Seconds later the inquisitors were galloping past, one nearly running him over in his haste to catch him. Danil's blood froze, thinking he'd been caught again, but the rider didn't slow down. He heard the leader shouting to the others as he directed the search. They stopped and began quartering the area, and that was a problem. He had cut across the grain of the corn rows, but his pursuers could see a long way down the line of the furrows, and they were organizing themselves to systematically cover the area. If he was going to make a clean break, it had to be now.

He got up to a low crouch, and immediately found another problem. The corn was understoried with squash vines, and he couldn't move without disturbing them. The inquisitors would quickly find his trail and track him.

But I'm free and they were going to crucify me anyway. He caught a glimpse of a red cloak through the cornstalks and crouched lower. Fortunately the rider was facing in the wrong direction to see him. He took a careful step over the furrow, putting his foot down between the vines and listening carefully, gauging the location of the horsemen. His chosen path took him directly behind one of them, posted there by the leader to prevent him getting away in that direction. The inquisitor was just two rows over, so close he could hear the horse breathing as he crept past, but he was able to slip by. Once he was past he broke into a lope, heedless of the track he left, trying not to trip on the ripening squash gourds. The ground grew softer and harder to run in, but he forced himself onwards.

At the edge of the field there was an irrigation canal, with a big bucketwheel turning slowly in the gentle current. The wheel spilled its buckets into a wooden water trough that ran along the edge of the uphill end of the field, and the trough in turn supplied a steady flow to the smaller troughs that ran the length of the field to trickle water into the furrows. The line of the canal was marked by trees and a few stands of young bamboo. He could swim across, but the next field was full of waist high flax, which didn't offer enough cover. He glanced over his shoulder, but there was no sign of pursuit. That wouldn't last long; once they found his footprints they'd be after him at a full gallop.

Think Danil, think. He looked left and right. He'd leave less of a trail along the vegetated canal bank than in the cultivated fields, but there wasn't enough cover there to hide a running man. If he stopped moving he could get into the dense bamboo, but the inquisitors weren't stupid. They'd search the treelike stand thoroughly because it was the only place he could hide.

A rustle in the grass drew his eye, and he looked just in time to see a tiny button shrew vanish beneath a leaf. He lifted the leaf but the tiny creature was gone, lost among shafts of grass that seemed unable to hide anything. Little sister, I need to be like you.

Shouts rose in the field behind him: they'd found his trail. He had to do something, and he had only seconds to do it. He looked down again at the line of his footprints and cursed the soft earth. But maybe I can use that . . . He turned parallel to the canal and ran, keeping to moist ground so his trail would be distinct. Twenty meters along he angled up and over the canal bank, crouching low so his pursuers wouldn't see him as he came across the crest. On the other side he ran to a stand of young poplar and stopped. From there he carefully picked a path down to the water that would leave neither footprints nor crushed grass to give him away, jumping from the roots of one tree to the next. At the edge of the canal he slipped carefully into the cool, muddy water. He stirred sediment from the bottom, an unavoidable telltale of his passage, but with luck the dark swirls he'd created would have blended into the larger flow before the inquisitors realized they'd lost his track. The canal was straight sided and placid, and if they came down to the water they would be able to see him in either direction for hundreds of meters. Except . . . He faced back the way he had come, towards the slowly milling bucketwheel, dived and swam, using an efficient clam diver's body-wave to move fast underwater. No one Prophetsy born could hope to compete in the water with a fisherfolk. And with luck they won't even realize how far I can go underwater.

The water was too murky to see anything, so he kept his eyes closed and navigated by the steady splash-splash-splash of the bucketwheel. Danil had hoped to cover the hundred meters to it in a single breath, but he'd lost a lot of air discipline in the years that he'd slaved for the Prophet, and he was fifty meters short of it when he came up to fill his lungs. He glanced back and saw a horse and rider at the bank where he'd entered the canal. He couldn't tell if the inquisitor was looking in his direction, and he didn't wait to find out, just inhaled deeply and dove again, as quietly as he could. He went deep and swam until his lungs burned, came up within arm's reach of the bucketwheel. His fingers found timber, slimy with algae, and he pulled himself to one of the structure's support pilings, and around behind it. The buckets spilled part of their contents as they emptied into the trough, and there was a veil of falling water between him and the place where the horseman had been. And that can only be a good thing. They knew he'd gone into the water, but hopefully they'd think he'd swum right across the canal and was hiding in the wheat field beyond. There would be a bridge over the canal somewhere, and his hope was they'd ride hard for it, get on the other side and then get frustrated trying to pick up his trail there.

He wasn't that lucky. Through the intermittent cascade he could see the man who'd followed him to the canal bank riding slowly in his direction, eyes searching. Danil couldn't see any of the other inquisitors, and the splashing of the bucketwheel drowned out any noise they might be making. It didn't seem to have occurred to them that he might be hiding in the water, but the horseman's path would take him right over his position, and the wheel was the only place in the canal that it was even possible to hide. Once the man reached it, the splashing water would be scant cover. It was too much to hope that he wouldn't be spotted. Danil breathed deep, once, twice, three times and pushed himself down and under again. Diving for clams he'd been able to hold his breath for a count of three hundred, and he counted the time to himself. He'd only reached eighty when his bursting lungs forced him to come up and breathe again. He surfaced as gently as he could, suppressing the urge to gasp for air, and found himself looking straight up at the horse. It seemed certain that the inquisitor would see him, but a horn signal sounded in the distance, and the rider raised his own horn to answer it. Danil took the opportunity to breathe deep and go under again.

The next time he came up the mounted inquisitor had been joined by another on foot, this one with a pair of dogs on long leashes. They weren't the big black guard dogs; they were a different breed, and they snuffed the ground eagerly. He'd heard of the inquisitor tracking dogs that could follow a person by scent alone. He didn't stay up to get a closer look, just breathed deep once more and resubmerged.

He came up, breathed and went down again. Both inquisitors and the dogs were gone when he resurfaced, but he went under again anyway, once more, twice more, a dozen times more, long enough for the water to steal enough heat to make him shiver. Better to stay longer and be sure they're gone. Finally he stayed up long enough to look cautiously around. He could still see no one, and so he cautiously went to the bank and climbed out of the water.

The inquisitors had left, though the number of hoof prints along the edge of the cornfield showed that he had been wise to stay hidden as long as he had. The undergrowth was heavily trampled along the canal as well. There was too much traffic for just six horses. They'd managed to get reinforcements very quickly, and they had searched for him long and hard. A church bell in the distance sounded the mid-day meal, and he realized he was famished.

He stole back into the cornfield. Neither the olives, the corn or the squash were ripe, but each cornstalk supported a twining runner bean, and he feasted on them. It could be a long time before I eat again. His hunger satisfied, Danil moved to what he figured was the center of the field, following the path that had been left by one of the horses. His instincts urged him to press on, to get aftward and out of forelanders' territory, into the forests where he'd be safe. But that's not the smart thing to do. Better to move after the midnight bell, when people were sleeping.

In anticipation of walking from the midnight bell to the breakfast bell he lay down in the dirt to get some sleep. He had hardly settled down when he heard something, motion in the cornstalks, coming closer, and voices. They've come back, still hunting me. All he could do was try to burrow himself under the leaves of the squash vines as best he could, then lie there and listen while they systematically quartered the corn. A rider came by just one row over, and he held his breath and willed the man to pass without seeing him. The rider paused while Danil's heart thudded hard in his chest. It seemed impossible that he wouldn't be spotted, but after what seemed to be an eternity the inquisitors moved on. The Prophet's soldier-priests were trained to track, but the tall corn made it difficult. As long as they haven't got the dogs with them. Danil breathed out, slowly. A second inquisitor followed the first, and Danil listened hard for a bark or a whimper, anything to tell him that the dogs were looking for him too. The silence was unnerving.

It was a mistake to come back to this field. He couldn't risk moving out of it now, he had to wait out his pursuers. A flash of light caught his eye, high up on the curve of the world. It blinked in rapid succession, a mirror signal from an outlying inquisitor station. Their flash code was a close kept secret, but he didn't need to be able to read the message to know the news of his escape would be at the Prophetsy wall by the next bell.

He waited. Time passed and the bells rang by, and eventually he decided that the last sweep of the field really had been the last and that the chase had moved away. What he really needed to do was sleep, to conserve his energy for the hike he had in front of him. But while he was exhausted, he was also too keyed up. For a long time he lay among the squash vines looking up at the suntube through the tall green corn stalks and the gently swaying branches of the olive trees. A peregrine falcon soared overhead and he watched it wheeling in the breeze until it slid out of sight. Something moved and caught the corner of his eye, and he saw a green bug climbing one of the runner beans. It was a near perfect match for the plant in color and texture, only its motion had revealed it to him, and it vanished again as soon as it stopped, visible under close inspection only as a smooth bump on the stalk. That's what I need to do, blend in so perfectly no one can see me. He reached out to poke the bug, encouraging it out of hiding, and it ventured another tenth-meter.

The bug had left a trail, he realized, a line of tiny holes it had drilled in the twining beanstalk to suck out the juices. The lowest ones had turned brown already, as the plant sought to heal itself. The more recent ones were visible only as tiny droplets of oozed sap. We all leave trails, no matter how well we hide. There was a lesson in that. It moved again, and he watched it until its path took it around to the other side of the stalk and out of sight. He finally dozed off and when he awoke the forewall mists had drifted down to shroud the suntube. His throat was parched, and so he stole down to the irrigation canal again.

At the edge of the corn he stopped, checked carefully to make sure no one was watching, and then slipped down to the water to drink. The bucketwheel was still turning, and, less concerned with pursuit now, he slipped into a bamboo thicket and watched it as he had watched the bug. It was a simple device, two wheels mounted on the same axle. The wheels were made of ironwood to stand up to continuous immersion, while the frame that supported it was built of oak. The first wheel had paddles around its circumference, and the force of the current against them made it turn. The second wheel went around with it, carrying the buckets. At the top of the circle the buckets hit a horizontal bar that tipped them to spill into the trough. The emptied buckets came down the other side of the wheel to dip into the canal and start the process over again.

The motion was hypnotic, but hunger soon replaced his thirst and he went back to the field. Raw beans weren't a satisfying meal, but they filled him, and as he travelled aftward there would be more farms with more palatable crops. The midnight bell sounded. Time to move. He put his back to it and started walking, back into the corn and away from the irrigation ditch, aftward towards home. There was a town halfway up the curve of the world, its buildings barely resolvable as separate structures. He didn't know its name, but he knew the inquisitors were there; it was where the mirror-code flashes had come from. He felt suddenly naked, as though they could see him from their perch up there. He walked, over roads and through fields, until he was once more out from under the mists. At the edge of an orange field he looked back.

Above the line of the mist foredome loomed large, its apex almost straight overhead. The stars revolved within its blackness until they vanished in the reflected glare of the suntube, and they reminded him of his last moment with Era, on his last day of freedom so long ago.

He was free again, but home was very, very far away.

* * * 

The Prophet's Temple was a cold place, built of solid shipsteel and subject to the near-constant mist and drizzles of the forewall lands. The heavy wall-quilts went only so far in warming it up. Her Holiness Annaya, daughter of Polldor, son of Noah and Prophet of God, shivered as she hurried through the vast hall of the Prophet's audience room, and pulled her cloak tighter around herself and her hood down over her eyes. It hadn't always been an audience room, she was sure of that. The room was a hundred meters square, far larger than necessary, and it opened into the outer courtyard through a set of sliding doors thirty meters high, now perpetually closed. A set of stairs, dimly lit with light filtering down from above, took her up into the heart of the temple, past the offices of the functionaries who made the Prophetsy run, past the dark and poorly ventilated slave quarters, up to the top level and the chambers of the highest servants of the Prophet.

It made no sense that to reach his closest allies and advisors the Prophet should have to go all the way down his tower, and then all the way back up to the top of the temple, but that was the way the temple was laid out, and as it was built of solid shipsteel it was beyond the ability of any mere human to alter it. She reached the top level at last. It was warmer, being built of wood atop the steel of the main structure, and large oiled-linen windows let in lots of light while keeping most of the damp at bay. She went down a corridor, climbed another short staircase, and opened a door.

"Balak?" she called. The room she'd entered was spacious and spartan. A pair of crossed spears adorned one wall, a pair of crossed blades the one opposite, a wooden cross the third. Two reclining pillows and a low tea-table were the only furnishings. The remains of the evening meal were still on the table. The slaves had not yet come back for them.

A door opened and her father's High Inquisitor appeared, his expression carefully neutral. "Your Holiness? How may I serve you?"

There were no chairs, so Annaya availed herself of a floor cushion, throwing back her hood as she did so. "You shouldn't call me your Holiness."

"You are the daughter of Noah's line."

"And don't tell me you believe my father is truly the descended son of Noah."

"What I believe is between myself and God."

"What you believe . . ." Annaya snorted. "My father is a man, and I am a woman, no more. Noah built the Ark, and we can do nothing close to that. Whoever, or whatever, he was, he wasn't human. He couldn't have been. We aren't his descendants, if he even had any."

The faintest hint of a smile came to Balak's lips, though it didn't climb as high as his eyes. "I'll defer questions of faith to the bishops, your Holiness."

The prophet's daughter sighed. "Annaya. My name is Annaya. Please call me that."

"As you wish, Annaya. How may I serve you?"

Annaya shrugged off her cloak and leaned back on her cushion. "You can sit down, for a beginning." Her host nodded and sat on the floor, crossing his legs. "What a strange creature you are, Balak," she continued. "I come in here and disturb you, in your own chambers. I don't even knock. I demand your time and attention and insult what you profess to believe in, and you ask politely how you may serve me. I would laugh, if it weren't so sad."

Balak made the tiniest shrug. "It is my role to serve, and my convenience is unimportant."

The Prophet's daughter laughed. "Is there no way I can annoy you? No, don't answer, I shouldn't be annoying you anyway. I'm ill-disciplined, as my father will be the first to tell you. In truth, I've come to thank you."

"For what, Annaya?"

"For killing the men who killed my lover."

"It was your father's command, and so God's will. I won't accept thanks for that."

Annaya sighed again, extravagantly this time. "Accept my thanks then, for whatever you would like to be thanked for. For your handsome face, if nothing else."

"Of course, Annaya."

"And please, don't say Annaya as if you were saying 'your Holiness.' Can't we just be friends?"

"As you wish."

"You're impossible, do you know that?" Balak remained silent, and after a pause she went on. "Don't you think the gratitude of the Prophet's daughter is worth having?"

"Of course."

Annaya stretched out, catlike, and gave him an inviting smile. "Then avail yourself of it." She put her hands behind her head, knowing it would raise and accentuate her breasts. The motion erected her nipples as they rubbed against the flax of her top-blouse. It was modest in design, closing at the neck and wrists, but it was cut to reveal in contour what it hid in detail.

But Balak's only response was to raise an eyebrow. "It would go against your father's wishes."

Annaya pursed her lips, slowly. "My father wishes me to be a virgin, and it is far too late for that. The next best thing he could wish for is for my liaisons to be very, very discreet. Your whole life is a secret, what better lover could he ask for me?" She gave him a half smile. "Or I for myself? Won't you accept the thanks of a grateful young woman?"

"I can accept your thanks, your Holiness, but not your . . ." Balak looked away, searching for the right word. ". . . offer."

Prophet's daughter pouted and rolled over onto her stomach. "And we're back to 'your Holiness.' Don't you find me attractive?"

"Your beauty is celestial."

"How close you came to answering the question, and yet how far. Do I threaten you? Have I upset your reflex to pursue? Or do you simply prefer men to women?"

"I've sworn an oath of chastity, as you know."

"The inquisitor creed." Annaya snorted. "That's for your ranked soldiers, not the head of the order. Mark-leader Vesley wasn't the first who broke his oath for me you know."

"Your Holiness . . ." Balak looked away, lost for words.

"Have I upset you? Then we're even. You disappoint me, Balak."

"I am very sorry, your Holiness. I wish only to serve."

"You do?" Annaya raised an eyebrow. "Your oath includes obedience too, doesn't it? What if I commanded you to mount me, to take me, right here and now?"

"As much as it pains me to disappoint you again, I must serve your father before you."

There was a tension in Balak's eyes now, something dangerous revealed beneath his supernatural calm. It frightened Annaya, who was unused to being frightened of anything. And yet it shows that I'm getting to him, perhaps. "And I suppose that goes for my so-called half-brother too." She carried on the game.

Balak nodded. "Noah's line flows first through him."

She stood up and went over to him, lay down on the floor and rested her head in his lap. "Don't you ever get lonely, Balak?"

"Faith sustains me."

"Faith." She looked up at him. "If you have such faith, how is it you break the sixth commandment so easily? Thou shalt not kill, sayeth the Lord. When the world arrives at Heaven, will you be admitted?"

"My soul is pure when I do as the Prophet commands."

"Are you serious? You could be Prophet you know. My father is old, my brother is weak. A man with your strength could rule the Elder Council."

"I am not the son of Noah."

"Silly man, the Prophet's daughter is throwing herself at you." She put a hand on his belly and ran it up to his chest. "Your son could be of Noah's line, and the world would be yours until he came of age. Must I spell it out for you?" She slid her hand back down to his belly, slid it lower still. "I can't believe you don't find me desirable."

"Annaya." He lifted her head and stood up, turning away from her. "I am your father's servant, the High Inquisitor." His voice was tense. "You must not say, must not do these things."

She smirked. "Isn't my will celestial, High Inquisitor?"

"It would be wise if this went no further." There was a definite strain in Balak's voice now. "You put me in an impossible position."

Annaya looked at his back for a long time, letting the silence stretch out, unwilling to accept defeat, but unable to think of a way to advance her plan. What a fool he is, to waste this opportunity. Finally she gave up, stood up and picked up her cloak. "Then I'll waste no more of our time." She put the cloak over her shoulders and pulled the hood over her head. "Speak to no one of this, Balak. Not even my father." She took a step forward, standing over him. "Especially not my father, do you understand? If you do I'll crucify you myself. He won't live forever, and I'll have power enough for that when he's gone, whatever happens." She leaned forward. "Am I clear?"

Balak bowed his head, his equanimity restored. "As your Holiness commands."

"Hmmph. If only it were true." Annaya turned on her heel and went out, nearly knocking over the slave who'd come to clear away the evening meal dishes, and leaving it to him to close the door after her. Outwardly she was calm, but inwardly she seethed. I was a fool to go to him like that, and he made me twice as much a fool. He'll suffer for that, before we're done. And who would have thought he was such a stoic.

Had she managed to seduce him she would have gained a great deal of power in the game that was developing between her father, her brother and herself. Had she at least managed to pick a fight with him she would have been able to muddy the waters a little, to gain some leverage, or at least some freedom from the oppressive surveillance of his minions. As it was she had nothing to show for her efforts but a humiliating rejection.

The man is so infuriating. She took a deep breath to calm herself. Still, what mattered was not her current embarrassment but her future, and that hinged on what Balak would do next. Will he tell? She couldn't know. And what does he want? Power? But for men, most men, power was just an efficient way of getting sex, and he'd turned that down too easily. What else then? She had no easy answer. Balak was a mystery, but if nothing else she had put him off balance. That's worth something, but I need more, much more.

She went back down the stairs to her father's audience chamber, and then down to the gallery. The gallery was separated from the great room by a wooden curtain wall, but Noah had built it as one space. In truth the audience chamber, large as it was, had once been only a small annex to the gallery, which went on for over a kilometer. It was well lit, with most of the glass windows high up on its outside wall still intact. What purpose it had originally been put to no one knew, but now it was the headquarters for the inquisitors, and two full parishas were quartered in the glare. To accommodate them the huge space had been divided up into barracks and store-rooms and offices and stables. She threw back her hood and walked upright, and the uniformed guards stood to give her the Salutation to the Holy as she swept along the corridors.

She went to the Blessing's parisha's chapel, where she had first met Sem, where Sem's peers would still be. She found them there, and watched in silence from an alcove as they intoned the rituals of their order. They were ranked in order of seniority from front to back, kneeling on the cold steel floor in front of their parishan. The rites of the inquisitor were well-hidden secrets. But I am Noah's daughter. She had seen them before.

"Your Holiness." Annaya turned, startled, and found mark-leader Klassen standing beside her. He was darkly handsome, an excellent horseman and outstanding shot.

"Mark-leader." She smiled broadly. She had toyed with the idea of seducing Jared Klassen rather than Sem. And I'm still not sure why I made that choice. "I was hoping to find you here."

"May I speak to you privately, your Holiness?"

"We're private enough here," Annaya kept her tone light, but something was wrong, and she already had a good idea what.

"Your Holiness," Klassen began, then stopped, searching for words. "Your Holiness, we've been given orders . . ."

"Not to talk to me, is that it?"

"Orders directly from the parishan. And to him from the High Inquisitor." Klassen paused, considering. "Perhaps, after Sem, it's better . . ."

"After Sem?" Annaya's eyes flashed. "What about Sem?"

"I want to assure you, we all appreciate your presence. It's an honor to know the daughter of Noah's line. It's just . . ."

"It's just you're afraid." Annaya snorted contemptuously. "Well, why wouldn't you be, after all?"

"Afraid?" The mark-leader's face darkened, and he came forward again, his jaw set in sudden anger. "I'm not afraid of Heaven nor Hell nor anything in the living world. Sem was my friend, a man of faith and honor. What you did to him . . ." He cut the words short, and his hand went to the shipsteel blade at his belt. "You shoot and ride like a man, your Holiness. Do you duel like one?"

Is he challenging me? Sudden fear shot through Annaya. "So much as touch me and my father would have you on the cross."

"Then I'd die pure." Klassen breathed in, and breathed out, slowly. "The ritual is ending. It's better that you go, your Holiness. Now."

He met her gaze, his eyes level, and she could see she had lost. "Don't bother yourself with apologies, flank-captain." Annaya turned on her heel, then shot back over her shoulder. "I came to talk to men. I can see now there aren't any here."

She stalked out, now in a foul temper. She was used to deference from the inquisitors, and she was good at playing their desire for her against their avowed chastity, but her father had changed the game. He knew he couldn't control her, but he could certainly put fear into his soldiers. She could feel her cheeks flush red, and pulled her hood up and over to put her face in shadow, though she refused to lower her head.

At least now I know why I chose Sem; he never would have let a stupid order stand in his way. Twice humiliated in one day, outrageous. Her jaw clenched. And they knew about Sem.

Of course she should have realized they would have had to know. Her father had found out about it somehow. Had Sem talked to the other inquisitors? Even bragged? Surely he was smarter than that! It hardly mattered now. She was truly trapped in her father's plan. Olen would become Prophet and in the meantime she would be traded off like a brood mare to some family her father deemed essential to propping him up. What I need is power, and I need it now. The only question was how to get it.

 

Danil made good time going aftward, avoiding the roads, and keeping to the margins of the tilled fields. Once, as he crossed a road, he saw what looked like a mounted spotter patrol riding the sleep watch, but they were a good kilometer distant and moving away from him. Later he had a fright when he climbed a fence into a field that happened to be owned by a bull. He'd had no experience with cattle in his life, but he knew when he was unwelcome. The bull pawed the ground and started for him, and Danil made it back over the fence with a meter to spare. Detouring around the field cost him time, but it led him to a farmer's vegetable patch. He feasted on ripe cucumbers, a much better meal than the raw beans he'd had earlier. Before he'd finished the churches were ringing the breakfast bell, and he left hurriedly before the farmer's family woke up and caught him. Beyond the cucumbers he found an orchard of ripening peaches and pears, with kiwi vines twining around their trunks, and picked a few of them to carry with him. The orchard bordered a broad, swift-flowing river, and he found a place to hide and rest beneath a wild tea bush. The river gave him confidence, because if he were surprised he could just dive and swim downstream underwater. He carefully arranged the grass around his hiding spot, and pulled a few branches off the bushes to form a natural screen to hide his chosen spot from any casual passer-by.

Once he'd finished he lay back and looked up. The tea bush was in blossom, and through the flowers he could see the over-arching curve of the world. The ocean was luring him onward, and getting a lot closer than it had been the previous day. He had travelled half the length of the world in a single hike. Tomorrow would see him to the Prophetsy wall.

He slept easily, woke for the evening-meal bell and found himself almost nose to nose with a goat. The goat was one of a dozen on a flat-raft being poled steadily upstream by a crew of slaves. They were poling in a steady, easy cadence to the rhythmic, almost musical calls of the overseer. They were unharnessed, and he could see neither drivers nor whips. Only their shipsteel collars give away their status. Apart from the goat, no one on the raft noticed him as it passed, upstream and around a bend in the river, leaving only ripples in its wake. They could escape so easily, just dive into the water and vanish. The chains of slavery bound more than the body? Would he have run had the brickyard been less well guarded, if the threat of slow death on the haul crew hadn't forced him to it?

It doesn't matter, I'm free now. He decided to wait until the midnight bell before proceeding again, and spent the time watching the river flow by. Several more flat-rafts passed him, laden down with unknown wealth in barrels and boxes, one even carried horses and wagons. For some reason most of the cargo seemed bound downstream, the up-bound rafts were mostly empty. Overhead he saw more mirror messages flashing from inquisitor outposts, and he wondered which ones might concern the search for the slave who had escaped from the Prophet's lumber crew. At least part of the answer to the acceptance of slavery by the enslaved was the tremendous energy the inquisitors devoted to hunting down escapers. The Prophetsy wall loomed large in his thoughts. They'll be on alert there, that's for certain. It occurred to him that the river was the solution to the problem of the wall. All rivers flow to the ocean. They couldn't block the river, and he could dive and swim past the wall underwater. He smiled to himself. It was a simple solution, and once he was out of the Prophetsy he would be safe.

He looked up the curve of the world to Far Bay. Era would be there still, he was sure, and Era would remember him and cut the collar off his neck, and he would be free. He smiled. Era would probably even buy the collar for its steel.

At the midnight bell he started moving again, following the riverbank aftward. He travelled carefully, alert for the sleep-watch and seeing no one but a lone farmer in the distance, for some reason plowing his fields in the sleeping hours. At one point he had to wade a tributary, and a while later a thorny blackberry thicket forced him away from the river.

Further along, the river curved sharply to counterspinward, and he had to choose between following the bank and continuing due aftward, over a small rise and through another cultivated field. He looked up the curve of the world, to judge what might lie ahead. It was just a couple of kilometers to the Prophetsy wall now, and after looping counterspinward the river angled back in his direction. He estimated that he'd save several kilometers in taking the direct route and, after some hesitation, he decided to take the risk and save the time.

It turned out to be a wise decision. Beyond the hill was a little valley, with a rill leading down to the river. The hill on the other side was larger, a good twenty meters high, and it was nearly a kilometer to its crest. When he reached it he froze. In front of him, not a thousand meters away was the wall, dark against the green of the forest. Also in front of him, and much closer, was a sea of white tents, set up in neat rows in the open pastureland. Horses cropped the grass in temporary corrals, and over every tent a pyramid of spears supported the fluttering crimson banners of the inquisitors.

The river, completing its looping course, curved in and through the wall, and he could see now that swimming past it wouldn't be as simple as he thought. There was a structure there, some sort of low dam with a bridge over it, with watchtowers on either flank overlooking it. There was a raft dock there too, piled high with boxes and barrels, which at least explained where all the river traffic had been going. Had he followed the river's curve the trees and brush at its edge would have hidden everything from his view until he was almost under the watchtowers, and had he been spotted there he would have little chance of escape, even in the water. What's going on here? He dropped to his belly and counted tents. If each held ten inquisitors there had to be—he counted rows and columns—thousands of them. Why?

Ultimately, it didn't matter. He crawled back down the rise until he was sure he'd be hidden from view, and hiked back down to the point he'd left the river. It was obvious he wasn't going to get across the wall before the breakfast bell. He went back to the brush along the riverbank and slept fitfully through the day. He was awake again for the midnight bell, and he chose a path spinward and away from the river, keeping to the low ground and the tree lines that divided the fields. It made him nervous to leave the river behind him, but with the curve of the world rising ahead of him he could at least see the terrain before he got to it.

One thing he saw was disturbing. There were six more tented camps set at intervals all the way around the Prophetsy wall. Far Bay was just high enough on the curve to see, and the largest encampment was immediately opposite the fisherfolk city. The inquisitors are here in force, but why? There was no love lost between the Prophetsy and the fisherfolk, between slave raids on the one hand and banditry on the other. That was why there was a wall in the first place. Has something happened? There was no easy answer, and all he could do was choose a crossing point as far from the main encampments as possible.

It took him only a bell to position himself where he wanted to be, but two more to crawl cautiously forward through a field of high pasture to a point where he could get a good view of the wall. Even while the rest of the world slept, mounted inquisitor spotters were patrolling it, and it seemed the watchtowers were all manned. Five hundred meters short of the wall the high grass ended, and from there on there was no cover beyond the occasional small bush.

And there's nothing I can do except to go for it. He knew from his shipsteel scavenging experience that he could get over the wall and be gone before anyone knew what was happening. As long as they don't see me before I start climbing.

He looked carefully left and right. There were inquisitor patrols here and there, both on the walkway and on horseback in the open area in front of the wall, but none were very close. He gathered himself, checked both directions one last time, and sprinted for the wall. It seemed to take forever to cover the distance, and his heart was pounding in his ears by the time he reached the barrier. He had grown tall and strong since the last time he'd sprinted the distance, but the abuse of crew-slavery and days of hunger had taken their toll. He had planned to just grab the bricks and start climbing as he had when he was younger, but he had to pause to breathe, and when he tried to pull himself up he found the easy grace of childhood had abandoned him. He heard hoofbeats, and turned around to see six mounted inquisitors bearing down on him, spears lowered.

Panic gave him strength, and he pulled himself up the wall, tearing his fingers on the baked clay, heedless of the pain. A spear clattered off the bricks as he pulled himself over the top, and he caught a glimpse of the inquisitors below as they reined up below him, shouting to the watchtowers. Guards armed with bows and arrows piled out of the towers on either side and came running. Without hesitation Danil vaulted over the far side of the wall. He hit the ground and rolled automatically.

An arrow stuck itself into the ground by his head as he came back to his feet, but he ignored it and started running. The distance across the cleared strip on the other side of the wall was mercifully short, but the archers were firing steadily, and something tugged at his right bicep as he made the tree line. He dodged behind an ancient maple, safe at last, and looked down to see an inquisitor arrow running straight through the back of his upper arm and out the front. Blood was running freely from the wound, dripping down his arm and covering his hand. Only when he saw it did the pain hit him. He started to examine the wound, but another arrow thunked into the maple trunk, and he looked up to see an inquisitor up on the wall, nocking his next shot. They'd changed their position to get a firing angle on him. Danil turned and ran deeper into the woods. A hundred meters later he was deep enough in that he couldn't see the wall anymore. There were no more arrows. Safe!

And then it dawned on him. He was not only safe but free! It was an exciting realization, but celebration would have to wait. He returned his attention to his wound, and all of a sudden his head was spinning. He dropped to his knees. The first thing is to stop the bleeding.

"Freeze!" The voice was harsh, and Danil looked up to find himself facing another drawn bow, this one carried by a young woman. She was wearing a rafter's quartercoat and had two quivers slung on her back. Danil froze.

"Who are you?" The woman's voice held a fisherfolk accent.

"Danil Fougere. I'm trying to . . . I have . . ." The words were hard to form, as the pain in his arm intensified to a point where it interfered with his ability to think. How was it that I didn't even feel it going in? "I'm Danil Fougere . . ." He started again, and then his ears were ringing and the world faded to shades of grey, and he felt himself falling.

He couldn't have been out for long, because when his eyes fluttered open he was looking up at a man. The man was holding a broken, blood-soaked arrow shaft. Someone else was binding his wound, and it took him a moment realize that it was the same young woman who had challenged him. He hadn't looked past the point of her arrow before, but he suddenly realized she was stunningly beautiful. Sudden and intense desire flooded over him, and he felt himself blushing despite his wooziness. I was a boy last time I saw a woman.

He had seen sex on the slave crews, always furtive and often violent, and it was something he'd felt lucky to avoid. His embarrassment was somewhat relieved when she cinched the binding cloth tight and the pain distracted him from her beauty.

There was a third man there too, and Danil turned to face him, just to hide the flood of emotions the girl unleashed in him. The man's face seemed strangely familiar.

The third man knelt down and put a hand to Danil's cheek, where the Prophet's brand was. "Slave crew, branded. They kill you the second time, on the cross."

The man looked somehow familiar but Danil couldn't quite place his face. Then all of a sudden recognition dawned. "Era. Era the blacksmith."

The man looked surprised. "Do you know me?"

"I'm Danil, Danil Fougere. I used to scavenge shipsteel for you in Far Bay."

For a long moment there was no response, and then Era smiled. "I do remember you, it's been years. You've certainly grown." The smile faded. "I was afraid the Prophetsy had got you. It looks like I was right."

"I'm . . . free now."

"Free." The man laughed without humor. "You picked a poor time to run."

"Why?"

"Why? You just came across the wall, you saw all those inquisitors. Don't you know what's happening here?"

Danil winced as the girl put his bandaged arm down, and shook his head.

Era grimaced. "Hmmm. Well, it's war, nothing less. The Prophetsy means to have our trees, our land, our fish, everything. You're probably too young to remember last time. Can you stand?" He put out a hand to help Danil up.

Danil took the hand with his left arm, and stood, feeling slightly weak kneed. "What last time?"

Era waved a hand foreward. "Do you think that wall was always there? They tried before, I was a young man then. They came into the forest and tried to take it from us, but horses don't fight so well in the trees, and fisherfolk do. We wiped them out in a day, piecemeal. I don't know how many died, but it was thousands on thousands, most of the inquisitor force. I killed four myself. After that it was our turn, raiding the aftward farms for whatever we could carry back, though we couldn't keep the land against mounted troops, not that we wanted it. Things settled eventually. There's just too many of them for us to take the whole Prophetsy, and we'd bled them too hard for them to try again. They built the wall to keep us out, and it worked as well for us as it did for them." His expression grew grim. "But they've gotten greedy again, they've been readying for war for a year now. We'll beat them this time too, but it's going to cost. Do you remember Sall?"

"Your wife. I remember."

Era nodded. "She'll be glad to hear that you do. She's our surgeon now." He turned to the young woman. "Cira, that wound needs honey or it's going to fester. Take him back and get Sall to look after him. He can fight with us once that's done."

She nodded and slung her bow. "Come with me," she said, and led Danil deeper into the forest, past a line of several more fisherfolk he hadn't noticed before, each armed with a bow, kneeling on the forest floor in silent watchfulness. Unable to ignore her presence, he found himself fascinated with her shape, her voice, her scent, with her fundamental femaleness. He wanted to reach out and touch her, explore the curves concealed beneath her leather quartercoat, though he instinctively knew he should not. He could not imagine anything in the world more beautiful than she was, and his breathing quickened as his body reacted to her presence. It seemed that he should say something to her, but when he tried to speak he found himself lost for words.

She led him quickly down the winding forest trails until they came to a clearing. A series of low shelters had been built around its circumference, thickly roofed in leaves and brush. A handful of fisherfolk fighters were there, men and women, old and young, armed with a hodgepodge of weapons. They hardly looked like a force to match the uniformed, disciplined legions arrayed on the other side of the wall, but that was an issue beyond Danil's immediate concern. Cira brought him to one of the shelters, where an older woman was hanging strips of flax to dry on a branch. Sall.

A shipsteel pot steamed over a fire, and a neat wooden shelf held an array of clay jars, as well as various small implements of uncertain purpose. Cira quickly explained the situation.

"Danil, is it really you?" Sal held him at arm's length, looking him over. "I'm glad to have you back." He started to answer but she held a finger to her lips. "No, we'll talk later. We have to deal with your arm first. Cira, take him inside." The girl-warrior nodded and took him into the shelter and had him lie down on the straw bedding there.

"Good luck," she said, and turned to go back to Era's guardian band at the forest's edge. Danil watched her go over his shoulder, unable to take his eyes off her.

"Hold still," said Sall, who had followed Cira in, and Danil tore his attention away from the girl. Deftly she undid his bandage, and he winced as clotted blood pulled free of the wound. More blood oozed from it, but the serious bleeding had stopped. She probed at it and he gasped. Although she was gentle, her attentions hurt more than the original wound had.

"It's good news," she said.

Danil's eyebrows went up. "It is?"

"You had your sleeves up, the arrow didn't go through your shirt. If it had, there'd be little fragments of cloth all through the wound and it would get infected. You could have lost your arm." She saw his shocked expression. "As it is we'll just clean this out and let it heal."

"Why are you so kind to me?" he asked her.

"You're wounded. It's my job to help you get better." She poured water over the wound, cleaned away the blood, then took one the jars from the rack and spooned sweet-smelling goo onto his wound, working it into the torn flesh.

"You were kind even in Far Bay, giving me bread and fish. I wasn't wounded then."

"Not your body, but your soul was." Sall smiled a sad smile. "You were so small then, I used to worry about you. Era and I have no children and we wanted to take you in."

"Why didn't you?"

"Would you have let us, or would that have frightened you off?" Sall took one of the cloth strips that she'd been drying and bound the wound with it.

Danil looked away, thinking back. I was so scared then, of everything. "I don't know . . ." he answered slowly.

She nodded. "We wanted to be sure, and for you to be sure of us." She reached over to ruffle his hair. "We didn't know you'd vanish. You gave me a lot of sleepless nights."

And for some reason Danil found himself choking back tears. He looked away, not wanting her to see them. For a long time he just sat. Eventually she put a hand on his shoulder. "Come on, I need more black mushrooms. You can help me find some."

He nodded, grateful for the respite from emotions too raw to expose, and they walked into the forest in silence, seeking the fallen oak logs that the mushrooms grew from. They said little, and the moment that had passed between them faded into the background. Still, something had changed, and from that point forward he moved naturally into the role of Sall's assistant.

As his own injuries healed, he learned how to clean wounds and set broken bones, how to make tea from Valerian leaves as a sedative, and from certain lichens as an anti-infective. There were fresh reports that the inquisitors were readying an attack, followed by more rumors that nothing was going to happen after all.

As the time passed some of the warrior groups went to go back to their fishing, while new ones arrived to take over from them. The atmosphere was an unpleasant combination of tension and boredom. Everyone recognized the need to defend the forest lands from the Prophetsy. Nobody liked to be away from their rafts and their families to do it. He'd been there over a month when Era's group came in, just before the evening-meal bell. The older man came to speak to him.

"How's the arm?"

Danil flexed his injured limb. It still hurt, but far less than a driver's lash. "Improving. Sall says I'll keep the scars."

"Hmmm. I'm sure you will. And you'll feel it there the rest of your life, I'll wager. Still, that arrow saved your life."

Danil looked at him askance. "How's that?"

"Slaves always run to the fisherfolk, and the Prophetsy knows that. They've sent a few spies over, men in smocks with slave collars and a story to tell, but too well fed. They didn't last long. After a while they learned, and sent real slaves, promised them freedom if they came back with information. They'd leap the wall and the inquisitors would be bad shots that day. It took us a while to catch on to that. Later they came with cheek brands." Era's expression grew grim. "Now only blood is convincing."

"And if they hadn't hit me?"

Era shrugged. "If they hadn't Cira would have shot you right there, and not in the arm." He paused and looked Danil up and down. "Think you're well enough to come fight with us?"

Danil remembered the big man's words the day he'd jumped the wall, his automatic assumption that he would come to fight with his group. It certainly hadn't been his plan to go along with that, to accept leadership when he had just won his freedom. At the same time he owed Era his life now, twice. He nodded. "I can fight. What do I have to do?"

"Are you a good shot?"

Danil shook his head. "They don't teach those things to slaves."

"Handled a blade?"

Danil shook his head again, expecting the older man to be disappointed, but Era just pursed his lips. "We'll have to train you. Come with me."

"I have to help Sall."

Era shook his head. "There's people sicker than you who can do that now. We're shorthanded at the wall as it is."

There was no room for disagreement, and when Danil told Sall she smiled and nodded and wished him luck. Era took Danil over to his group, twenty or so men and women armed with anything from rabbit bows and throwing spears with ironwood heads to wicked looking all-shipsteel blades.

For a moment he hoped that Cira would be assigned to help him, but Era handled that himself, drilling him relentlessly that day in the use of the bow, with only short breaks for rest, food and water. He found the rabbit bow most difficult, because the arrow's trajectory changed depending on the direction you were shooting. If you shot counterspinward it went farther than if you shot spinward. Shooting foreward made it spiral to the left, shooting aftward made it spiral to the right, and he had to learn to check the angle of the suntube to make the final correction before he released the string.

"Why does it do that?" he asked, after one arrow went particularly far off course.

Era shrugged. "I don't know. I don't think anyone knows." The evening-meal bell rang, and the older man looked back towards the camp, where cooking smells were wafting through the forest. "We'll save the blade lessons for later. No sense in working too hard the first day." The meal was roasted rabbit and fish stew, and Danil gorged himself to the point of feeling sick. The exercise and plentiful food had him gaining muscle daily. His arm still bothered him, but the next day Era had him out working just as hard as before, this time with an ironwood blade. It surprised Danil that a blacksmith would be so skilled with weapons, though he supposed that a man who made blades for a living would at least have to know how to use them, and he quickly learned that the weapon had its own complications. Era started him with the basics of grip and stance, and then moved on to the intricacies of thrust, parry and counterthrust. He worked Danil to exhaustion and beyond, but by the evening-meal bell he was gaining competence, able to execute a handful of moves with reasonable deftness.

"You're a natural with a blade," Era told him as they sat down with the group for the evening meal. "I don't think I've ever seen someone learn so quickly, especially starting from nothing. It's the bow you have to work on."

Danil shrugged, secretly flattered, and he looked to see if Cira had overheard the remark. He was still trying to figure out the group's social structure, now that he could put names to some of the faces: short, stocky Jorj, laughing Suli, and tall Manal. There was an easy camaraderie in the group, but also some tension. The confrontation with the Prophetsy was dragging on, and everyone had a family back at the shore and a job they were neglecting. After evening meal, the various group leaders would gather to discuss their plans. The defensive effort seemed well organized, though it wasn't clear at all to Danil who was in overall charge.

And to me, it doesn't matter. He worked diligently with the rabbit bow, trying to turn the required directional compensation into instinct. Something about the way the arrow flew tweaked a memory, the way the wheel had spun on Era's upgraded axle, that last day he'd come to the smithy so many years before. Of course! The arrow twisted in the air the same way the spinning wheel had twisted in his hands. Why? He looked to the distant foredome and watched the stars as they turned. What if the stars were fixed, and the world is turning? He tried to visualize how a spinning world would interact with an arrow as it rose and fell along its trajectory, and failed. But I can find out practically. He took a quiver and his rabbit bow into a clearing and, trying hard to keep the shots aimed flat and the string pull the same, he fired arrows straight fore and aftward, to spinward and anti-spinward and to each half-angle between them, and paced out the distances and deflections. They fell in a distorted oval, and he marked the shape around himself with stakes, at a distance of ten meters. Using the stakes to offset his aim improved his accuracy markedly. Better.

On the fifth day, another group came back from the wall, and Era led his small band into the forest to take their place. Danil moved behind him, in the long spaced out single file the group used to move through the forest, and Cira showed him how to sling his quiver and his bow so they didn't knock together as they moved. He appreciated her attention, and it was strange to realize that he was part of a group now, a group whose members looked out for each other, helped each other to achieve their common task. It was the first time since he'd left Cove that he felt he could rely on anyone but himself.

Era stopped them in the trees before the clearing in front of the wall, keeping the obstacle itself out of sight. Danil saw then what pain and fatigue had prevented him from noticing when he'd first come into the forest. There were ropes strung through the trees, at heights chosen to unseat riders and trip horses. Lines of sharpened poles had been driven into the ground, angled, to turn a mounted charge and force it into areas overwatched by firing platforms hidden high in the trees. The fisherfolk were well-prepared for war.

The Prophetsy's wall is more impressive, but this is just as good, or better. Having seen the ruthless martial efficiency of the inquisitors firsthand he had found it hard to believe that anything the outnumbered fisherfolk could do would hold them off for long. Now he understood where Era's confidence came from. The fisherfolk could never beat the Prophetsy's troops in open battle—the inquisitors had numbers, training, shipsteel and horses—but neither could the inquisitors hope to prevail in the close terrain of the aftward forest, where the fisherfolk could ambush them with rabbit bows and then vanish into the trees before they could react.

The group settled into the routine of watching the wall, a duty which quickly became as tedious as life in the clearing camp. The monotony was broken only by mealtimes and sleep, though Era continued to drill him every day with bow and blade when he wasn't on watch. And it's far, far better than the haul crew. Soon Danil was putting arrows into targets with instinctive accuracy, and good enough at sparring to take on most of the others on even terms. Unfortunately, they could only spare him an ironwood blade, which wouldn't hold long in combat against inquisitor steel.

"What's the point in learning to fight with the blade if I have no blade to fight with?" he asked Era.

"When we start fighting, trust me, there'll be a blade or two lying around for you to pick up. What you have is to get you through till then." Era gave him a grim smile as he said it, and Danil suddenly absorbed the fact that no matter how good the defenses were, when the Prophetsy attacked people were going to die. It was a sobering realization, though it still seemed a very remote possibility. The war, if that's what it was, seemed permanently stalemated. Danil contemplated that, as he lay on an ambush platform in an ancient oak. The platform had a leaf-veiled view of one of the Prophetsy's watchtowers, and he was ostensibly watching to see what the inquisitors were doing.

In reality he was bored out of his mind, and thinking of Cira. He still found himself too overwhelmed by the feelings she raised to actually talk to her much. She attracted him, she scared him, she . . . I can't even express what she does to me. He imagined what it would be like to be close to her, to make her laugh, to feel her touch, and he was completely unprepared when a shower of arrows came arcing through the branches, every one of them burning.

* * * 

The forest was in flames, and Prophet Polldor smiled grimly from his mount as he watched his inquisitors advance through the half-kilometer of the Prophetsy wall they'd pulled down under the cover of the smoke. The sounds of the fighting came faintly to his ears, and he pursed his lips. There was little he could do to influence the battle now, with the fighting among the trees it was up to his flank-leaders. All he could do was watch, and order forward the reserves when he thought the moment was right.

And how will I know when the moment is right? All he knew of armies and battle had come from the Bible, and it was woefully vague on the details. His inquisitors were efficient and well drilled in small units, but even in training it had been clear that large scale troop movement required thinking on a whole different level than that required to lead a mark patrol. It had taken years to develop those skills, mostly by trial and error, and today was the first time the whole system would be put to the test. The smoke was drifting up and afterward, spiralling towards the suntube. He put a finger to his lips, silencing a thought before he spoke it aloud. It's a crime to burn all that timber.

Beside him the high bishop was mumbling incantations in favor of victory, and Polldor urged his horse forward a few steps so he wouldn't have to listen. On his other side his son followed.

"What do you think?" Polldor asked.

"I think it's boring," Olen answered sullenly.

"Boring." Polldor restrained the urge to hit the boy. "You stupid little sooksan. This is about power, and there is nothing boring about power. This is your legacy, and if you don't learn how to command, how to lead, how to fight yourself, then when you inherit the Prophetsy you will lose in a day what it's taken me a lifetime to build. Why do you think I'm doing this, if not for you?"

Olen remained silent, staring resentfully into the distance, and Polldor watched him for a long moment. He doesn't even ride well. It occurred to him to wonder, not for the first time, if Olen was even really his son. The boy was so—docile. But he has the widow's peak. In truth the Prophet Unrisen had more than the distinctive hairline of Noah's descendents. He had Polldor's sharply hooked nose and eyes, his strong jaw, his voice, and even some of his mannerisms. He was a handsome young man, and a perfect blend of his father and his mother. And that's the problem. Elen had been the ideal wife, too devoted, too obedient to consider straying even if she had had the opportunity. Olen's personality came from his mother's side, and what Polldor had found endearing in a wife he found despicable in a son.

Polldor turned around in his saddle. "High Bishop," he commanded. "Take yourself forward, and pray where it might do some good." The bishop's expression showed that he didn't much like an order that would take him within arrow range of the fisherfolk, but he dug his heels into his mount and obeyed without question. Polldor turned to Olen. "Go with him. Move among the men and let them see you. And in Noah's name, sit straight in the saddle when you do."

Wordlessly Olen sat up, stirred up his horse and moved off. Before he'd gone twenty meters he was slouching again and Polldor turned away in disgust. Balak had been watching from a respectful distance, and now came forward.

"And what do you think, now we've opened the battle?"

Balak shrugged. "It's early yet. We have numbers and surprise. I doubt they expected the fire."

"Pine pitch on arrows, brilliant."

"I live to serve, your Holiness." Balak bowed, ever so slightly.

Polldor urged his horse forward, anxious to get a closer view of the battle. "I can't see anything. Are we winning?"

"I think we will win. To know if I'm right, we have to wait."

"Hmmph. I wait poorly. Where are the messengers?"

"It's early yet. Wait . . ." Balak put a hand over his brow to shield his vision from the suntube's glare. "Here comes one, I think."

A rider had appeared from the pall of smoke at the gap in the wall, and galloped towards them through the ranked parishas of the reserves formed up in close order behind the breach. Polldor waited impatiently until he arrived and pulled up his horse.

"What's happening?" he snapped, before the man had a chance to draw breath.

"Noah's Grace, your Holiness. The fire is pushing them back, but they're still fighting hard. We've taken their first positions." The banner on the rider's spear was red, blazened with the double crosses of Hope's parisha.

"How many have we lost?"

"A dozen that I know of. The mice are good with their bows."

Polldor nodded slowly. "Well done, rider. Tell parishan Hance to press on."

"We'll need reinforcements, your Holiness."

"They'll come. Go!" Polldor barked the last word, and the rider turned and spurred his mount to gallop back into the fray. Ahead battle horns were sounding back and forth. After the man had gone he beckoned over one of his own messengers, but before he could give the man orders Balak held up a hand.

"Are you going to send those reinforcements now?"

"I was going to. Shouldn't I?"

Balak shook his head. "We should wait. Right now we only have one piece of information. We need to know how the other parishas are doing, and give our support to the one that is farthest advanced. We need to drive to the ocean and take their villages. Once we do that they'll stop fighting in the forest."

Polldor nodded and waved away the messenger again. "Yes. Once we've got their women . . ."

"Their women?" Balak laughed without humor. "Prophet, their women are fighting with the men. It's their children we want for hostages."

"Are you sure of that?"

"It's the fisherfolk way. And really they have no choice. We outnumber them ten to one. They need every body they can get."

"They are godless," put in the bishop, who had come back from the front lines, if he'd even reached them in the first place. "A woman's place . . ."

Polldor whirled around and cut him short with a violent gesture. "In Noah's name be quiet." The bishop looked stunned but fell silent, though suppressed anger crept into his eyes. Polldor tried to keep the contempt off his face. All I need is an offended sheep on my hands in the middle of my war. "I told you to get up there," he pointed to the ranked troops ahead. "Now get up there. I'll tell you when you can come back."

"You can't . . ."

"I can, and I am, now get up there or we'll find out if the high bishop fights better than the High Inquisitor."

The bishop left in silence, trailing resentment. At least Olen didn't come back with him. The thought was little comfort. Polldor returned his attention to Balak.

"You'll tell me now I shouldn't offend the bishop."

"I don't think I need to, your Holiness."

"And yet you do disapprove."

Balak dipped his head, very slightly. "I serve my Prophet as best I can."

"Very tactful. You serve me well, Balak. I hope my disrespect for our clergy doesn't offend your beliefs."

"Robes don't make a believer. That bishop is unworthy. I don't need him to tell me what God commands."

Polldor turned to face him. "And what do you think of my own lack of belief?"

Balak shrugged. "You are the son of Noah, so descended. What you believe doesn't matter. I follow you because of who you are."

"Sometimes you frighten me, Balak."

"I am sorry if I do, your Holiness. You should know my loyalty to Noah's line is absolute."

"That's what frightens me. Look, I think we have another messenger."

In fact there were two more riders coming across the battlefield. When they had reported Polldor saw the wisdom of waiting for the full picture. Tidings' parisha was heavily engaged in fighting, like Hope's, but Purity's parisha had encountered almost no resistance and had cleared a path through the forest almost all the way to Far Bay. He called up one of his own riders, and gave him orders to send the reserves forward through the gap to exploit the success. He sent the second messenger forward as well, to act as a guide. When they were gone he called over his signaller to order the march. The signaller took his polished steel mirror and began sending flash code to the inquisitor camps around the arch of the world. The other parishas had been spaced around the wall at regular intervals in order to make it impossible for the fisherfolk to know where the actual attack would fall, now they would move to the breach as further reinforcements. He had twenty-two parishas of five hundred men each, but that was too many to lead. The six that he had here for the main assault was already a handful. I'll have to give some to Balak to command directly, when they arrive. Even that wouldn't be enough delegation, he needed another commander of Balak's rank.

Time for that later. Right now it was time to turn success into victory. He beckoned his command group forward and rode to the gap in the wall. The scene there was beyond apocalyptic, a vista of burned and burning trees wreathed in choking smoke.

His surgeons had set up a tent right beneath the wall, and the wounded were being sent there for treatment. The lucky few who had been first to fall were lying on litters, the rest on the ground, their clothing soaked with their own blood where they'd been stabbed by arrows or laid open with a blade stroke. Some had been caught by the fire, and burned flesh hung in loose shreds wherever it had touched them. They were coughing from the smoke and moaning in their pain and there were far, far too many of them for the surgeons to handle. Out in the burned landscape there were more bodies, these lying crumpled and lifeless, and those the fire had reached were charred beyond easy recognition as human. A bitter smell hung over the scene, penetrating even the smoke. It was a sickening combination of blood, spilled guts and burned flesh, and Polldor had to fight down the urge to vomit. Shouts and the sound of fighting sounded from the distant trees, but he could see nothing of the actual battle.

And perhaps I'm lucky for that. Polldor had seen men die violently, but nothing like this. For a moment it crossed his mind that perhaps Olen was right in his reluctance to join battle. He pushed the thought away as a weakness, but turned away from the carnage to get his stomach under control. It won't do to let anyone see me vomit. "Balak!" he yelled. "Take Blessed's parisha forward. Take Virtue's as well. Push through to the ocean."

"I will, your Holiness." Balak bowed his head and dismounted his horse. The inquisitors were mounted soldiers but they'd drilled to fight on foot in the close terrain of the forest, they'd learned that lesson the hard way in the first aftward war. This time only the leaders and the messengers rode, and even the leaders dismounted before taking their troops into the trees.

Ahead of him Balak had gathered the parishans and mark-leaders of the two parishas and was giving them orders for the advance. Polldor watched him for a long moment. And am I making the right decision in sending him forward? He wouldn't have Balak's advice by his side for the rest of the battle, worse yet he might lose his most important political asset. The Elder Council feared prophet Polldor, but they were terrified of his High Inquisitor. Losing Balak would be a disaster, even if the sacrifice won him the war.

But there's no point in second-guessing myself now. He had to move forward himself, to see what was going to happen in the next phase of the battle. Another messenger was riding out of the smoke, and Polldor ordered his spear bearer to wave his banner high so the man could find the command group. As he drew close an arrow spiralled out of nowhere and took the man's horse in the flank. The wounded animal reared up and the messenger fell, to be crushed a moment later when his mount came down on top of him. Whatever report he'd been carrying was lost forever now. A hundred meters away a pair of inquisitor archers had already shot down the fisherfolk woman who'd played dead until she saw a target worth trading her life for.

They are nothing if not tenacious. Polldor nodded in silent acknowledgment of the woman's courage. We need to win this quickly, before we destroy the prize we're fighting for. Ram's horns sounded as Balak's leaders rallied their forces for the advance. Polldor drew his blade and advanced into the smoke, signalling for his messengers to follow him. Already he could taste his victory.

 

Danil knew the battle plan. If the inquisitors came in force, Era's group would let them come into the trees and onto the obstacles. When their tight, mounted formations started to break up the fisherfolk would snipe at them with arrows, appearing to shoot and then vanishing into the trees again before the enemy could respond. There was a network of paths with prepared positions leading through the forest all the way back to the camp. The inquisitors relied on mass and discipline, and once those were broken the superior woodcraft of the fisherfolk would carry the day. When the first flaming arrows came into the trees he knew that plan wouldn't work.

Era knew it too. Before the first trees were alight he came running down the path behind Danil's ambush platform. "Get down, get down!" he yelled.

Danil needed no more urging than that. Already the trunk of his tree was alight, and he half fell out of it trying to avoid the flames. Before he was down several trees were blazing, and more burning arrows were raining down around them. He followed Era down the path as the blacksmith collected the rest of the group. He led them back a hundred meters to a second line of ambush positions and spread them along it. These were less sophisticated than the prepared defenses they'd just abandoned, just piled logs covering the open areas, with aiming stakes set to indicate the ranges. By using fire as a weapon the inquisitors had eliminated the trenches and trip lines as obstacles and thereby gained a powerful advantage. And we might have to fall back from here as well. If the fires really took hold the situation could get very bad indeed. Danil watched through the screening foliage as puddles of flame spread and grew and merged. Fire climbed the trunk of an old beech, seizing each branch as it reached it, until the tree's crown exploded into flame. From there the fire leapt to the neighboring trees almost at once. The leaf litter on the ground was burning too, sending dense clouds of smoke into the air. The forest was dry and there was nothing to stop the advancing blaze. The inquisitors were still firing flame arrows and a pair of them landed directly in front of Danil. He dashed forward and grabbed them before they could start the leaf litter burning.

"Fire through the smoke!" Era was yelling. "They're right there, just fire."

Danil couldn't see anything, but he shot both the arrows he'd just picked up, and sent a few more after them into the murk. A gap in the smoke revealed a line of inquisitors advancing on foot immediately behind the burning trees, and he picked a target and fired. His shot went wide, but the inquisitor who he'd aimed at saw him and fired back, yelling and pointing to his companions at the same time. More arrows came at Danil, some of them burning, and he ducked behind a tree. He wasn't hit, but the arrows that missed set a fire behind him and he was forced to fall back or risk being surrounded by flames.

He moved back another fifty meters, then looked around for Era and the rest of the group. He saw no one. But they'll have to move through this way, they can't stay where they are. He picked a tree and got behind it to wait, watching the fire as it came towards him. It was moving at a slow walking pace, except where inquisitor flame arrows helped it along. He caught a glimpse of one of the others off to his left, a woman named Nans. Like him she had been forced back by the fire. He considered calling out to her, but didn't. The enemy wasn't so far away that he wanted to call attention to his position. At least the volleys of burning arrows seemed to have subsided. He watched for targets, but the next gap in the smoke found him face-to-face with a sudden inferno. The fire had reached an area of low, dry scrub and roared up, hitting him with waves of heat so intense they were painful. The flame-front came at him so quickly that he nearly dropped his bow, and he had to run backwards again.

Shouts rose behind him as he did, and a fusillade of arrows followed him, but the smoke was spoiling the enemy's aim as much as his own, and they went wide. Era was gone, and he could see none of the rest of the group around. He found cover again behind a thick fallen log and looked back the way he had come, to see nothing but a solid wall of fire. The trees burned with a supernatural roar, and the heat was painful at fifty meters. He couldn't see any inquisitors either. I should just run, get to the ocean and hide there. He was suddenly acutely aware of the Prophet's cross branded onto his cheek. It would not be good to be taken prisoner. Still, something in him kept him where he was, and it took him a long time to identify what it was. Pride. It was something he'd had little of as an orphan, and less of as a slave, but he was a free man now, and a warrior, and that was something worth fighting for. If they catch me it won't be cowering in the water. He nocked another arrow and waited, until a wave of thick black smoke forced him to fall back again, coughing and rubbing his stinging eyes. But I'm not running away. He found another log fifty meters back and took position again, looking for a target.

"Danil!" He looked up at the shout. "Over here!" It was Cira. She was beckoning him, but his cover was better so he waved her over instead.

"Where's Era?" she asked.

"I don't know, I lost track of him in the smoke. Have you seen anyone?"

"Only Sall." She pointed to an area now consumed in the fire. "She was killed."

A sudden constriction came into Danil's throat at her words. It can't be true. Even as the thought went through his brain he realized that it was. That quickly Sall, her kind words, her care, was gone from his life. He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. Tears can come later. "And the inquisitors?"

"They're over there." She pointed at back where she had come from. "There's a lot of them." As she said it a gap opened in the smoke to reveal an extended line of the Prophetsy's troops. Instinctively Danil fired, and saw his arrow take one of the second rank in the neck. It was the first time he'd seen one of his arrows strike home, and he found himself standing and staring at the dead man, even as a storm of arrows fell around him. I've just killed someone. He felt sick, angry, proud . . . 

"Danil, get down." Cira yanked him back behind the log, gave him a quick smile. "Good work." She rose to a knee, fired and ducked down again.

And they killed Sall. The anger took over and he went up on a knee, aimed and fired. His arrow bounced off an inquisitor's breast plate, but the doubt was gone. He'd kill to protect his own.

"Now what?"

"Wait for them to give up on shooting, run, and do it again."

Arrows imbedded themselves in the log in front of them and buzzed overhead, and Danil waited for the fusillade to stop. The arrows kept coming though, and all of a sudden he was worried. They were safe enough where they were, but the flames were coming fast. He risked a quick glance over the log, to see the front rank of inquisitor bowmen kneeling and firing in orderly succession. The rank behind them was full of spearmen, and all of a sudden he understood the enemy plan. The fire would flush the fisherfolk out of their prepared positions, and the bowmen would harass them as they fell back, hoping to trap them as he and Cira were now trapped, pinned down under cover while the fire burned closer and closer. The spearmen provided close defense to the archers, in case the fisherfolk rallied and fought their way through the fire. But there'll be no rally here, there's just two of us. An arrow glanced off a branch overhead and hit him in the shoulder. It was hard enough to hurt, but fortunately the ricochet took enough force out of it that it didn't penetrate. He rubbed his arm where his previous wound was still healing. I don't want to be shot again. The roar of the fire grew louder, and wisps of smoke began to rise around the bottom of the log. He could feel the heat beginning to radiate from fire on the other side.

He grabbed Cira's arm. "We have to go, right now."

"They're still shooting!"

"And they're going to keep shooting until we burn. Come on!"

Without waiting for an answer he grabbed her hand, yanked her up and started running, pulling her after him, dodging around tree trunks while arrows zipped around them. They jumped a dry creek bed and found a position on the rise behind it. Danil hoped the small gap in the trees on either side of the gully would be enough to stop the fire, and as they waited he even began to hope that the fires would die out on their own.

What we need is rain, a good heavy rain. Unlike the steady mist and drizzle at the forewall, aftward downpours were sudden and heavy. He looked upward for the telltale spiralling billows of cloud-fleece that presaged a coming storm, but the suntube was brilliant through the canopy overhead, its brightness dimmed only by a blue haze of smoke. The world was not about to oblige them with rain.

All too soon he heard the crackle of flame in the distance. The sound grew louder, became a roar, and then the flame-front was at the other side of the gully. The blaze did stop there, and Danil hoped that it had stopped for good. The roar diminished as it consumed the trees in front of them, and then died down enough that he could hear the shouts of the advancing enemy behind it. He and Cira drew their bows, waiting for a target. A flash of red cloak showed itself and he fired. A heartbeat later she fired too. Shouts and screams answered them, and a volley of arrows sang overhead, clattering against branches and tree trunks. He could tell they were unaimed though, and none came close enough to be a risk. They hadn't been spotted.

For a moment he thought they could hold their position, for a while at least, but then the fire jumped the gully, not at ground-level but up in the tree crowns. The upper branches on the near side of the dry creek burst into flame, and the fire started to spread to other trees. But fire likes to rise, and so perhaps it won't come down to the ground. A pair of inquisitor spotters came into view, moving by bounds and covering each other as they sought out the threat. He and Cira fired. His own shaft bounced off his target's chest armor again, but Cira got hers in the meat of his thigh and the spotter fell. Danil quickly nocked another arrow and fired again, this time scoring in the man's belly. The wind picked up, an artificial updraft brought on as the burning upper stories of the forest sucked in air to feed the flames. A wave of heat struck him as the tree they were beneath started to burn, and it rapidly grew to painful intensity. He had thought to let the fire pass them overhead. He hadn't realized it would cook them if it did.

"Come on, let's go!" he said. Cira had an arrow nocked and a look of determination on her face. A second later she fired into the smoke. Danil didn't wait to see what she was aiming at or whether she'd hit her target. He pulled her to her feet and they ran, but before they'd gone twenty meters she gave an anguished cry and fell. He stopped and turned, to find her face down with an arrow lodged in the back of her thigh.

Without thinking Danil knelt down, grabbed it and pulled hard. It resisted more than it should have, then gave all at once. Cira screamed, and then he was holding the bloody shaft in his hand. The head was a wicked shipsteel double-barb, and it had probably done as much damage coming out as going in. No time to worry about that now. Another shower of arrows sliced in the air around them, backspace. He glanced around, saw a fallen tree trunk and dragged her, half crawling, behind it. The back of her legging was already soaked in blood.

"Can you walk?" Danil glanced back the way they had come. Not far enough. The fire was still up in the treetops, burning branches had fallen and set the leaf litter burning as well, and the flames were spreading rapidly towards them. He could hear shouted commands as the inquisitor advanced across the dry gully.

She shook her head. "I don't think so. I felt it hit the bone." He could see the fear in her eyes, and feel the heat from the still-spreading fire behind them even as he quickly tied a bandage over the wound to staunch the bleeding.

He nodded, looked back again to where the fire and the inquisitor were advancing together. "I'll carry you."

"Can you? Fast enough to get away?"

"Watch me." Awkwardly he picked her up and put her over his shoulder. It was harder than he'd expected, not because she was heavy but because she was awkward. They were a target again when they stood up, but fortunately the log they'd sheltered behind was now on fire, and because it was rotted and damp it was giving off a lot of smoke. He found he couldn't run with her on his back, but he managed a rapid trot. All thought of holding off the attackers was now gone. His immediate aim was to get Cira to safety, and after that . . . after that they would have to survive as best they could.

I can't let them catch me again. The forest floor was uneven and twice he nearly stumbled and dropped her, but eventually they were far enough away that he felt safe to stop. Danil put her down and turned her over so he could do something more about her injury.

He drew his ironwood blade and cut away her leggings around the wound. It wasn't pretty. He grabbed a handful of leaves off a nearby ash sapling and cleaned away as much of the blood as he could. There was vicious gash on the back of her thigh, the torn muscle exposed and bleeding.

She looked back over her shoulder. "How bad is it?"

"Not too bad," he lied.

"It hurts. A lot."

"That's a good thing. If it didn't hurt, then it would be really bad." Fresh blood was welling from the damaged tissue, and he cut a strip of cloth from his shirt to make a compress to stop it. He tied it as he had seen Sall do.

"That should hold it."

Cira made a face. "It still hurts."

"It's going to." He stood up and reached a hand down to her. "Here, let's see if you can walk. We'll go faster if you can."

She stood, and winced. "I don't think I can."

"I'll help you." Danil put her arm around his neck, and his arm around her waist. "Just lean on me, don't put any weight on it."

"I'll try."

They stepped off, and all at once Danil realized what had escaped his awareness in the heat of the battle. It was Cira in his arms, Cira, whose mere presence had once rendered him speechless, and he was touching her, holding her, talking to her. As if struck by lightning he became aware of her as a woman and he stopped dead in his tracks.

"What's wrong?" Cira's voice was suddenly worried.

Danil started to answer her and found that he had no words, nothing to say to express what had happened. Her eyes were big and wide and he kissed her, full on the lips. At first she pulled away, startled, and then she kissed him back. He kissed her for a long time and would've kissed her longer, but the roar of the approaching fire reminded him that they were still very much in danger. He broke away, and her eyes caught his, her expression open, fearful and trusting in the same measure. All at once the desire to kiss her again was overwhelming. But there's no time for that now, Danil. He tore his eyes from hers and looked ahead into the forest. "Come on," he said. "Let's get you to the surgeons."

Even with him helping her, she couldn't move very fast. They were off the paths that he knew, and he glanced overhead to check the suntube, to make sure they were heading aftwards. Once they saw another group of defenders moving forward in the distance, and Danil took them in that direction on the theory that they were probably using a path that would lead back to camp.

He was wrong about that, or else he missed the trail. Cira was hurting, and moving more slowly all the time. There were shouts in the distance, screams of pain and anger, the smell of smoke and the sound of shipsteel on shipsteel. Somewhere nearby the battle had been truly joined. He urged her on, not daring to let her rest in case the fighting or the fire caught up to them. Once they saw a flash of red cloaks through the trees to the right. Danil's heart caught in his mouth and he pulled Cira down behind a bush, but the inquisitors were moving away from them. Even so, it was a bad sign. They've gotten ahead of the fire, cut through the defenses. The enemy had planned well and the fisherfolk, outnumbered and outmaneuvered, were going to lose. The only question was, would they hold on long enough for him to get help for Cira.

They found the camp by accident, having missed all the trails. They came through a line of shrubs and there it was.

"You're safe now," he told Cira. "We'll get you looked after."

The arrow took her in the chest at that instant, and suddenly the clearing was full of red cloaks and steel armor. Before he could react a line of spearmen came out of the forest by his side. He was surrounded, and Cira was dying in his arms, blood gurgling as she tried to breathe.

One of the inquisitors, a big man with a golden scarf at his neck, stepped forward, gloating. "A cross brand. Well, well, there's a bounty on escapers. Noah's been good to us. The parishan is going to be pleased."

Danil didn't look up. He was trying to get the arrow out of Cira's wound, even though some distant part of his mind knew she was beyond saving. The arrow's head was lodged behind her ribs, and he broke off the point and pulled the shaft free. Blood spurted, and he tried to staunch the wound but it came too fast, too forcefully, and she gurgled, her frightened eyes locked on his. He was crying, he realized, and he couldn't remember starting to cry, but he worried that his tears might sting her where her flesh was torn. He felt a hand on his shoulder and shook it off, heedless of the fact that it was an enemy's hand, a man who might kill him for any sign of resistance. The light was fading fast from Cira's eyes and there was nothing he could do.

"You're going to be fine," he lied, and smiled at her, trying to convey a confidence that had no grounding in reality. She tried to smile back and her eyelids fluttered, her lips moving to form words she couldn't speak. "You're going to be fine."

He bent forward and kissed her gently on the cheek, and he felt her tremble, heard her gasp. Her muscles tensed and then relaxed, tensed and relaxed, and then she fell limp in his arms. Even then he didn't let go, holding her close, feeling her blood soak into his clothing, into his skin, into his soul. Beneath his breath he said her name, over and over and over, as though that might somehow bring her back to life.

One of the inquisitors moved to haul him to his feet, but the one with the golden scarf stopped him with a raised hand. Eventually he stepped forward to kneel beside Danil. "She's gone. You have to come with us." His voice was no longer harsh. Danil looked up to meet his gaze and saw not an enemy, just a man who had seen too much death for one day. He stood, numb, and went where they led him, not caring where that might be.

 

The rain was steady on Annaya Polldor's windows, and smelled of burnt wood. It was not the heavy mist or drizzle that were constants at the forewall, it was a heavy downpour, and it had been steady for a week now, long enough that some of the bishops were starting to talk about another Flood. That it had started the third day after her father's attack on the fisherfolk seemed to be an omen, though Annaya was not usually one to believe in omens.

Outside a gang of sodden slaves were laboring in the mud, digging a drainage channel to carry away the water that was transforming the temple's inner courtyard into a swamp. The channel led to the Silver River, and the rain had cleared the forewall mist enough that she could see up the world's curve to the next two rivers as well. All three were brown and heavy with mud. It occurred to her to wonder where all the water came from, and where it all went. Rain and the outfalls filled the rivers, and the rivers filled the ocean. The ocean never got any higher, so clearly the water had to go somewhere else from there, but where?

It was an idle question with an idle answer. And you've got larger problems than that, Annaya, so think about them instead. With her father's campaign against the fisherfolk nearly complete the senior families were already jockeying to carve up the spoils. Her hand in marriage had suddenly become an even more desirable commodity, and she had no doubt that when Polldor returned the first thing he would do was cement his newly enhanced position by placing her. If she was going to stop that she was going to have to stop him, but short of killing him herself she couldn't imagine how to make that happen.

I would have to kill both him and Olen, and then the Elder Council would just fight over me themselves. She needed an ally, but her father had effectively ensured that no one was willing to take the risk, no matter that the reward was not only her infinitely desirable self but the very Prophetsy. It was unfair that her world allowed no power to women, but as her father himself had taught her—use the levers you've got to move the levers you don't. The problem was, at the moment she didn't have any levers at all.

The rain smelled of burnt wood, but at least it had taken the smoke out of the air. For the first week after the attack all of the world had been full of a stinging yellow-blue haze, and everyone had gone around red-eyed and sneezing. The fisherfolk had finally been conquered, the long ambition of her father, and her grandfather, and probably her great-grandfather. All of the world belonged to the Prophetsy now. And Olen is going to inherit it. The thought galled her almost as much as the thought of being married off as a bribe to the man whose loyalty her father most prized. Impatiently she turned away from the window and went down the stairs, to her father's audience chamber and to the great doors that lead out into the courtyard. There was a smaller door that allowed access to the outside without opening the large doors, and she paused there. In truth she didn't even think the large doors could be opened any longer, certainly she had never seen them opened. Who built these, and why? It was obvious the room's original intent hadn't been to assemble the Prophet's worshipers to sing his praises, but as with most of the Prophet's temple, its original purpose was a mystery. Whoever it was had more power than my father could ever dream of.

Her intent had been to go outside, to go for a long solitary walk to relieve some of her stress. It had been an impulse, and at the moment it struck the rain had seemed irrelevant. Looking out at the torrent changed her mind, and she turned away. The gallery held no attraction for her; she was done with inquisitors, no matter how dashing.

Instead she went to the staircase that led up into the bowels of the temple and went up. On the top level she chose a door at random and went through into an area occupied by the tithecounters and scribes who answered to the Elder Council. She paced down the hallway with a scowl on her face, taking petty gratification in the way the bland men who worked there scurried out of her way.

I could just let myself be placed . . . It was an option. The man she was placed with would be powerful, and with her support he could overcome Olen, and perhaps even her father. Except I'd have to deal with his senior wives. She would have youth, beauty and her power as the Prophet's daughter, but against a flock of women who'd spent years doing nothing but competing for their husband's favor, those advantages might not be enough. Too much would depend on internal household politics she couldn't hope to know in advance, and even if she succeeded, she'd still only have such influence as her husband allowed her. Unacceptable. She had to find a better option.

She went past the tally rooms, where the tithecounters labored over ink and paper, and into the deeper and dimmer back-sections where the erranders waited for their seniors to call on them. Suntube light only penetrated so far into the temple, and the rooms behind the erranders were used only for sleeping. The deepest recesses of the temple were too dark even for that, and nobody used them anymore. And how anyone ever could have is another mystery. On a whim she turned down a corridor that led past the erranders into the darkness. At first there was enough light that she could dimly see her way forward, but it quickly faded. After twenty meters there was a corner, and around it there was no more light. What secrets Noah must have hidden in here. The darkness was strange and forbidding but she took a deep breath, put a hand on the wall and, feeling her way a pace at a time, went into the blackness.

It was difficult to judge how far she had gone, just sixty small steps by the count she kept, but it felt much, much farther. There was a doorway in the wall at that point, and she went through into what she could sense was a large open space. It was not the first time she'd come to this point, but it always felt new and strange and mysterious.

When she was younger she had come into the darkness to escape her father's anger. Now she came to escape her life. In a world where her soul was not her own it was good to have a place where no one could find her.

She felt around with her feet until they made contact with something soft. It was a blanket she'd left there the last time she'd come this way, and she sat down with her back against the cold shipsteel and wrapped it around herself. It was musty, but it kept off the chill that pervaded the dark depths of the structure.

If I could stay here I would. To be free of her father and his plans, to be free of the burden of being her Holiness, the daughter of Noah, to simply be free. It was more than she could wish for.

And I still need an ally. She closed her eyes in the darkness, and tried to imagine who that might be. It would have to be a man, because she couldn't rule the Prophetsy as a woman. It would have to be a man she could ultimately control, which wouldn't be hard to find. It would have to be a man who could make happen what would need to happen, and those were rarer. The real challenge was finding a man who didn't already belong to her father.

She opened her eyes again and stared into the depths of the invisible room. What secrets do you hold? Noah must have had a way to light his halls for his builders, or perhaps they simply didn't need light to see. If I could bring light here I might find something useful. It was a thought she had had before, but never before had she needed something, anything so badly. With sudden decision, she got up and dropped the blanket where she had found it, put her hand to the wall again and followed it back to the doorway, to the corridor and the light of the outside world.

Fire gives light. If she could find a way to carry a flame into the darkness she could see what was hidden there. What she might find she couldn't imagine, but the ancient builders had been a people of great power, and perhaps they had left behind something she could use. Back in her rooms she pondered on the problem. She needed something that would burn slowly and reliably. She summoned a slave and had him build a fire in her firebowl, then set him to fetching what she needed for her experiment.

Her first thought was to burn a pine branch, and that took some time to test because the branches he brought were all well soaked and needed to be dried. Once they were she found they burned far too quickly. After that she tried a thicker pine bough, stripped of smaller branches and needles. That burned with satisfactory slowness, but it tended to gutter and go out if she didn't hold it in just the right way. Its unreliability was a warning, and she realized she'd need a foolproof way of finding her way out of the darkness, in case the light she brought failed and left her stranded. She sent the slave for a ball of strong flax yarn that she could unroll behind her as she went. If something went wrong it would serve as a guide to get her out again.

She tried burning cloth in a clay jar, but it simply charred and smoldered without giving off any useful light. Paper burned well, but like pine boughs too quickly. She spent the rest of the day experimenting with different combinations of flammable material and ways of carrying it.

The answer, when it came, was brilliantly simple. The inquisitors had made flame arrows for their attack on the aftward forest, nothing more than a twist of flax wrapped behind the head of the arrow and impregnated with pine pitch. She sent the slave for some, and then spent a bell at her father's range putting shafts into targets just in case anyone was suspicious. Normally she enjoyed her archery sessions, but this time she was impatient to get on with her exploration, and left as soon as she felt she'd stayed long enough to allay any suspicions. She quickly learned that the flame arrows were perfect for light carriers. A bundle of them bound tight with yarn would burn steadily for almost a bell. Perfecting the design took her most of the day, and she stayed up well past the midnight bell making more. It was work fit for slaves, but while she was willing to have them bring her the ingredients she was determined that they would not know what she was doing with them. Some of her slaves would be spies for her father, she was certain of it. Or for Balak, which would be worse. There was no need to let anyone know what she was doing.

She slept poorly and was up before the breakfast bell, eager to try her new invention and explore spaces which had lain empty for a thousand years or more. Her first firebrand flared alive in her fireplace, and she went up the well-worn stairs quickly, hoping to avoid meeting anyone who might wonder why she was carrying a burning stick. The ancient shipsteel of the temple seemed alive, seemed to watch her, as she went again to the halls of the Elder Council's functionaries.

She went down the corridor that led to the darkness, and tied her string to a small projection in the wall, at the corner where the last light faded into nothingness. The flame in her hand lit the way ahead with a yellow flickering glow, revealing nothing more mysterious than another corridor, no different from any in the outer portions of the temple. She hadn't anticipated how difficult it would be to unwind the yarn while holding her flame over her head, and her progress wasn't fast. Still there was something exciting in exploring the empty, silent maze of the inner temple. It quickly became clear that she had not been the first to come this way since the builders had abandoned the structure.

Here and there she found bundles of reeds, tied together and burned down, someone else's design for a light carrier. There were smears of soot on the ceiling, and the rooms had been stripped bare, with marks on the walls and floors as the only clue that anything had ever been attached to them. Still, it had been a very long time since anyone had come this way. Everywhere she walked the dust was caked thick on the floor.

Her first firebrand began to go out, and she quickly lit a second from it, eager to go on. She found a pair of sliding shipsteel doors that opened onto a vertical shaft so deep that her light would not reach the bottom of it. Someone had pried the doors open, and it had taken them a great deal of effort. The shipsteel was still scratched and warped where they had forced their tools into the gap to lever them open.

Further on she found a place where the ceiling and walls were not just smeared but heavily caked in soot, and curiosity drew her in that direction. The blackened ceiling led to a doorway, and the soot was crusted in thick layers outside it, the pattern of the flames that had caused it written in the swirls.

There had been a fire in the room beyond, a big one. She went through the door and found a large space full of metal shelves too heavy to loot, though marks on them showed where more portable fittings had been removed. A pile of charcoaled debris four meters around sat in the center of the room, and told her the fire had been deliberately set, intended to destroy whatever had been piled there. It had spread to the rest of the room from there and consumed it.

She nudged the pile with a toe. There were footprints in it, though she could only guess whether they were made the day of the fire or five hundred years later. She walked around the room, trying to imagine what it had contained, and why someone had decided to destroy it. Nothing she saw gave her any insight.

It was no secret that Noah and his disciples had commanded powers unreachable by any present priest or Prophet. Here was evidence that they had fought each other—or fought something as powerful as they. She shuddered to think that perhaps that something might still be lurking there, perhaps even watching her. Don't be foolish, Annaya.

The thought was easy to dismiss, but the feeling of unease it brought didn't go away. She backed out of the room and carried on with her exploration. As she went deeper into the complex she began to understand that it not been built all at once. At first the rooms were the same as any she had seen in the lived-in part of the temple, and the doorways were identical in size and shape to those she had grown up with.

However at one point she went through a pair of much smaller doors, which sealed with heavy shipsteel lugs that had to be undone by spinning a shipsteel wheel. On the other side of them in the corridors were not square but hexagonal in cross-section, and had round cleats set in all six sides at two meter intervals.

In this area there were no staircases, but vertical shafts with ladders in them, of the same size and shape as the corridors. She climbed one of the ladders up a level, and saw how it had been attached to the wall by whatever power it was the ancients had used to melt the very shipsteel together. The ladder's position interfered with access to the cleats, it had obviously been added as an afterthought. What did they do to get up and down the shafts before it was installed? It seemed to her that they must have had to been able to fly, but if that were true, why install the ladders?

Yet another mystery. She climbed up and came to a room, larger than the others, where the walls were inscribed with writing. Some of the letters were familiar, others were completely strange, and none of the words made sense.

Light filtered down the sloped corridor to the room beyond, so faint and cold that at first she didn't notice it over the flickering illumination of her firebrand. What finally drew her attention to it was that it was blue. No, not blue, but blue white.

Whatever its cast, it was unlike anything she'd ever seen before, and her nameless fears of a nameless watching something returned full force.

But you can't stop now, Annaya, not this close. Heart pounding and hands trembling, she went up the corridor. The space she found there was larger, and higher. The bluish light came from the ceiling, where a rectangular panel glowed faintly, just enough to fill the room with ghostly shadows. It wasn't fire, wasn't suntubelight, and it filled her with awe.

This is proof of Noah's power, the real temple. Annaya had never believed for a second the pious and self-serving prattlings of the bishops. But they were right after all.

On one wall there were faces, etched in relief into the very shipsteel. The one at the top was larger than the others, and for a moment she thought it must be the image of Noah himself, but when she came closer she saw that each face had a name beneath it. She ran her fingers over the ancient steel lettering. Joshua Crewe. On the opposite wall she found more names, these with no faces and ranked by the thousand. She went over and found that some she could read, others used the strange letters from the inscriptions in the antechamber, and still others were strings of symbols that didn't look like letters at all.

These were the people of Noah. She turned back to look at the images again. Joshua Crewe and the others did not look noticeably unhuman, though some of them had distinctly strange facial structures. But perhaps they had wings like angels. The silent faces couldn't answer that question and it was a tempting theory to explain the vertical shafts, but when she thought about it more deeply it seemed unlikely—angel's wings would not fit comfortably in the hexagonal corridors.

Her fourth firebrand was almost out, and she lit her fifth and last one. If she wanted to get out with light she had to leave immediately, and the thought of climbing down the ladder in the dark was not appealing. She looped the free end of her yarn around one of the wall cleats, then turned and retraced her steps down to the lower level. It had been her intent to simply follow her trail back out, but as she went through the heavy, wheel-sealed doors into what she had decided must be the more recent section, something she hadn't noticed before caught her eye. There was a pattern on the ceiling, rectangles the same size and shape as the one that emitted the blue-tinged light in the hall of Noah's people.

Of course, that's how they saw. The whole place was lit like that. Most of the panels had failed over the centuries, but the one in the central temple still had a little life left in it. It became harder to see; her last firebrand was burning down. It guttered and went out fifty meters later, leaving her in total darkness.

It was a frightening moment, though she knew the yarn would lead her out. Taking small steps and keeping one hand on the string she made her way back the way she had come in, her heart pounding with long buried fears of being lost in the darkness. When she finally came to the corner where the suntube's light dimly penetrated she breathed out in palpable relief. She left the string where it was and went back out to the other corridor and to the windows, to look past the rain to the suntube with newfound appreciation. Her heart was pounding with unexpressed fear, and with the excitement of discovery and possibility. I have a secret now, and the heart of the temple is mine.

 

The half sympathetic treatment Danil had gotten from the inquisitors who captured him ended as soon as they turned him over to the prison guards. They were drivers, not inquisitors, and they handled him with casual brutality, putting him in steel shackles and pushing him into a hastily fenced enclosure built against the Prophetsy wall with a hundred other captured fisherfolk.

As the hours wore past more captured fighters were brought in. Many of them were wounded, some of them critically, but with their hands manacled there was nothing the other prisoners could do for them. The helpless moaning of the injured added misery to the tense uncertainty of the captured fisherfolk, but Danil found himself strangely unconcerned with his fate.

All he could think of was Cira, the touch her skin, the magic of the single kiss they had shared, and the look in her eyes as she died in his arms.

She's dead.

The thought wouldn't leave his brain. He found a place where he could lean against the Prophetsy wall and sat, withdrawn into himself. Cira is dead.

The stinging smoke of the still burning fires brought tears to his eyes, but he was too numb to weep. As more prisoners came in the enclosure grew increasingly crowded, but they were given no food or water. Hunger and thirst set in, and on the third day the rain began, and it didn't stop. The grass they sat on gradually turned into mud, and the mud stank of urine and excrement, because the degraded prisoners were given nowhere else to relieve themselves. On the fourth day they were given soggy bread to eat, and the drivers hauled away the dead, and those who were close to it. After that he lost track of time, immersed in an internal darkness so bleak that the miserable conditions seemed irrelevant.

They were fed at intervals, nothing more. From time to time an overseer came through the enclosure with a trio of drivers. He checked each prisoner, poking them with his staff if they were unresponsive. Some he ordered taken away, some he didn't. The days dragged past, and slowly the enclosure emptied again, until there were only a handful of prisoners left. The rain continued, a steady, dreary downpour that only added to their misery. And then they came for Danil.

"Branded," the overseer said when he got to him. "Take him."

The drivers hauled Danil to his feet and took him out of the compound. He was loaded into a cage built on the back of a wagon, and in due time two more prisoners were thrown in with him. They were both considerably older than he was, both of the Prophetsy to judge by their accents, and they both had cross brands on their cheeks. Eventually a driver arrived and hitched a team to the cart. They were driven over a rough track, past the tented inquisitor camps to the trading road, and from there foreward. The journey took hours, but neither of the other men spoke to him, or to each other. They all knew what they were there for, and there was nothing to say.

They passed through Charity, where the baked-brick cobbling was starting to break down in the constant torrent. Foreward of the city the road surface gave way to resined logs laid sideways, designed to withstand the forewall mists and thus impervious to the rain. The new surface added an unpleasant rhythmic jolting to the cart's motion. Danil withdrew into himself even further, and only looked up when the jolting stopped.

When he did he was shocked. They were in a field of crucifixes in front of a high wall, each one bearing a man either dead or dying. Behind the wall a solid steel tower loomed overhead. The Prophet's tower. Behind the tower the forewall soared vertically up into the clouds overhead. The field of crosses was a ghastly sight, designed to inspire fear, but Danil was far beyond fear.

He recognized one of the bodies. It was Jordan, Bran's partner, his own companion in his escape from the lumber crew, his face pasty white and shrivelled in death but still recognizable.

I wonder what happened to Bran? It seemed like a lifetime since he'd fled from the lumber crew, but when he cast his mind back he realized it had only been a few months. It didn't matter. Soon enough Danil would be on one of those crosses himself, and even that seemed unimportant. All he could think of was Cira.

The temple wall was resined brick, with a thick layer of pitch added as extra protection from the constant rain and mist, and topped by a log palisade. Danil had probably made some of those bricks, and the irony wasn't lost on him. The lead driver had stopped outside the heavy, steel bound beams of the main gates, and there was a pause while he talked to the inquisitors who guarded it. Soon enough the gates were swung open, the horses stirred up, and the cart brought into the temple courtyard.

Danil had never been so close to the seat of the Prophet's power before, and despite his misery couldn't help but stare in wonder at the spectacle. The structure was huge, far bigger than anything he'd seen before, and made entirely of shipsteel. The wooden additions that had been added on top of the edifice only served to underscore the raw power involved in creating it. It was built into the very forewall, indeed it seemed to be merely an extension of the world's body, and its lines drew the eye inexorably upwards to the Prophet's tower. Even the great wall looked insignificant beside it.

What men can build is nothing next to Noah's creation. He had never really believed in the religion the Prophetsy taught, never thought that Noah literally built the world to save his people from the flood, or lit the suntube or fought the leopard. To him those stories were just a convenient way to explain the existence of the world for those who felt that it needed explaining.

But this temple was built of more shipsteel than I would have believed existed, and it's no accident, not something that can be dismissed without explanation.

For the first time since Cira had died Danil felt something, a soul-filling awe at the power of the man who had built the world. The forewall and the aftwall, the foredome and the suntube and the ocean could all be accepted as simply part of the natural order of things, but not the temple. Deep in his heart Danil felt a fear that the gruesome crucifixes had been unable to raise in him. It was not fear of the death that was being prepared for him, but of the unknown that he might face after death. Are we really bound for Heaven?

The drivers, oblivious to his sudden shock, opened the cage and unceremoniously hauled the prisoners out. A tall inquisitor mark-leader in an immaculate crimson cloak looked them over, sizing them up like a trader buying cattle.

"This one first." He pointed a finger at Danil.

There were half a dozen wooden crosses lying on the ground in the middle of the courtyard. Danil's arms were jerked up behind him, a tool was produced and his manacles taken off. An instant later burning pain filled them as his circulation returned.

The pain shocked him out of his depression, and suddenly the will to live surged in his heart. His eyes darted left and right, but he was surrounded by high walls and the looming steel bulk of the Temple. Rough hands grabbed him, dragged him to one of the crosses, and forced him down on it.

"Put his hands flat." It was a new voice, and Danil looked up to see a black-bearded man with well muscled arms looming over him, a hammer in one hand, a fistful of steel spikes in the other. He struggled against the hands restraining him, but the guards held him too firmly. The man with a hammer knelt down, Danil's hands were wrenched into position, the steel spike forced into his palm. The hammer came down, just hard enough to drive the steel through the flesh of his hand and set it into the wood. He clenched his teeth, refusing to scream at the pain. The hammer rose again to drive the spike home.

"Kneel! kneel for her Holiness!" The mark-leader aimed a cuff at the head of one of the guards when he was slow to respond. The hands holding Danil released him. He looked up in surprise to see a young woman on horseback cantering past, hooded and cloaked against the rain. Everywhere activity in the courtyard had stopped as workers and inquisitors alike knelt down and faced her with heads lowered as she went by. Ahead of her the gates were opening.

Hope surged in Danil's heart. His guards were kneeling in front of him, looking the other way and relying on the single spike in his palm to hold him. He rolled over, grabbed the top of the spike with his good hand and wrenched. The spike was set harder than he'd thought and didn't budge, so he wrenched harder. The effort sent agonizing pain through his injured hand but he ignored it, working the spike back and forth, feeling it give, at first a little, then more, and then finally coming free.

Free! The odds were a hundred to one against him in the courtyard, but he had a weapon now and the gate was open. He rolled to his feet and started running.

"Hey!" The mark-leader's voice rose after him. "Stop him! Stop him!"

It was under a hundred meters to the gate, and all Danil could hear was his heart pounding in his ears as he sprinted. He didn't bother to look back at who was chasing him, he knew they couldn't catch him. It was the ones in front who mattered, and they had yet to figure out what was going on. Some of them looked up from their positions of obescience as he ran past, but once he was past them they didn't matter. A pair of inquisitors jumped up in front of him, but he dodged around them and kept going.

"Close the gate! Close the gate!" Ahead of him the gate guards started to react, and Danil put everything he had into every step, moving so fast he seemed to be flying. The world seemed to slow down around him, and he dodged around another intercepting inquisitor as though the man were standing still. The gates were closing but not fast enough, and he was going to make it through them.

And then they'll be after me on horses, and with arrows from the towers. It was too soon to worry about those problems. He could see now the gates weren't going to close in time, but the inquisitors there had recognized that too and had given up trying to close them. Instead they lined up in front of the gap to stop him, four of them. They didn't have their blades out. They wanted him alive for the cross.

Danil didn't slow down as he came to them, he just slammed his shoulder into the closest. The man sprawled backwards and pain blossomed in Danil's shoulder where it had hit his enemy's armored breastplate. The next guard grabbed at him, got a hand on his arm, but Danil swung round with his spike and caught his attacker in the shoulder. The guard cursed and fell back, bleeding. Someone grabbed his leg and Danil kicked out, felt one foot connect with something soft, heard a grunt of pain and was free again.

He turned to keep running, but the guard he'd knocked over tripped him and he stumbled and fell to one knee. He managed to regain his feet, but he'd lost too much time. The fourth guard lunged to bring him down and Danil swung his spike again. The weapon skidded off the guard's armor, and Danil raised it and brought it down again. Once again he hit steel and not flesh, but the ferocity of his attack had driven the guard back, and Danil turned to run again. He had five hundred meters to cover to the tree line and safety, and in some distant part of his mind it occurred to him that he spent far too much of his life running away.

Someone tackled him from behind and he hit the ground, painfully hard. He rolled and kicked, and then a second guard was standing over him, spear cocked back to strike. Instinctively Danil grabbed the spear shaft and yanked it, twisting it out of his adversary's hands. He swung it around, catching the one who tackled him across his helmet and stunning him, though not managing to knock him clear. He stabbed out at the one he taken the spear from, forcing the man back. Someone else grabbed the weapon from behind him and then he was in a tug-of-war for the spear. The one he taken it from came back to grab his arm, and then a fourth inquisitor, the one whose arm he'd stabbed with the spike, was standing over him, blade upraised and ready for the killing stroke. The reality of death gave Danil strength and he let go the spear to grab the man behind it, pulling him down to use a human shield.

The move worked to prevent the blade blow, but neither did the inquisitor kill his comrade, as Danil had hoped. Instead he changed his stance to give himself a clear shot at Danil's throat. The blade went up again, and with the man he'd pulled on top of him now actively holding him down, Danil was out of options.

"Stop." The voice was harsh, commanding, and the soldier with the blade hesitated and looked up. The mark-leader had caught up, with his man behind him. "Joshil! Stand down."

Reluctantly the inquisitor with the blade fell back, keeping his eyes locked on Danil. "He cut me, mark-leader. His blood is mine."

"No. His blood is the Prophet's, and he's not going to die today." The mark-leader's face was hard. "He's just going to wish he did." He kneeled down, his face in front of Danil's, lowered his voice until it was almost a whisper, his words intense in their ferocity.

"You made me look a fool in front of the Prophet's daughter. By this time tomorrow, you're going to be begging for the cross. Begging." The mark-leader stood up. "Take him to the cages," he ordered. "Make sure he's reminded of his insolence."

They tied Danil again, and herded him to a set of stairs to spinward of the Prophet's tower. The stairs were shipsteel like the rest of the temple, and the treads were worn shiny, dished out in the center by the countless thousands of feet that climbed them over who-knew how much time. The guards took him to the very top of the temple, prodding him with their spear butts when he climbed too slowly. He was taken through a door and down a corridor that was only dimly lit by the light that filtered in from outside.

It was impossible to know what purpose the corridor had originally served, but it had been transformed into a prison. Rows of wooden cages lined the walls. Some of them held prisoners, others were empty. The place stank like the lumber crew shed had, and beneath that there was another smell. Death.

Most of the prisoners stared blankly into the semidarkness, some were moaning in pain or despair, one was babbling, talking nonsense to himself in a voice so fast that Danil couldn't make out the words.

They were met by four drivers, who took him and unceremoniously dragged him into the depths of the prison, to the very end of the row of cages. One of the guards opened the last one, and two more dragged him in and tied him to the wooden bars at the back. They yanked the ropes hard, lifting his feet off the ground and securing him with ropes tied tight at his shoulders and elbows.

They closed the door and barred it and went out the way they had come, leaving him to suffer. At least I'm not nailed here. The distinction quickly faded as the ache in his shoulders quickly grew to a level that made him forget about the wound in his palm. His mouth was parched dry from his exertion, and hunger again gnawed at his stomach, but as when he had been put on the cross at the brickyard, the real torture was that he was unable to sleep.

He was spent, and he wanted nothing more than to escape into dreamless oblivion, but his position simply wouldn't allow it. Time after time he would drift off, but his head would fall forward every time, and when his chin hit his chest it would force him awake again. His thoughts began to wander, back to his childhood, and his short time in Far Bay, back to his time at the brickworks, and on the lumber crew, back to his escape, and to Era and the fisherfolk who had befriended him. And back to Cira.

Cira. Her kiss came back to him vividly, and her smile, and the way she moved. Did I love her? I must have. He had seen enough death in his life, but it had never hurt him like this, not even when his father had died.

Cira.

It didn't seem right that he had desired her for so long, and lost her so quickly.

There was barely enough light for him to see the cage on the opposite wall, and the darkness began to play tricks on his eyes. He imagined he saw people, talking and walking, but when he tried to look more closely they vanished into the gloom. Several times he tried to call to them, but though it seemed he was speaking, he couldn't hear his own voice. At other times he could hear their words, but no matter how he tried he could never quite understand.

I'm losing my mind.

It was a frightening thought, for some reason more frightening than the realization that however the inquisitors made him die tomorrow, he would die unknown and unmourned. He tried leaning his head back so it would be supported against the bars behind him, but still every time sleep started, his head would fall forward and wake him. Eventually he entered a kind of waking delirium, and then suddenly he was back in the forest in the fire as the flames leapt up, and Cira came towards him.

Cira, I love you. The thought came unbidden, and then he realized that it wasn't Cira in front of him but another young woman, and it wasn't the forest that was on fire but only a stick in her hand. She put it down on the floor, opened his cage and came inside. 

"Do you know who I am?" she asked.

"No." His voice came out as a barely audible croak and so he shook his head so she would understand. She seemed ghostly in the dim light. A dream, no more. She couldn't be real.

"Good." She took a step forward and touched his cheek, tracing the brand there. "You don't make life easy on yourself, do you?"

Even her touch seemed real, and Danil squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them again to see if she had disappeared. She was still there, and he swallowed hard, managed to form a sentence. "Who are you?"

"It doesn't matter. Do you know you're going to be broken tomorrow?"

Danil shook his head. "I don't know what that means." Whoever she was, she was beautiful, and just a hint of her scent came to him through the cloth of her cloak, overriding even the horrid stench of the prison.

"Tsk. Such a waste of a fine body." She ran a hand over his chest and down to his abdomen, where the muscles built with years of hard labor were corded tight. She reached down further to find him responding to her touch and giggled. "How long since you've had a woman?"

Danil looked at her, uncomprehending, unable to find the words to answer.

"Well then, you'll enjoy this." She said it as though he had answered anyway, then stood on tiptoes and kissed him on the lips, gently, teasingly. The contact went through him like fire, and his heart was suddenly pounding. What is she doing? What does she want? None of it made sense, but her mouth was soft on his, and he felt her shudder, and long suppressed desire overrode every other thought in his brain.

"Would you like more?" she whispered, grazing his ear with her words, grazing his naked chest with her nipples, already erect and poking through the fabric beneath her cloak.

Danil still couldn't speak and so he simply nodded, not quite believing what was happening. She put her hands on his shoulders and pulled herself up, moved over him, mounted him. The sensation was incredible and the pleasure overrode his body's hurts. His hips moved on their own as she rode him, until finally his orgasm struck and then finally, mercifully, the world spun and went black.

When he woke up he was lying on the floor in the cage and she was shaking him. "Wake up, we have to go."

She was still there, she was real, and she'd cut him free.

"Where?" Danil tried to stand, but his knees gave out and he stumbled. She caught his arm to steady him. He felt strange, a combination of pain and exhaustion and a vague sense of satisfaction.

"Away. You want to live, don't you?" She picked up her burning stick, which was guttering on the ground. It blazed to life again when she held it up. "Follow me."

Danil followed her, not towards the entrance as he'd anticipated, but deeper into the darkness. She led him through dank shipsteel corridors deep into the temple, and it was obvious that these places hadn't been used in years, or centuries. She took him to a hatchway with a ladder leading down, and then through another maze of corridors. He quickly lost his sense of direction, but the woman seemed to know exactly where she was going. Finally they came to a ladder, to a room with strange writing on the wall. She left the firebrand there and led him to another, larger space that was lit with a strange blue light.

"Are you hungry?" she asked, pointing to a basket. "There's bread there, and cheese and meat."

Danil didn't wait to be asked twice. There was a small cask there too, full of water, and he guzzled it directly from the spigot until his thirst was slaked, then fell upon the food in the basket like a starving man. Which is exactly what I am. It was all high-quality food, the bread crusty and delicious, the cheese sharp tasting, and the meat well cooked and fresh. He ate until his stomach hurt. The girl watched him, arranging a thick quilt on the cold floor and sitting down while he finished.

Finally he looked up from the food. "Who are you?"

"It doesn't matter who I am." She reached for him and drew him close, down beside her on the quilt. "What matters is that you want me, don't you?" She leaned in to kiss him, and then suddenly he was mounting her again, taking her and she was thrusting up against him, urging him on. Some distant part of his brain watched his body's responses with something like amazement. He had no experience with women, and now that he was having one, it seemed it was happening to someone else. She was beautiful in the flickering firelight, she was beautiful and, whoever she was, for one incredible instant she was entirely his.

He didn't quite black out this time, though his vision went red and his ears rang. Afterwards she cuddled close to him, resting her cheek on his chest, and once more tracing the cross brand on his cheek.

"I watched you fight," she said, after a long time. "I've seen a lot of men fight. Not many can stand up to four inquisitors."

"I'm tired of fighting," Danil answered. There were faces looking down from the walls overhead, and the place had a sense of infinite age to it, somehow making what they had just shared that much more sacred.

"That's too bad. I need you to fight. That's why I chose you."

"Why?"

"Why? Why did you fight the guards?"

He nodded. "I had to, or die."

"Most die without fighting."

For a long time she lay quietly, and Danil listened to her breathe. Finally she asked, "Did you really think you'd get away?"

"I had to try." He paused. "I did get away before. I got over the Prophetsy wall. If the inquisitors hadn't attacked us, I'd still be free."

She nodded. "Freedom." She looked up at the illuminating blue rectangle overhead, and her eyes were far, far away for a long time. Finally she raised herself on an elbow to look into his eyes. "Will you fight for my freedom?"

Danil laughed. "You seem to have all the freedom you need."

"Appearances can be deceiving. Do you love me?"

Danil looked better, trying to find her eyes in the dim light. "I don't even know you. I want more of you. Is that love?"

She laughed. "Men confuse love and lust so easily. I don't love you. You should know that."

"Then why . . . ?"

"I don't love you." She said it fiercely, almost bitterly. "My father killed the man I loved."

Danil didn't know what to say, and so stayed silent.

"My father will have you killed too, if he finds you here."

"You've saved me once. I'm sure if you tell him . . ."

"Tell him?" She laughed humorlessly. "You'd be dead before I finished speaking. My precious virginity is being saved." She smirked. "Or at least the illusion is being saved." She put her hands together to imitate a flying bird. "The virginity itself has long ago flown to Heaven."

"Why would he care so much?"

"I'm to be traded for the power and influence my halfwit half-brother will need to hold on to the Prophetsy. Traded like a pretty carving, wed to some man of wealth and position, to take my place by his side as the first wife of the Prophetsy." Her voice was angry, and she looked away. "I've said too much."

"Your father is the Prophet?"

"Yes."

"Why would he do that to his own daughter?"

She laughed, briefly. "You think the Prophet rules by Noah's word? Perhaps, but only while he's got support from the more powerful bishops. In placing me, he's going to buy loyalty with blood. He wants his dynasty to outlast him, so I'm meant to make my weakling half-brother strong enough to rule."

"What he wants for you doesn't sound so bad."

"To be bartered over like a slave doesn't sound bad?" She looked at him through narrowed eyes. "Perhaps I misjudged you. Maybe you liked being someone else's property."

Danil looked away to the faces on the wall. "Forgive me if I don't see any suffering in a life lived in the Prophet's temple."

"You wouldn't, would you?" She put her fingers to the brand on his cheek again. "Tell me, why did you run away? You knew you were taking your life in your hands."

Danil snorted. "If you were whipped from before the breakfast bell until you went to sleep, if you spent your days toiling for someone else's wealth, if your very body were not your own, you would run too."

"My body isn't my own. In giving it to you, I'm stealing it from the man I'm to marry."

"What's your name?"

"Annaya. And you?"

"Danil. Thank you for saving me. And for . . ." Danil groped for words. "For you."

"Do you love me?"

"You asked that already."

"I'm asking again."

He looked at her, and all at once had an answer to her question, and his own. I love Cira, which doesn't mean I don't desire this woman very much. "Is that what you want, to be loved?" He asked not so much because he wanted the answer but because he didn't want to answer hers.

"I need to know you won't betray me."

Danil raised his eyebrows and shook his head. It wasn't the response he'd been expecting. "I don't love you, but I won't betray you."

"If you don't love me, I can't trust you." Annaya looked angry, and then looked away. "Why didn't you lie? All men lie about love."

"You can trust me because I don't lie. I owe you my life."

"And I should believe you?" There was doubt in her voice.

"What higher debt could I owe you?"

"Love." She turned to face him. "I'm used to men wanting to do things for me because they want me."

Danil laughed. "Did you love the man your father killed, or was he just good at doing what you wanted?"

Annaya's eyes flashed. "How dare you ask me that?"

"What is it you want me to do?"

She studied his face intently. "Do you love me?"

"No." He shook his head slowly. "I owe you my life, and I want you, I desire you more than anything. I don't think I love you."

"You think?" She sounded surprised. "Don't you know?"

"I love someone else. I don't think I can love you at the same time."

"More truth." Annaya laughed bitterly. "You should learn to lie, it works better with women."

"Whatever I owe you, it starts with truth."

Annaya looked away and was silent for a long time, long enough that Danil began to think that he'd offended, but when she finally spoke her voice was softer. "She's a lucky woman, to have a man like you."

"She's dead. The inquisitors killed her."

Annaya said nothing. She was thinking, he could tell. What she was thinking, he couldn't know. He reached over to rub her shoulders and her back, appreciating the touch of her skin.

Finally she turned back to face him. "We have something in common, you and I."

"What's that?"

"My father has killed the ones we loved."

Danil nodded slowly. "I hadn't thought of that, but I suppose it's true."

"Of course it's true. And that's what I need you for. I need you to kill my father."

Danil's eyebrows went up. "The Prophet?"

"Not just him, but him first."

"I'm not a warrior, not really."

"Can you use a blade?"

"I can but . . ."

"Don't you want to avenge your woman's death?"

Her words took Danil by surprise. "She wasn't my woman, she was her own," he answered, just to buy time to think. Don't I want revenge? I should want that, shouldn't I?

But what he remembered, when he thought of Cira, was the inquisitor mark-leader who had stopped his men to let her die in his arms. What he remembered was a man whose eyes had seen too much death. I would kill Hatch, if I saw him, kill the overseers and the drivers, but . . . He shook his head softly, a gesture meant more for himself than for Annaya.

"No," he answered. "I don't want vengeance. I just want her back."

"So kill him for me then." Annaya's voice was suddenly harsh. "You said you owed me your life. You said I had your loyalty."

"Yes . . ." Danil hesitated, not sure how the conversation had come to this point.

"Let me tell you something." Her words came fast and angrily. "I am not a brood mare, not a trinket to be bartered. I am not a tool for my father to use to fix my half-brother's faults. I'm not a prize to be fought over by those hogs on the Elder Council, another wife to be put on a string. Do you think you were my first choice, some random slave condemned to death, strung up like a gutted chicken in a cage to wait for the cross? Everyone else has failed me. Everyone—but my father is going to die, and so is my brother, and anyone else who stands between me and what is rightfully mine."

There was a lethal ferocity in her voice. "I'll do it myself if I have to. I don't hesitate because I'm afraid to kill. I'm only involving you because it will be safer for me. You get your life in return. You get your life and the gratitude of the woman who is going to rule the round world from here to the aftwall."

She put her face close to his, looked in his eyes. "All you need is the yats to act."

Danil met her gaze and realized he was holding his breath against the intensity of her words. "How would you have me do it?"

She shrugged. "It's simple. I'll get you made a house slave for my father. I'll get you a blade. Sooner or later you'll get your chance. Once he's gone we'll find my brother and kill him too."

Danil shook his head. "No."

"What do you mean? Are you scared?"

"No, I'm not scared, because this plan isn't going to happen."

"You are scared." Annaya's anger was suddenly focused on him. "I can't believe I thought you were a man."

"It's got nothing to do with fear. Yes, I'll die if I do this." He smiled cynically. "I'd like to believe that would break your heart, but somehow I don't think it will. But what do you want out of this? Imagine I succeed. Your father's dead, your brother's dead. What happens then?"

"I'm the eldest daughter, the sole heir to the Prophetsy. It falls to me. I can't rule but you can, if you do what I say."

Danil snorted. "I'm just a fisherfolk, but even I know better than that. Do you think the Elder Council is going to just allow a slave to be Prophet, even if the Prophet's daughter says so? If he's dead, they'll seize power for themselves."

"You think I haven't thought of that? I have plans for them."

"What are they?"

"Why should I tell you?"

"Because you need me."

"Not as much as you think." Annaya's words were bitter. "What makes you think you know anything about the Elder Council."

"I know you won't have as much power with them as your father does, and he already doesn't have enough. Why do you think he's using you to bargain in the first place?"

"Why do I care? It's what he's doing."

"Well you should care, because you're going to bring his plan down in ruins. If you don't have something to replace it ready to go the moment the blade goes into his back, you're going to find yourself being placed by the Council, and you'll probably like that even less than who your father chooses. With your brother dead and your father dead, you are going to be the key to the rulership. They'll kill me and fight over you like wild dogs with a bone."

"What am I supposed to do, build an army?"

"You need allies."

Annaya laughed bitterly. "Do you think I don't know that? I had allies, on the Council, in the inquisitors. My father has taken them away, quite deliberately. You're the best I could get."

Danil shook his head. "You aren't doing very well are you?"

"No."

They sat in silence for a while, and Danil looked up at the silent faces looking down on them, then turned to look at Annaya. She was beautiful, compelling, and yet . . . dangerous. Dangerous because she was shallow, and greedy. Dangerous because she lacked any scruple, because anything she did, even make love to him, was aimed at her own goals with no consideration for anyone else.

Yet she has saved my life, and she has given me her body, and she genuinely wants her freedom, just as I did, just as I do. Finally he spoke. "So build an army."

"You're funny."

"I'm serious."

"And how am I supposed to do this?"

"How did you get me? There's ten thousand new slaves in the Prophetsy today, fisherfolk who were free a week ago. That's an army right there, if you can manage to organize it."

"And who's going to lead it? You?"

Danil shook his head. "Not me. I know a man who can, if he's still alive. If we can find him."

Annaya looked at him for a long time. "You are serious, aren't you?"

"Completely. How much time do you have before you're placed?"

"I don't know. A while, I think. Father uses me as a bargaining chip, he's not anxious to trade me away until he has to."

"Will he give you slaves?"

Annaya shook her head. "No, not to a woman," she answered slowly, pensively, and then a slow smile came over her face. "But he'll give them to my brother."

Danil pursed his lips, thinking. "Tell me about your brother."

 

"Conquest is a messy business, Prophet." Bishop Nufell turned to face Polldor. He was a heavyset man, fat but powerful, head of the Nufell family of Sanctity Parish and a power on the Elder Council. Polldor didn't like him much, but he respected him, and he sensed the feeling was mutual.

"Our victory was ordained by God and guided by Noah," Polldor answered the expected answer. The two were walking through the well-manicured orchards of Nufell's farm. The immediate object of the bishop's comment was the undisciplined crew of newly enslaved fisherfolk being trained to harvest mangoes by his drivers in the still-muddy fields, but the still-lingering taint of wood smoke gave the comment a broader context. Halfway up the curve of the world, a full sixth of the aftward forest been burned, everything between the Silver River and the Golden River. The fires were long out now, but a fading blue haze still surrounded the suntube.

"And yet it still had its costs."

"Nothing worth doing comes without cost, Bishop." Polldor waited patiently. He'll name his price soon enough.

"The price for Sanctity Parish has been especially high. Our parisha lost two hundred men."

"God will receive their souls."

"What concerns me is who will receive their land."

"Whatever do you mean, Bishop?" Polldor asked, knowing perfectly well what the man meant. But I'll make him come out and say it, he'll be weaker for using the words.

The bishop looked uncomfortable. "There's been a rumor among the Elder Council . . ."

"Yes?"

"There has been a rumor that you intend to attach the land of slain inquisitors to the Prophetsy."

Polldor laughed. "Is this your concern, Bishop? Men don't become inquisitors because they have land but can't think of anything to do with it. I doubt there's a hundred tares in question in the world."

The bishop nodded slowly. "True, but even so, for those who do have land it should properly return to the parish, not the Prophetsy."

"Is that what you think? Do the Elder Council share your views?"

"I haven't spoken of it with them. When I heard the rumor . . . well, that's why I asked you here. I can't imagine that they would disagree with me."

"Is that all?"

"Isn't that enough?"

"How long have I known you, Bishop Nufell of Sanctity? Nearly thirty years now. In all that time, I have never known you to act with just one motive."

"You imply I have a hidden agenda."

Polldor stroked his chin. "You're your father's seventh son, and in your father's day the Bishopsy of Sanctity Parish didn't belong to the Nufell family. And yet here you are in the bishop's robes while your older brothers work farms that you own. You didn't obtain your position by being unaware of the deeper implications of . . . anything. If a man like you hasn't got his eyes on the high bishop's staff then . . ." Polldor suppressed a smile. " . . . then he isn't a man like you, is he?"

Bishop Nufell shrugged. "I worked hard and invested the fruits of my effort wisely. The Bible commands as much. A man can't be faulted for that. If the Elder Council decides to reward me in the fullness of time, that's nothing more than you would expect."

"A wise and hard-working bishop might still have more than one thing to ask of his Prophet on a private visit." Polldor smiled. "In fact, that's what I would expect. But please forgive me if I'm wrong."

The bishop stood silent for a moment and Polldor smiled to himself. I've outmaneuvered him, and he knows it. Nufell would either have to deny he had anything else he wanted, or make his pitch directly.

Finally the bishop spoke. "There is one other matter. It hardly seems the time to bring it up . . ."

"Better to bring it up now while I'm here, Bishop. You have my undivided attention."

"Your daughter is ready for placement . . ."

"And . . . ?"

"Prophet, a lot of the parish leaders are going to object if you really intend to attach parish land to the Prophetsy." He held up a hand to forestall Polldor's interjection. "You're right that inquisitors in general have little. That isn't what concerns them. They are concerned with the precedent."

"And . . . ?"

"And you're going to need support before the Elder Council, if you really want to make this happen. I do have some influence, as you know . . ."

"Influence you'd be willing to exert on my behalf, in return for my daughter's hand?"

"More than that, Prophet. My own daughter is not much younger than your son. If our families were bound by blood, our interests would be completely aligned. I could hardly object to an increase in the Prophetsy's power if my own grandson were to become Prophet."

"And if not?"

"Then I would have to stand for the interests of Sanctity parish. I would have to do all I could on the Elder Council to ensure the parishes retain their land." He paused. "And enjoy the proper share of what their parishas have won for them."

Polldor nodded slowly. "And what would you do?"

"One thing I would do is propose the disbandment of the inquisitors. The fisherfolk are conquered now, we have no further need of an army. The soldiers should be given land in the aftward forest. They should be given wives from the fisherfolk women and slaves from the men, and they should be free to put down the spear and the cross to take up the lives they have thus far devoted to God and the Prophetsy. Of course each inquisitor will tithe to the parish he belongs to."

Polldor laughed. "Sanctity parish is hardly the best represented among the inquisitors. Every slave, every wife they gain will be one you do not. You stand to lose more through this policy than I do."

"Prophet, let me be frank. The Elder Council fears you. Most of them don't yet fear you enough. I didn't understand what you were doing myself until it was far too late. You have put us all in a position where we cannot hope to win, we can only limit our losses."

"Oh? And what have I done to engender this fear, and to cause you all such grievous loss?"

"What have you done? Do I have to say it? In your father's time the parishas belonged to their bishops, and the Prophet was a figurehead. Today the parishas serve the Prophet, and you've made your position too strong for any single bishop to oppose."

"Yet we all serve the same God."

"Do we? The bishops still pretend that's true, at least to your face. Your parishans and half-parishans are all second sons, and they owe their loyalty to you for giving them status they otherwise would have been denied. I commend you for that; it was a wise move, and a subtle one. Balak leads a force so strong that no one can stand against it. Now you've defeated your enemy, and you still have an army to do with as you will. Now you've created a reason to take both land and power from the Elder Council and accrue it to yourself."

"You give me too much credit, Bishop. The conquest of the fisherfolk was God's will, to bring the Word to every part of Ark. Everything else . . ." Polldor shrugged. "I'm too simple a man for such intrigue."

"So most believe, more through their own denial rather than your deception, I admit. I won't believe you are so simple that you didn't plan this from the start. May I offer you some advice?"

"Go ahead."

"Take what you want, consolidate your power. You've earned that. Don't take so much that you leave the bishops with nothing left to lose. They're mostly old men, and cautious ones. They'll accept what you've done, they'll even give it their blessing if you let them save their dignity.

"But if you take too much, if they believe they'll be left with nothing, then they'll fight. You're not yet so powerful that you can defeat the whole Elder Council on your own. At least some of the parishas will side with their parishes. The inquisitors will be destroyed, and the Prophetsy with them."

"You've given this a lot of thought."

"I'm an ambitious man, Prophet. I recognize my own weaknesses in you. Recognize your strengths in me. I'm half your age and your son, if I can say this without disrespect, is no leader. He's going to need a strong guidance after you're gone, or he'll lose everything you've worked for."

"You aren't the only ambitious man on the Elder Council."

"I am the smartest, and the best positioned to help you." Bishop Nufell paused. "Or to hinder you."

Polldor nodded slowly, considering. This one is dangerous, more dangerous than I thought. "How many wives do you have, Bishop?"

"Six now."

"And how many children?"

"Seventeen."

"Do you seriously think I'd allow my daughter to become a seventh wife?"

"She would be first in rank in my household."

"So you say, but I doubt your senior wives would allow that."

"It's their place to obey me."

"It's their place to obey you, but it's their instinct to ensure that their own children aren't displaced in the order of Sanctity Parish. If you give the time to the Prophetsy that you are implicitly offering, if you spend your energy supporting Olen against the Elder Council, then I guarantee your wives will find a way to destroy Annaya behind your back."

"They wouldn't dare. I'll divorce them all if I have to."

"And destroy your relationships on the Elder Council? Even the most cautious bishop would have to respond if you divorced his daughter. Your carefully spun alliances would fall apart."

"Prophet, think carefully of what I've said. My offer is very serious."

"I'm sure it is, Bishop. When the time comes to place Annaya, I'll give it the consideration it's due." Polldor gave Bishop Nufell a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Right now, what you've said is intriguing, but how much consideration it gets will depend on how you act on the council over the next months. I think that's a very fair offer."

Nufell opened his mouth and then closed it. "I think, Prophet, that you are expecting my support without offering anything in return. Why should I give it to you?"

"Because you still have something left to lose, Bishop. Show me you're an ally and you'll be rewarded, perhaps with everything you wish. Show me that you're an enemy . . ." Polldor let the sentence hang in the air, and turned to walk on ahead without waiting to see if his host would follow. He knows he can't do anything, yet. But this bishop will need watching.

 

"I think I should have a logging crew, Father," Olen Polldor said. Behind him Danil traded a surreptitious glance with Annaya. If they were to build an army they needed slaves and resources they could only get with the Prophet's support. The logging crew was their cover story, and the Prophet's heir was their front.

Prophet Polldor raised his eyebrows. "Can it be you're taking an interest in rulership?" His voice carried a hint of suspicion.

"I am, Father." Olen sounded defensive. "You've always said I should."

"Of course, of course. I just . . . Well, never mind." Polldor smiled wide. "Come here and sit down, my boy. Tell me your plan."

Polldor led his son to a table at the side of his opulently appointed day room. Annaya went with them, but lacking invitation, Danil stayed where he was. He carefully kept his head lowered, and wondered if he should move into one of the slave alcoves, the better to stay out of the way. He decided it was better to be reprimanded for not moving than punished for moving without permission, and so stayed where he was. He watched as best he could, as the father sat down with his son to discuss the details of the new venture.

Annaya sat with them, to fill in any blanks that Olen might miss. It was what had worried them most, because it had taken all her wiles just to convince Olen that if he showed an interest in the new conquests his father might relent on insisting that he train as an inquisitor. Olen was frustratingly lacking in attention span, and Danil had worried that the Prophet might see that Annaya was the driving force behind the idea—and then choose to wonder why. However, Polldor didn't seem inclined to ask too many questions about the sudden transformation of his son's ambitions, and from what Danil could see, Olen was holding his own.

"Over here, slave." Danil looked up to see a lean man with hard eyes looking at him. He wore a crimson inquisitor's cape, and his title scarf was dark blue with elaborate embroidery. His tone brooked no disobedience, and Danil went over to him. "What, no obeisance? You're no house slave, are you?"

Belatedly Danil dropped to his knee and bowed his head, as Annaya had taught him to. He bit his lip, wondering who the stranger was, and worrying that his slip might have cost him the entire plan. I was so concerned about how Olen would do. I need to focus on my own tasks. The man walked around him, looking him over. "Stand." He ordered.

Silently Danil stood.

The man put out a hand and raised Danil's chin, turning it so he could inspect the cross brand on his cheek. "So you've earned yourself a brand."

"Yes, sir," Danil answered, trying to keep his voice neutral.

"How?"

"I hit a driver, sir."

"Why did his Holiness pick you?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Because I can control him, Balak." Olen spoke up from the other side of the room. "And because he's worked a lumber crew before."

"Really?" The man called Balak turned to Prophet Polldor. "Your Holiness, I'm sure we have unbranded slaves with lumber crew experience."

"We chose him for that reason," Annaya put in. "We have ten thousand new slaves and nowhere near enough drivers in the Prophetsy. Everyone is using head slaves now. This one hasn't had the initiative beaten out of him. We need that."

"We?" Polldor's gaze moved to Annaya. "I wondered why you'd come. I thought this was Olen's idea."

"It was, Father. He asked my advice and I gave it. You always said I should support my brother."

The Prophet nodded slowly. "Very well." He stood and came over to Danil, looking him up and down, assessing him. "We'll use this one," he said finally, then moved closer to Danil. "Name?"

"Danil Fougere, sir."

Pain flared as Balak smacked Danil across the back of the head. "The Prophet is addressed as 'your Holiness.' "

"Danil Fougere, your Holiness."

"You have an opportunity here, Danil Fougere," the Prophet said. "Work well and you can earn yourself a place in the Prophetsy. Betray me . . ." His eyes narrowed. ". . . and you'll find yourself begging for the cross before I'm done with you."

Danil swallowed hard. "I appreciate the chance, your Holiness, and your faith in me."

"Faith." Polldor smirked. "Save that for your crew." The man called Balak said nothing, but Danil could feel his eyes on him even after they'd left his presence.

The next days were hectic, as he and Annaya made the arrangements to start the new lumber crew in the aftward forests. Danil was surprised to learn that it wasn't just a matter of ordering what was needed in the Prophet's name. Polldor's authority was great but not unlimited. They were given a budget to buy slaves, food, and equipment, and then they had to go out and bargain for what they wanted.

At first they tried to work through Olen, but the Prophet Unrisen's initial interest had quickly waned once he realized there was real work required. Fortunately Danil's new status as a head slave gave him much more freedom of action. Because of his brand he couldn't walk the market square in Charity without risking arrest, so Annaya got him a Prophet's Cross sigil to wear around his neck, which warned everyone he dealt with that he was speaking with the Prophet's authority.

In form it was identical to the one on his cheek, and when she gave it to him Danil spent a long time looking at the small shipsteel token, turning it over in his hands. How strange that the same symbol both enslaves and empowers. Even the inquisitors who stopped him in the streets changed their demeanor when they saw the sigil, though they stopped short of the respectful deference the common people gave him.

It was only as he began to learn the intricacies of the market that he realized how small the Prophetsy's timber supply had become. There were few logable stands of mature trees foreward of the Prophetsy wall, and the price of wood in the markets was prohibitively high for the average commoner. Logging tools were expensive too, because the wealth of timber the conquest had opened up had started a rush. On the other hand, once expensive slaves were now quite cheap, and the cost of horses had fallen through the floor, because haul crews now cost less than horse teams. He went to the auction houses daily, picking and choosing what he needed in equipment, animals, and human beings, in the process learning how to bargain, and then how to bargain hard.

Quite soon he had the nucleus of his army—thirty workhorses, some logging tools and a ragtag group of thirty recently purchased fisherfolk slaves. It was not even a full mark, and even he had to admit they didn't look like much of a force. The youngest was a boy named Fredir, only thirteen, but even his oldest was just twenty-two, and though all of them had fought the Prophetsy during the attack none of them were warriors in any realistic sense of the word. But neither am I a war leader.

He had hoped to locate Era in the slave auctions and put him in charge of the force, but he hadn't. It was going to fall to him to train the army until a real leader could be found, and he was realizing that he had no clue how to do that.

"Why so many horses? You should have bought more bodies," complained Annaya.

"I've worked a haul crew. I'm not going to subject my soldiers to that."

"And you call them soldiers—half of them are women. This isn't an army, it's a picnic for boys and girls."

"They're what I need, for now. Give me time." They were lying in the bed she had made in their secret room in the temple darkness, and Danil ran his hand over the skin of her back, pale in the ghostly light.

"Women cost more and work less," she scoffed.

"Women fight as well as men, and if you want your own freedom women are going to have to fight for it."

"You couldn't turn them into soldiers in a hundred years. And even your men are just boys."

"I can't lead veterans, they wouldn't follow me."

"You aren't supposed to lead them. Where's this great warrior you said you'd have lead my army?"

Danil spread his arms. "I haven't found him. If you want this to work we have to produce a functional timber camp. Do you want me to stop doing that and go search every slave crew in every parish for him?"

"This is taking too much time," Annaya pouted.

"As for time, we seem to spend a great deal of it in bed."

"Are you complaining?"

There was no good answer to that, and so he kissed her, and then after a while he mounted her, while she moaned and shuddered beneath him. And yet something isn't right. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy sex with Annaya, he enjoyed it very much. It's just that she's insatiable, and there's so much to do, and so little time.

Somehow it seemed like a distraction from more important things, though he had to admit it was a distraction he very much enjoyed. Afterwards he held her the way she liked to be held, and looked up at the etched faces that looked down on their secret space, as he always did to regain his balance after her passion. We're taking such risks here.

He laughed at himself for thinking in terms of we, implicitly Annaya and himself. He didn't like to think like that, partially because he sensed that Annaya thought purely in terms of herself, but more because it made him feel disloyal to Cira. But I owe Annaya my life. Whether he enjoyed it or not, or felt guilty about it or not, made no difference. It's what I have to do, and so I'm going to do it.

"Aren't you afraid I'll get you pregnant?" he asked after a while.

"Why would you care?"

"Because it would ruin our plan. You'd be caught and I'd be crucified."

She snorted. "You have a lot to learn about women, don't you? You should say 'Because I love you, Annaya. And even though I know it's wrong, I want you to carry my child.' "

"Why do you care if I love you? Sex is a tool for you, you've said as much."

"Because if you love me, then I know it's working."

"You wouldn't believe me even if I said I did."

"I know what bloodberries are for," she answered, looking away and avoiding his point. "You don't have to worry about me catching a child."

Danil reached over and turned her face until he was looking into her eyes. "I care for you, Annaya. I'm bound to you. I'll fight for you, and die for your freedom, and my own. I'll swear that on my grandmother's pyre, but if you want me to love you, you're going to have to start loving yourself."

She didn't answer, but he didn't let her turn away either. A tear formed in the corner of her eye, and then she was crying, sobbing in his arms, and suddenly he did love her, and he didn't know what to say or do except hold her and tell her it would be alright.

It was well into the sleeping hours that they came back into the suntube's brightness and went their separate ways. Danil had been given a cubicle with the temple's drivers, a luxury he was not at all comfortable accepting. Once he thought he saw Hatch in the corridor, and turned away shaken, and he hurried back to his quarters. From the window he could look up to the Prophet's Tower, where Annaya lived. Its height seemed only to emphasize the distance between them. It would be nice to think that we could be together. They had a long way to go before that could even become a possibility, and the odds were long against such a happy ending.

He went back to planning the timber operation. Prophet Polldor, Danil had learned, had claimed all the forest that had once belonged to the fisherfolk in his own name. One sixth of that, everything between the Silver River and the White River, had been burned in the war. A sixth was divided between the landed bishops, a further sixth given to the inquisitors who'd done the fighting, and the rest he had kept for himself. It was in this section that Olen Polldor's logging camp was to be set up, on the opposite side of the trading road from Polldor's own operation. The burnt out remains of Far Bay were also in the Prophet's sector, and Danil considered that a good thing. We can hide things in the ruins, if we have to, and we'll probably have to.

At the next morning-meal bell, he was ready to start. It took until the mid-day meal to get the group organized, wagons loaded with tools and supplies, horses harnessed, slaves roped into line. Once they were, Danil led them aftward down the trading road. In addition to the supply wagons they had a pair of timber carriers, big, skeletal frames with beam cranes mounted at front and back. They rode on oversized, extra-wide steel-shod wheels and were rigged for a twelve horse team, capable of hauling a sixty foot trunk over a rutted logging road. They were Danil's own design, and he'd insisted on them being built despite the cost and time required, because his experience on the haul crew had taught him the hard way of the foolish inefficiency of dragging heavy trees over soft ground.

The trip took them almost until the midnight Bell. When they arrived, after the drivers and hostlers had left, he told his exhausted charges that they were soldiers and not slaves. They went from disbelief to cheers, and Danil went to sleep that night a hero in his small world.

The new-minted soldiers' enthusiasm diminished rapidly the next day, once they understood that being soldiers meant more work, not less. The first order of business was to set up their camp, which meant stripping the brush from a forest clearing and building shelters, simple frames with waxed flax covers to start with.

Danil found even that was a challenge to organize, and he only won their cooperation by making it clear that no one would eat until the work was done. The easy leadership that Era had exercised seemed beyond him. The next day was even harder. Two of his recruits vanished in the sleeping hours, and a half-dozen of the remainder tried to bully their way into the food wagon. It might have meant the end of the project right there, but he appointed Avel, the largest of the group, as his second-in-command, and nobody wanted to fight Avel. With his backing Danil was able to keep the work moving, but at the same time he began to realize that there was far more to be done than he had ever imagined. By the end of the first week all they had for their efforts was a primitive camp and a rough routine to keep it running. Not a single tree had been felled for timber, let alone any effort put into developing tactics for an army and training on them.

Still, the routine at least gave him something on which he could base his organization, a hierarchy of command and the group cohesion necessary to get jobs done. He appointed two flank-captains and four mark-leaders, who led marks of five or six. Avel became his half-parishan, which by default made Danil parishan. It was a ridiculously over-organized structure, but it worked.

And I have to plan for expansion. The plan with Annaya was to expand the army to a full parisha, and there was no way he could lead such a force single-handed. The time to start developing sub-commanders is now. That brought up the question of training them in tactics and formations once more, and Danil himself knew little enough of that. But that's a problem for later, and hopefully a problem for Era, if I can find him.

Discipline and motivation remained problematic, but on the ninth day things were running well enough that he felt comfortable leaving Avel in charge. He took a beltbag of dried mutton and hard bread, and hiked down to Far Bay to see what he might find. The inquisitors had burned and looted the fisherfolk city, but neither operation had been really finished. It was as if the Prophetsy had forgotten the city existed after they'd set their fires. And perhaps that's exactly what happened. Poking around the ruins he found a lot that could be salvaged, though nothing that was immediately useful. The net weaver's shop where he had had his secret nest was gone, burned to the ground, but Era's forge was built largely of resined brick and thus was still partially standing. The easy-to-carry tools were gone, but the big waterwheel was still turning, and the tacklewheels and beltropes that drove the forge bellows and the drop hammer were intact. He found the alleyway where he'd first escaped from Hatch, and the cut-yard he'd fled through. The buildings there were levelled, but though the stocks of wood there had been set alight, the flames had burned themselves out, and most of the lumber was still useable.

That will be useful, when the time comes. His timber crew was going to have to function as a timber crew in order to stay beneath the notice of Polldor and the frightening Balak. Creating an army would have to happen in the background, in whatever time they could spare, and the already-cut lumber would buy a lot of time. They had only to build a track through the forest and clear some debris to get the big timber-carriers down to the city. He moved on from the cut-yard, through the blackened skeletons of burned out houses. It was strange to be walking streets he had almost forgotten, stranger still that they were destroyed and empty. He looked up the curve of the world to where Cove had once been. The inquisitors had burned it too, and now all he could see was a blackened patch. His throat constricted at the sight, and he felt a cold anger rise in him.

He turned to go back to the lumber camp. When he arrived he cancelled the work shift, and took all his nascent soldiers to the ruins to see for themselves what he had seen. After that, discipline was no longer a problem. A grim determination settled over the small group. They had a purpose now.

It took a month to get the timber camp working as some kind of productive entity, but he had an advantage in his long experience in slave crews and soon they were felling timber. It wasn't a moment too soon. On the thirtieth day, just after the evening-meal bell, a group of inquisitor riders came down the rough track that led to their camp. Balak was at their head.

"Danil Fougere." Balak reined to a halt behind him. "His Holiness the Prophet Unrisen wants to see lumber for sale in the Charity markets."

"We have the first twenty tons ready . . ." Danil hesitated. ". . . I'm sorry, I don't know your title."

"You don't need to answer," said Balak. "Your obedience is taken for granted. You'll have fifty dressed tons there by market-open tomorrow." Danil bowed his head as the only possible response, and tried to keep the fear off his face. Balak nudged his horse and moved off to inspect the worksite. Danil watched him, unsure of what to do next. A man like Balak didn't ride from the forewall to the aftward forests just to deliver a message. He had come to follow up on the suspicions that had been written in his face when Olen had first come to Prophet Polldor with the idea for a lumber crew. The other inquisitors had dismounted and were moving around the camp, looking into the crude shelters they'd built, inspecting the stacked logs and the tools.

His Holiness the Prophet Unrisen. That was the formal term for the Prophet's son, but it could not be the lazy and disinterested Olen who was demanding results, it could only be Balak himself, doing it for reasons of his own. I'm getting caught up in Prophetsy politics, and that's dangerous. Balak made a signal, and the inquisitors went back to their horses and mounted. Fifty tons by market open. They didn't even have that much cut, and half what they did have still needed dressing. They would need time to get the carriers loaded, and more time to move them the twenty kilometers up the trading road to Charity. He was being asked for the impossible.

Balak knew that, he was deliberately setting up Danil to fail. But he doesn't know about the lumber still in Far Bay. I can use that and succeed, maybe. Unexpected success would make an enemy of the High Inquisitor. But he's already an enemy, and he's the one who's set the rules. Era would have known how to handle the situation, but Era wasn't there, and there was no point in wasting time.

"Avel!" Danil raised his voice. "Get everyone together, we've got work to do." None of them would sleep that night.

 

"What did you find, Balak?" Prophet Polldor slung his rabbit bow and reined his horse up as Balak drew level with him. He would rather have gone hunting in his newly won lands by the ocean. There would be deer aplenty there, perhaps even a leopard, but he couldn't spare the time to ride there, hunt, and return.

"Nothing, your Holiness. The slaves are there, the lumber is there. My men searched and found everything as it should be."

"And yet you're still not convinced."

Balak shook his head. "You know me too well, Prophet."

"It's my job to know you well. What makes you suspicious?" Polldor hung the reins and dismounted. A brace of rabbits and a fat pheasant hung from his game tree. It had been a good morning's hunt, even without a deer.

"It doesn't ring true, Prophet," said Balak, swinging down to join him. Together they walked the horses to a nearby beech tree and threw the hitch lines over a convenient branch.

"Explain."

The High Inquisitor put up his hands. "Your son. He asked for this venture, but now he shows no interest in it. Your daughter shows far too much."

"I've asked Annaya to support Olen before. It's a relief that she's finally doing it."

"Is she? Or does she have her own motives?"

"What other motive could she have?" Polldor turned to lead his friend and advisor away from the horses, down to the bank of the Golden River. It was one of his favorite places, to hunt, to ride, to hike, and most of all to get away from the confines of the Tower, where intrigue and politicking consumed far too much time and effort.

"Power."

"Over Olen? She has it already."

"Over you, Prophet. She doesn't accept the order of Noah's line."

Polldor laughed. "And how would she gain power with a timber camp?"

"I don't know. I do know that people don't change, or change little. The Prophet Unrisen changed just long enough to start this venture, and I suspect if we look deeper we'll find her Holiness put him up to it. Now that it's started she runs it, make no mistake. She sends her erranders into the market, to sell your steel and buy tools with the tokens. She watches the accounts, so closely that the tithecounters now dread the sound of her voice. I think she plans to oppose you, Prophet."

"Oppose me?" Polldor laughed. "That's hardly news. She's opposed me every day since her second birthday."

"Not like this." Balak put a hand to his chin, considering what he was about to say. "And then there's her chief slave. He's branded, and I don't trust him."

"Why not?"

"I ordered him to bring fifty tons of timber to the market. He didn't have that much ready, I'm sure of that."

"He's only beginning production."

"Exactly, Prophet! And yet the next day he produced the full fifty tons, cut, dressed and sawn. Where did they come from?"

"Perhaps you overlooked them."

"Perhaps." Balak hesitated. "I should have left watchers in place. I would have, except I expected him only to fail."

"What happened to the proceeds?"

"One of your son's erranders was there for the market, and brought the proceeds to the tithemaster."

"And are the figures correct?"

Balak nodded. "To the token, Prophet."

"Hmmm." Polldor stroked his beard. "I trust your instincts, old friend, but what I see here is this. My son is at last turning his head to rulership, and my daughter is at last turning her rulership to support him. They've chosen a smart enterprise, one she can run while letting him have the credit. She's watching his affairs closely, and she's chosen a chief slave who can produce under stress, who's shown loyalty despite his brand, and who is thus far honest."

"Prophet, there is something wrong about this, I can taste it. I know her Holiness, better than you think. She . . ." Balak hesitated. ". . . she was more effected by her lover's death than you know."

A pained expression crossed Polldor's face. "You may be right. It won't matter long, though. I'm going to place her soon enough."

"Who with, your Holiness?"

"Bishop Nufell."

Balak paused, considering that. "Are you sure you want to do that, Holiness? He has a reputation for squeezing his parish."

"And now he's squeezing the Elder Council just as hard, on my behalf. He thinks he's gaining power, but soon they'll fear him more than I. He's ambitious, but young. He'll be useful as an ally, and more useful to show the council there are worse potentials than my own rule."

"But will he give her Holiness due reverence?"

"Unlikely." Polldor smirked. "But he may yet live to regret his ambition. It's hard enough to be Annaya's father. To be her husband . . . Let's just say I pity the man."

They had reached the river bank, and Polldor sat down on the roots of an ancient willow. "I need you to watch him, Balak, as closely as you can without giving it away. How loyal is the Sanctity parisha?"

"With land of their own now? More loyal to you than to him, though a lot are eager to leave the ranks, take wives and start their own timber camps. They won't wait forever. It's like that in all the parishas. The war is over, and they want their share." Balak paused. "I apologize, Prophet."

"For what?"

"I would like to think my inquisitors weren't so easily swayed from your service."

"They're second sons who thought they'd never have the chance. I don't blame them, or you. I'll soon release those who want to go, but not yet. Right now good wood is fetching a premium, and we hold most of the market. We'll keep it that way until the price falls, and then they can do what they want with the land."

"You're subtle, Prophet."

"I have to be." Polldor paused, thinking. "Be careful watching the bishop; I don't want him to know you're doing it. There's one who is determined to have power."

"And your daughter?"

"Keep watching her too. And this chief slave of hers. I want no surprises coming before I tell her she's placed."

"As you wish, Prophet." Something stirred in the bushes, and Balak raised his rabbit bow and released the shaft with one fluid motion. Polldor turned in time to see it catch a fat red-tailed squirrel.

"Good shot," he said.

Balak bowed his head. "By your blessing, Prophet."

 

Era paused to wipe the sweat from his brow, a pointless gesture since he was drenched in it. The field was low lying, and much of it was still sodden from the previous month's rain. The suntube relentlessly boiled out the moisture, which hung in the air like a blanket. Even without the humidity the work was hard and heavy, and raising his arm above his shoulder brought pain to the newly healed scar tissue on his chest.

At that I was lucky . . . if you can call it luck. At the end of his row, a driver stepped forward menacingly. Era bent over again to carry on pulling shafts of ripe flax from the ground. The tree that had fallen on him in the battle had burned him badly, but by rights he should have died. The fire had burned itself out, but he'd lain trapped under it for two days before an inquisitor spotter patrol stumbled on him and took him prisoner.

The Prophetsy was well-organized for conquest. It was less well-organized to handle a sudden doubling of its slave population. For Era that meant he had yet to be subjected to the humiliation of a slave collar, because there weren't enough to go around. It also meant that he was poorly fed, poorly housed, and poorly treated. There weren't enough drivers to handle all the new slave crews, especially since none of the newly captured fisherfolk were accustomed to a life of subservience. That meant the frequent application of the lash for problems that had been caused by the drivers themselves.

Era's crew had been given to the Bishop of Ascension Parish and assigned to harvest flax from the parish fields. None of them had ever done it before, and neither had their driver. It was unsurprising that their first day's effort damaged most of the crop they managed to harvest. It was equally unsurprising that they were punished for it.

But I don't care about that, I just want to see Sall again.

His first instinct after capture was simply to run. They were kept in a hastily built compound and getting out of it would not have been hard. He chose to wait.

The inquisitors were patrolling the countryside in half-mark strength. The first day he'd seen ten escapers brought in with fresh cross brands burned onto their cheeks. By the third day so many fisherfolk were escaping they started riding down the fugitives and killing them on the spot. When that didn't work they started putting crucifixes up around the slave pens as a warning, and after that people stopped trying to run.

There was nowhere to go in any case. The Prophetsy had put Far Bay to the torch, and around the curve of the ocean's shoreline he could see the smoldering ruins of every fisherfolk village. He had nearly wept when he'd seen the smoke, thinking of his forge, the years of work he'd put into it.

And my father and grandfather . . . He had first courted Sall there, proposed to her there. And we're still young enough for children, if she could bear. He pushed the thought away. He wouldn't see her again, he knew. He'd seen her die. Far Bay was gone, his life was gone. Prophet Polldor intended his victory to be permanent.

Era finished his row and moved to the next. His crew was better at harvesting now. They had learned how to pull the plants up by their roots without damaging the stem, and how to properly pile the harvested flax on the ground to be retted. It was backbreaking stoop labor, unworthy of a craftsman, unworthy of a battle leader, but he swallowed his pride and worked steadily. There would come a time when he could escape, and a time after that when he could avenge his wife, but not now. While he waited there was no point in gaining a reputation as a problem. When the time came it would be easier to get away if his captors were unsuspecting.

"Keep moving there, you're falling behind." Three rows over a driver raised his stick in warning, and Era bent over again and put some more effort into his motions, though his aching back paid for the exertion. He said nothing, but he knew the man, knew his face. The driver hadn't been a driver the day before, and he had a stick because there was no short-whip for him. He is fisherfolk.

The Bishop of Ascension had decided to solve his slave control problem by promoting some of his new workers to oversee the rest. It was not an option Era would have considered for a heartbeat, and it would have been better for all of fisherfolk if no one took the offer. Unfortunately some had, but Era took that in stride too. Sooner or later the tables would turn, and those who had turned their back on their people would pay the price for their opportunism then.

There was a commotion at the top of the field, and Era looked up to see men on horses with crimson cloaks. There was shouting, commands were barked and then all of a sudden the drivers were herding their crews out of the fields, forming them into lines, leading them up to the area beside their pen. The break from the monotonous work was welcome, but the relief in Era's back was balanced by the realization that whatever was happening was probably not going to be good.

When his crew arrived they were put into line with the others. Most of the newcomers were mounted inquisitors, with parish banners fluttering from their spears. Behind them, also mounted, was a young man in splendid white robes. Something was happening down on the far right of the line, a group on foot moving along the long row of slaves.

Era took a risk, took a step forward to look and see what was happening, and then stepped back as a driver raised his short-whip. He saw enough to understand what was happening. Slaves were being selected, taken out of line and sent to another area, for what purpose he could only guess. The ones chosen seemed to be the younger and stronger, but whether it was a good thing to be chosen or not was unknowable. He took another step forward and back to confirm what he was seeing, and this time earned a stripe from the short-whip for his trouble. He accepted it with equanimity.

A whisper came down the line. "It's the Prophet's son . . ." Era touched his tongue to his lips, thinking fast, assessing the white robed figure as though he could somehow read the boy's intent in his face. It might be better to be in the Prophet's service directly, or it might be worse. To the extent that he could influence the choice about to be made for him he could influence his fate. To be chosen or not?

On balance it seemed that being chosen must be a bad thing. The youngest and strongest would only be selected for particularly arduous labor. As the group grew close he bent to the ground and picked up a fist full of dirt, ran it over his face and beard and into his hair. He let himself slouch forward, rounding his shoulders, letting his face go slack. He was older than most of the others anyway, it seemed likely that he'd escape whatever it was awaiting the chosen. The group came to him, but he kept his eyes on the ground, trying to look tired and defeated. It was a performance that took little effort.

"Look up." The voice was commanding, imperious, and he recognized it. He looked up to meet the eyes of Danil Fougere. He saw the other's eyes widen in recognition, but otherwise the young man gave no sign. Despite his desire to keep his own expression neutral, Era felt his jaw tighten. He had seen none of his group since the battle, but he would've liked to believe that none of them would betray the fisherfolk. It cut him to the core to see one of his own working for the Prophetsy. He sold us out. Unconsciously his hands balled into fists.

"This one." Danil jerked his thumb in the direction of the group that was growing off to the side of the line. He gave no other sign that he'd recognized Era, just moved to the next slave, and the next. An inquisitor herded Era away from his crew, away from the flax field, and towards an uncertain future. The Prophet's son, if that's who the boy in the robes truly was, wasn't even paying attention. Era found that galling somehow, but he reserved his anger for Danil. He'll pay for this, I swear it.

Unceremoniously he was roped into a slave crew thirty strong, and marched aftward under the escort of a half-mark of mounted inquisitors. Several bells later they arrived at the Prophetsy wall. There had been fighting in the area, and clustered arrow shafts still spiked up from the ground, but the grass had grown up long since the battle, and there was no other indication that hundreds of soldiers had died on that very ground such a short time ago.

A gap had been cut in the wall, bricks and timbers torn out to make an opening, and they were marched through it into the forest, following a recently cut track to a crude encampment, nothing more than a few hastily constructed shacks in a clearing. Fresh cut tree trunks, haul lines and logging gear told him all he needed to know. This is a lumber crew.

Something close to horror seeped into his soul at the revelation. The Prophetsy's lumber crews were notorious for their brutality, even in Far Bay. At the same time he felt a measure of hope. He was in the aftward forest, territory he knew intimately.

Escape would be easy: he needed a hundred meters of head start and they would never find him.

The inquisitor escorting them handed them over to a tall man named Avel who was carrying an ironwood club. Era's jaw clenched; Avel was also fisherfolk. How easily our own betray us. Avel moved to the head of the line and watched as the inquisitor rode off through the trees. When they were gone he turned to the group.

"Fisherfolk, the Prophetsy has made you slaves." His voice was strong, commanding. "I came here as a slave, but I didn't like slavery, so I became a soldier. They took my honor, and now I've taken it back. As slaves you have no honor. As slaves you're tied into crews, and lashed like animals." He walked up and down the line, looking each man in the eye. "Well, as of this moment you aren't slaves any longer, you're soldiers. You are soldiers in the army that is going to take back what rightfully belongs to the fisherfolk. The Prophetsy doesn't have your honor anymore. It's right there in front of you. It's up to you to pick it up again."

Era looked at Avel in utter disbelief, then looked around to confirm that they were in a barely established lumber camp. What the big man was saying seemed impossible. There were no weapons, no armor, no nothing, not even as much organization as they'd had before the Prophetsy attacked. And yet already other slaves . . . No, soldiers! . . . were coming down the line, unharnessing the newcomers. His own neck rope was undone, and reflexively he looked up the track where the inquisitors had left, but there was nothing there. He looked in the other direction, aftward into the forest and towards the ocean. I could still disappear.

"Era!" The voice was familiar, and Era turned to face the speaker.

"Danil! What's going on here?" Era stepped from the line as Avel called the rest of the newly released fisherfolk to follow him.

"Just what Avel said. We're building an army. I'm the parishan."

"Parishan? That's an inquisitor rank."

"We're using their formations, their tactics. We have to if we want to take the battle out of the forest."

"Hmmph. The day I call you parishan is the day I die."

"You won't have to. I want you to lead."

Era raised his eyebrows, his doubt clear in his face.

"Who better, Era? We need you."

The blacksmith nodded slowly, absorbing his sudden change in circumstance. "Then show me what you've got."

* * * 

Sanctity Parish Hall was a small fortress in its own right, with high walls topped with arrow towers, and heavy timber gates. Sanctity's parisha was drawn up in ordered ranks in the courtyard, and Bishop Nufell looked down from his balcony on the third floor as the parishan read out the Prophet's proclamation. Each inquisitor would be free to leave the order, if he so chose, and take up a farm in the newly conquered forests. Each inquisitor would be entitled to a wife from the newly captured women. Those who took land would be subject to recall service on the Prophet's order, for no more than six months in a year. Nufell's lips curled into a frown. The Prophet had effectively stolen the loyalty of Sanctity's own soldiers for himself, and there was little the bishop could do about it. But I will yet have power. He turned to the young man standing beside him.

"You can see I'm loyal to your father, your Holiness. His proclamation is read exactly as he requires."

"I'm sure you are. Why wouldn't you be?" Olen Polldor sounded earnest, and Nufell smiled a smile that was as contrived on the inside as it was sincere on the outside.

"Ah, young Olen, there's a lot you have to learn."

The Prophet's son made a face. "I wish you didn't sound so much like my father."

Nufell laughed. "I promise I won't make you study. I've asked you here to pledge loyalty to you."

"Well yes, of course," answered Olen, although his expression showed he really didn't understand what Nufell was driving at.

I'm going to have to be more direct. "Not 'of course,' your Holiness. Unfortunately, not everyone supports the Prophetsy the way they should." Nufell clapped his hands, and two of his wives came in carrying platters with bowls of berries, rich clotted cream, fresh buttered breads and filtered wine in fine-glazed flasks. "Eat with me and let me explain." He offered the Prophet's son a chair, and the young man sat. "There are those on the Elder Council who believe they could do a better job as Prophet."

"A better job?" Olen seemed half puzzled, half offended. "To be Prophet they'd have to be of Noah's line, and that's my father, and then me. Me." He put stress on the last word. "No one else can be Prophet."

"Are you sure your father agrees?" Nufell raised his flask. "Blessings, your Holiness."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Olen, ignoring the pleasantry.

Nufell shrugged. "It's no secret your father questions your fitness to rule." He leaned forward. "I've heard he's been asking some of the Elder Council if they'll follow his daughter."

Olen looked shocked. "The Prophet can't be a woman!"

"I agree, your Holiness. But it's no secret your father favors your sister over you."

"But he couldn't . . . Annaya . . ." Olen spluttered, suddenly lost for words.

"I'm sure you're right, your Holiness," Nufell went on. "I'm sorry I brought it up. It's not my place to . . ."

"Never mind that. Tell me what you've heard."

"Only what I've told you. But your right, the Prophet can't be a woman, and your father knows that."

"It would be like him to try to put Annaya in my place. He's always favored her. Always." Olen looked away, trying not to pout, and Nufell smiled a small smile. He had the young man just where he wanted him.

"Well, the Prophet's will isn't to be denied. Unless . . ."

"Unless what?" Olen snapped his attention back to the bishop.

"Unless it conflicts with the will of God."

"Hmmph. My father won't care about that. So far as he's concerned he is the will of God. He thinks I'm useless, I can't do anything well enough for him." Olen looked to the older man. "It isn't my fault I don't like to shoot and ride. Why would I? Why should I?"

"No reason at all. You're the Prophet's son. Other people should do these things for you."

Olen nodded. "Exactly."

"And you are entitled to be Prophet, when your time comes. God ordains it."

"Yes, yes, exactly right."

"It would be a sin for your father to put your sister in your place. You can't allow that."

"How can I prevent it?" Olen threw his arms up. "He'll do what he wants, he always does."

"Then you'll have to take what you're entitled to." Nufell leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Seize it."

"How?" Olen leaned forward, suddenly interested.

"I've pledged loyalty to you, your Holiness. Do you trust me now? Trust me with your life?"

"Yes, yes I do."

"Well then, I have a way, perhaps." Bishop Nufell leaned closer still. "You'll have to do just what I say."

"Tell me what I have to do."

Nufell smiled. "The inquisitors are the key, and the High Inquisitor is key to the inquisitors."

Olen snorted. "Balak? There's no getting around him. If he were any more loyal he'd be a dog."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps not. I've watched Balak, and the one thing I know to be true about him is—he believes. That's his blade and his shield, but belief is a two-edged weapon, and even the largest shield can't cover everything."

"What do you mean?"

"A man can only have one loyalty. The High Inquisitor is loyal to his faith, not your father. We can use that."

"My father is his faith."

"Almost true but not quite. We need to find the place where that's false. That's where we slide the blade in."

Olen nodded, thinking that over, but Nufell could tell he had the young man captivated. He smiled to himself. Polldor has the inquisitors, but I have the Prophet's son.

 

"Spear fence, now!" Danil yelled to his flank-captains, "Skirmishers out!"

"Spear fence, skirmishers out!" The flank-captains relayed his orders down the line, and the formation moved. Danil turned to see Era's expression, to read there what he thought of the army Danil had built for him, but the older man's face was impassive. In seconds his parisha had adopted the formation, three ranks with spears planted to receive a horse charge, with a fourth rank carrying rabbit bows deployed ten meters forward.

"Move to double lines!" Danil yelled, and again the flank-captains echoed his words and the formation moved. At first it moved well, but then something went wrong on the left flank. Both marks there had moved, and marched straight into another, causing them to dissolve into a milling mob. Danil turned away, not wanting to watch, or to see Era's reaction. He'd grown his army to a full parisha in just four months, but the slaves-turned-soldiers were still a ragtag group. They had only sharpened poles to represent spears, with no armor, and not even ironwood blades. More importantly they had only the shakiest grasp on the formation drills required to function as a cohesive unit. It wasn't his fault, he knew, but he also knew that issues of fault would make no difference in the face of the well drilled inquisitors.

The fact was they couldn't train in the open. As a result, they'd spent the first two months just clearing a space large enough to train out of the forest, cutting trees, hauling logs and digging out the stumps eight bells a day, and practicing with their improvised weapons for another six. It had been gruelling work, but his little band had worked hard, and Danil had been proud of them, and himself. Now, with Era watching beside him, they seemed amateurish and unskilled.

The shouting subsided, and Danil turned around to see if the chaos had been sorted out. It hadn't. At least it's no worse than before. The mark-leaders of the involved marks were arguing over something, while their charges watched in a gaggle. Their flank-captain was descending on them, already yelling.

"Dismiss them," said Era.

"What?"

"Dismiss them. We're done here. I can't lead this group."

"But Era . . ."

But Era was already walking away. "Flank-captains! Half-parishan, dismiss the ranks!" Danil yelled, then turned to catch up. Behind him he could hear Avel yelling, and then the sudden babble of voices as the ranks dissolved. Era walked to a tree at the edge of their clearing and waited there for him.

"That was a bad example, we've done much better . . ." Danil began.

Era shook his head. "Danil, I appreciate your confidence in me, but I can't be parishan here. Look at the way they follow you. You built this army, it's yours now."

Danil looked at the older man, stunned. He had expected criticism of the failure of the maneuver, not praise for his leadership. "I don't know anything about this or . . ."

"Evidently you've learned."

"Era, you saw what problems we have. I'm already at my limit, and we need to be much, much better to stand in battle with the inquisitors."

Era put out his hands, palm up. "Danil, I led an ambush party against the Prophetsy, but I'm a blacksmith by trade. I can help you with blade and bow, but you credit me with too much. I don't know anything about formation tactics."

"But . . ." Danil was at a loss for words. He had pinned every hope on Era. "You see what we have here. They—we need more than I can give them."

Era nodded. "Probably. Still, you're the leader, and you have to keep leading."

"Why do you think I searched you out? I chose you to be the leader. What do I know of fighting but what you taught me?"

"You're the one who put this together, Danil. It has to be you. I'm a stranger to most of these people. They won't follow me. And even if they would, that won't make what you've got capable of taking on the inquisitors. It took Polldor twenty years to build his army."

"We don't have that kind of time."

"How much do you have?"

Danil looked away, wondering how much to take Era into his confidence. A few meters away a box turtle was making stately progress across the forest floor, and he watched the small creature while he thought. Era doesn't need to know, and the fewer people who know the safer we all are. At the same time, he does need to know I trust him. And I need his advice.

"Not much time," he said. "We have a patron supporting this, a Prophetsy woman. She has power to help us now, but she's being placed for marriage soon and she'll lose it, and us with it. If we aren't able to fight and win by then, we'll all be slaves again."

"How long before your woman is placed?"

"I don't know, and she doesn't either. It could be tomorrow, it could be six months. We can't afford to wait."

Era picked up a fallen branch and idly stripped the twigs from it. "Even if you could produce a parisha as disciplined as any of theirs, they have shipsteel, and we have wood. And the Prophet Polldor has a lot of parishas."

"We'll take them on one by one, that was always the plan."

"You'll lose people every time, and eventually you'll lose the battle. And what if they don't choose to take us one parisha at a time. You'll be slaughtered."

"Era." Danil groped for words. "That's why we need you to lead us. I was a slave, and the worst part of that is feeling worthless. You, you, are the one who gave me pride, taught me to fight." He waved a hand at the bustling encampment, where men and women were taking advantage of the unexpected break to improve their shelters, sharpen the ends of their poles, repair their clothing and do the hundred other little tasks that usually went undone in order to meet the demands of the training schedule. "You can't abandon these people."

"They aren't mine to abandon, they're yours. But even assuming they'd follow me, where can I lead them? Back into slavery? To defeat and death. You're trying to make an army like the Prophet's but it's never going to be as good or as large as his. You need to find another way, an advantage they haven't thought of."

"They've thought of horses, spears, blades and bows. They've thought of armor and ordered formations. What else is there to think of?"

Era shrugged. "I don't know. In the first war we beat them, because the trees were our advantage. Their tactics work best in the open. This time they beat us, because they used fire against the trees."

"I can't fill the Prophetsy with trees."

"No, you need something new."

"Hmmm." Danil nodded, thinking. The box turtle had found a cluster of white-capped mushrooms, and he watched while it chomped them down with evident satisfaction. An advantage against the inquisitors. He had been so optimistic, so pleased with his army. Whatever flaws it had he had counted on Era to rectify, but he could see now that he'd been deluding himself. And every fisherfolk who's chosen to follow me. It was so obvious now how pathetic his efforts were. They lacked the numbers, the resources, the experience to put up any kind of opposition to the disciplined inquisitors. It's easy to say we need an advantage. Much harder to find one. The turtle finished the mushrooms and started to move off, and then inspiration dawned on Danil. Yes . . . 

"Loan me your stick," he asked Era, and took the piece of wood the other man had been playing with before he could answer. He went over to the turtle and tapped it on the back. The small creature promptly pulled its head and legs into its shell, and Danil picked it up.

"This is what we need."

"Turtles?"

"No, we need armor, like the inquisitors. Better than the inquisitors."

"We haven't got the shipsteel."

"We'll use wood." He held up the turtle. "Imagine, a wooden turtle, big enough to hold twenty soldiers, maybe more, with walls thick enough that no spear can break them. It's too big and heavy for a horse to overrun. It's on wheels, big, wide wheels like our timber-carriers, with archers here and here . . ." He pointed to the openings in the turtle's shell. "The soldiers inside push it forward, safe from arrows, from anything."

"If it's wood it'll burn, and they know how to use fire."

"So before we begin we soak it with water, and carry more with us. We make the bows bigger, so big it takes two to draw them, maybe three. They can shoot a heavier shaft farther, and penetrate an inquisitor's armor. Even if the shaft doesn't get through it'll hit hard enough to knock a man off his horse." Danil's words came in a rush as his idea gained shape in his mind.

"I think you've lost your mind."

"No, I've only just regained it. Try to think of what else we need. Eventually we'll have to storm the Prophet's temple, we need a way to deal with the walls. Maybe a bow even bigger, just one per turtle, mounted on the top, able to throw a whole treetrunk. A turtle with a ladder built onto its top, so it can be ridden right up to the wall of the Prophet's temple and the soldiers can just run up and jump over. What else might work?"

"Do you know what it would take to build even one of these things?"

Danil laughed. "I've got a whole timber crew. I can get you all the wood you need."

"It's going to take steel, for fittings, for the wheels . . . They'll be better crank-driven than pushed, and that'll take gears . . ."

"You're a blacksmith. I'll get you the steel. Your forge is still standing, or most of it."

Era's eyes were suddenly very intense. "They burned Far Bay. Are you sure of that?"

"I've seen it myself."

The older man nodded slowly, a new determination in his expression. "Take me there."

* * * 

Annaya's footsteps echoed in the empty, dark corridor. She knew the way to the place she called Noah's Temple so well now that she no longer needed torches to light her way, even her flaxen yarn was unnecessary. It was simpler, and safer, to navigate there in the darkness, using just her hand on the wall to count doorways. It was still an eerie feeling, feeling her way through darkness so complete it made no difference if she closed her eyes or kept them open. It was a little trickier after she'd gone through the heavy doors that led to the hexagonal corridors, because she couldn't easily touch the wall with her hand and so had to count footsteps, but she found the ladder, as she always did. Twelve rungs up, a measured pace count, and she could see the faint blue-tinged glow from the sacred place.

It was not actually Noah's shrine—she had searched all the names beneath the faces etched into the wall and found none that even approximated to Noah, but that didn't matter too much. The place had belonged to those who had built the temple, perhaps by the Joshua Crewe whose name and face were so prominent among those etched into the shipsteel walls. Whether Crewe had built the world she couldn't know, but she knew his people had been powerful beyond the imagination of any who had followed them. What I would do for such power . . . 

She had no illusions that such a dream might come true, but still, she would seize what she could. She followed the blue light with careful footsteps until she came to the corridor that led to the chamber of faces, where it was bright enough to walk normally. Danil was there, waiting for her.

"Danil, it's been so long since you've come." Annaya came towards him.

"There's a problem, we need to talk . . ." he began.

"There's no problem that won't wait."

She put a finger to his lips to stifle his protest, and pulled him close with her other arm. It wasn't what he wanted, she could sense that, but he didn't object. He never objects, and I always make it worth his while. She kissed him hard and pushed him back on the soft bed that she'd put there, enjoying his automatic, male response. His tight-corded muscles were hard against her, but his eyes were soft as he looked into hers, open and vulnerable in a way she'd never experienced before, not even with Sem.

He's still a boy in a man's body. Sex was her weapon, not his, but she had to admit his innocence had an allure she found hard to resist. It's necessary. She told herself that every time. Necessary to ensure his loyalty, to get what I want from him. She meant the words to remind herself that he was a tool and not a lover, but in her more honest moments she had to admit that the truth was more complicated. She stripped off his trousers to mount him, and his body responded as it always did as she urged him on.

Afterwards he rolled away from her, and she knew he was feeling the need to recover some distance, some independence. She allowed him that, if only because she needed the space for herself as well. Still, she was relieved when he reached out for her across the gap he had opened to pull her back again, and it was comforting to feel small in his arms. It was also dangerous. I need to be able to betray him in a heartbeat. She was growing less sure that she could, and that was a risk she could ill afford.

All the more reason to change this game. She turned over and kissed him.

"And now my heroic warrior, tell me what troubles my army."

"The army . . ." Danil turned over on his back. "The army is training well, working hard. The problem is it can't win."

Annaya's pretty features darkened in the flickering light and she pushed herself away from him. "Well fix it. This can't go on any further. Bishop Nufell is pushing my father hard. I'm going to be placed any time."

"I need steel, or tokens to buy it."

"I gave you steel."

"I need more."

Annaya snorted. "Well, you can't have it."

"Then we can't win."

"What do you mean, you lying sooksan?" Sudden anger flooded Annaya. "You promised me an army. You promised me."

"You have an army. What you don't have is an army that can win."

"You came all this way to tell me this?" She stood up, suddenly angry. "Did I pick the wrong man? Tell me if I need to choose another."

"You have no time to choose another. What we have here is what we're going to deal with. You, me, the soldiers we have. Nothing more. The problem is not with the training, not the soldiers, not with me. The problem is we've set ourselves an impossible task. There's no way I can field a force to defeat the inquisitors. We've been lying to ourselves." Danil stood up and paced. "I have a weapon that can change that, perhaps, but it takes a lot of steel."

"I'm already getting you everything I can. Balak is watching me, did you know that? Every day he's in with the tithemaster. I can't get you more steel. I can't get you more anything."

"Your father controls the steel-falls. Not a kilogram enters this world that doesn't come through this temple."

"In case you hadn't noticed, I'm not my father. Are you afraid to die, is that it?" Annaya laced her voice with contempt.

"Anyone who tells you otherwise is a liar, or madman. I'm not afraid to risk my life, but I'm not stupid either." Danil quirked a smile. "Or at least, I'm getting smarter. Get me the steel and I'll give you a victory, or at least a good chance at it."

"A good chance? My father has to die, and my brother, and a great many bishops. That has to happen. Don't you want to be free? Don't you want your people to be free?"

"Of course I do. Get me the steel."

"And you're only figuring this out now? We went over steel when we talked about this. You already wanted more than I could get you. What do you think has changed I can get it now? This was your idea. Yours."

"Then I accept responsibility for my mistake." Danil's voice was calm in the face of Annaya's tirade, which only made her angrier. "The question that faces us now is how to move forward."

"What do you want steel for anyway?"

"War turtles. Armored battle machines on wheels."

Annaya snorted. "War turtles? You can come up with a better lie than that."

"The problem is that the inquisitors are better skilled, better equipped and they outnumber us. War turtles are my solution to that problem, but if you have a better idea I'll listen."

"My idea was trust you." Annaya pouted, angry because he was so reasonable, angrier because she couldn't break his calm, and angriest of all because she recognized that she was being difficult for no good reason, and was doing it anyway. "Obviously a mistake."

"We want to rework the world. If you want an effective army, this is the price. How else can we exert influence?"

"Sex, bribery, blackmail, deception."

Danil gave her a look. "Those came to you easily."

She shrugged. "What else do I have in my life? I watch men struggle for power every day."

"And struggle for them yourself."

"Do you think I want power? Really?" Annaya shook her head and turned away. "Power is an empty ambition, nobody knows that more than I do." She thought she was lying as she said the words, because power was what she had fought for since she was old enough to fight for anything, but as she heard her voice say them she realized it was true.

"Then what do you want?"

"The same as you." Annaya's anger faded with her realization and she turned back to face Danil, came close. "Freedom."

"But you—"

"Shhh . . ." She came into his arms, regretting her tantrum. "Don't tell me what I have, how lucky I am. You were a slave. I am still." She looked up into his eyes, feeling suddenly sad. "Will you hold me for a while, Danil? I'm sorry I was angry."

He did as she asked, and all of a sudden she was crying in his arms, hating herself for showing weakness to a man, and at the same time feeling comforted that she could. After a while he picked her up and laid her on the bed, pulling her close. It made her feel better, and eventually she spoke. "Maybe I could come away with you."

"What do you mean?"

"Just leave this, leave my father, the elder Council, plots and plans and war. My father wants my brother to run the Prophetsy. Why should I stop him? I could come with you, be your woman."

"What about the army?"

"Forget about it. I can't get you more steel. I would if I could, Danil." She turned over to look into his eyes. "I would if I could, but I can't. Every day I think Balak will catch me."

Danil looked at her and she felt naked before him in a way she never had before. Will he choose me? His eyes were deep and she let herself be lost in them. Could it be he really loves me? She wanted it to be true, and hated herself for being so weak. She wanted him to kiss her, to tell her she was his, to take her away and keep her.

Danil shook his head slowly. "I won't abandon the army. They'll be slaves again if I don't lead them."

"Better slaves than dead." He was rejecting her, gently, caringly, but rejecting her. "And we would be together," she pleaded.

"No, it isn't better to be a slave than to be dead, and they need leadership. I am . . . no, we are the ones who put this together. We can't give up."

Annaya sat quietly, trying to get a hold of herself. This isn't me. I reject men, they don't reject me. And yet she couldn't help latching on to the word "we" the way he'd used it. "We" meant they were together, a unit. Didn't it? She wanted to ask him, and couldn't. After a long time she spoke. "How big is a war turtle?"

"Big enough to hold twenty, maybe more."

She laughed. "There isn't enough steel in the world to armor something so big."

Danil shook his head. "Their armor is wooden. The steel is for fittings, for gears, for the axles and holdbolts, springs for the bows."

"Springs for the bows?"

"They're going to be big bows."

"How much are you going to need?"

"I don't know yet. A lot. My smith thinks a hundred kilos a turtle, and I want to put my whole army in turtles, if I can."

"My whole army," Annaya countered.

"Ours, if you like."

"Ours." There was more comfort in the word than Annaya wanted to admit, even to herself. She pursed her lips, considering. "How many turtles is that?"

"Twenty or thirty."

"That's a lot of steel."

"Yes, it is."

"Getting it is going to be dangerous. I might get caught."

"This whole idea is dangerous, and we're all taking risks."

"And it's going to take time."

"How much time?"

"I don't know." Annaya looked away, considering. "It's six weeks to the ceremony of the Incarnation. The Bishop of Sanctity has been pressuring my father to have me placed with him. If I'm going to be married this year then that's when he'll proclaim it."

"Two months? We can't be ready by then. It's impossible."

"You have to be. Danil, promise me." She kissed him and he kissed her back, which made her smile. I still have my power over him. She moved her hands over him, pulled him to her, and for a while his touch made her forget about her father, and Bishop Nufell, forget about power and the Prophetsy. It was blissful, but it frightened her too. Sex is my weapon, I have to remember that. It was hard to keep herself detached when she felt his passion for her, saw his genuine enjoyment of their pairing. She had fought the duel of love with much more sophisticated opponents than Danil Fougere, but his very innocence, and the sincerity that came with it, engaged her affections in the way she'd never experienced before.

"I promise to do my best," he said afterwards, caressing her. "Whatever happens I'll come get you, whatever it takes."

"Will you?"

"You have to get me the steel."

"I'll get it, somehow. I'll send it down with your supply wagons. I'll send you all I can, as fast as I can." She smiled bitterly, trying to raise her courage. "Why should I worry about being caught? What's the worst my father will do? Place me with some wrinkled bishop?"

"I'll expect it then." Danil stood up. "I should be going."

Annaya shook her head and pulled him back down to her. "Stay, Danil, just a little while longer." He protested at first, and then stayed longer, but in the end he had to leave. And in the end, she still felt empty once he was gone.

 

"Prophet! Prophet! Prophet!" chanted the crowd, and Prophet Polldor stood and waved from his ornate travel cart, receiving the crowd's adulation as his due. Let the bishops see my popularity. It was important to show the people the symbol of their worship, important that they knew him to be real. Two full marks of red-cloaked riders preceded him through the streets of Charity, and hundreds more lined the route. They served to keep back the common people, and to remind any who doubted that his power came from men as well as from God.

Ahead, the procession turned right into the main square. The bishops were waiting there, to lead the procession into the church, and Polldor smiled to himself. There were those on the Elder Council who desired his power for themselves, but he had humbled some, and tamed the rest. But where is Balak? His High Inquisitor was supposed to lead the honor guard, but he wasn't there. It was a minor annoyance. The important thing was that the bishops feared his inquisitors more than they hated his usurpation of their traditional authority.

The truth is the bishops need me. The bishops could only claim divine power themselves by teaching that it flowed from God to Noah's living descendent. As long as he controlled the inquisitors there was nothing they could do but bleat like so many sheep about the perceived inadequacy of their share of the world's wealth. Bishop Nufell was the exception, the leopard hiding in the flock, a man too smart and dangerous to be allowed to choose his own path, but he'd been safely neutralized. Annaya needed to be placed anyway. By giving his daughter to his enemy Polldor was sealing an alliance, assuring himself, and more importantly Olen, of Nufell's support. He looked to his son, still obediently waving, and repressed the urge to tell him to stand straight for the fourth time that day. The boy has so little backbone. It would probably be Annaya's son by the bishop who stepped up to wear the Prophet's robes, after Polldor himself was gone. Olen would have sons when the time came, but he doubted they would have the mettle to hold the Prophetsy against Nufell's ambition to see his own blood lead the descendents of Noah.

And little matter. The important thing was that they would be Polldor's grandsons either way. His close guards followed the lead ranks into the main square, and as Polldor's cart turned the corner he saw it was jammed with chanting supporters. He took the opportunity to look behind him, to Olen's cart. His son was standing up in the top door as well, looking pleased and comfortable with the crowd, if not exactly commanding. There had been a change in Olen recently, starting with his idea for the timber camp. He was showing himself to be more assertive, taking more of an interest in rulership.

Perhaps in time, he'll be able to control the bishops. Ahead of him the Elder Council was waiting in the square on a raised dais, and they fell into step behind him as he went past. The symbolism was important. When his father had been the Son of Noah the bishops had preceded the Prophet on the slow advance to the ceremony of the Incarnation, and the Prophet had walked as well. Polldor had changed that. He wanted the commoners to know without question who led the Prophetsy. Now there was no one in the world who wasn't aware of the need to show loyalty to their Prophet, or of the penalties that could fall to those who were insufficiently enthusiastic in their worship.

"Prophet! Prophet! Prophet!" The crowd grew denser and the chanting louder. The spire of Charity church rose at the end of the processional way, the tallest structure in the world next to his own tower. The doors were open, red-cloaked inquisitors on guard there too. He'd given some consideration to holding the ceremony at the Temple, but had decided against it. It was better to keep his inner sanctum a mystery and let the common people see him descend among them as Noah had descended from the suntube. He leaned back, enjoying the spectacle as the procession made its way forward. The ceremony of Incarnation was a necessary reinforcement of the Prophetsy's power, but it was also a tremendous validation of all Polldor had worked for since his father's death.

Why pursue power if you don't enjoy the exercise of it? He smiled broadly and waved at the masses. Young girls with baskets were spreading flowers on the baked-brick road ahead of his horse team. Every year the pageantry grew more elaborate.

It was Charity parish's responsibility to stage the incarnation, and Bishop Braman's chance to demonstrate his loyalty, his power, and his wealth to both Polldor and the Elder Council. Braman never failed to make the most of his opportunity, and this time was no exception. Charity parish had more than the largest church in the world, it had five times the population of the next largest parish, more than half of the crafters and traders, the principal markets, the only two smithies capable of making large castings, a third of the Prophetsy's grain stores. Charity fielded not one but three parishas, and taken together those factors gave Braman considerable power. He would be a dangerous adversary, if he had a spine. Fortunately he did not, and he exercised his power only to show Polldor how loyal he really was.

The procession came to the church doors. A pair of ornately cloaked erranders ran up to open the door to Polldor's travel cart and placed the step so he could descend. He left the cart and climbed the stairs into the church, leaving the chanting crowd behind. Behind him, Olen was doing the same.

The church itself was full of the Prophetsy's elite, dressed in their churchgoing best to bear witness to the miracle about to happen. And to show their importance to their neighbors, and demonstrate their worthiness to receive Prophetsy largess. Prophet Polldor had not always had such a hard-edged view of human nature, but it was impossible to fill the role he filled without quickly learning that no one's motives were entirely pure.

When his father had died, he had been surprised at the number of people who became his friend. Perhaps he shouldn't have been surprised at the number who turned out to be cultivating his friendship only because it suited their own interests. Power came with its own imperatives, and one reason he had set out to bring all of the world under his command was the realization that to stagnate was to die. The fisherfolk had made a convenient enemy, and the conquest of them had united the Elder Council and the commoners beneath him.

But now the war is over. For a time the consolidation of gains would occupy the Prophetsy's collective attention, but after that he would have to find another way to stay on top of the restive bishops. The inquisitors would have to evolve as well. A lot of them would go willingly to clear and farm their newly granted lands, but the organization needed a new purpose.

I have time to solve that problem. Polldor advanced down the center aisle. Unlike the throngs that lined the roads outside, the crowd in the church was hushed. Huge patterned quilts hung from the walls and polished wood crucifixes stood in niches. The window shutters were closed, dimming the interior for the miracle to follow. He walked to the altar, and the choir stood and began to sing as he passed it. When he reached the altar he turned to face the congregation. Olen, still following him, moved to his appointed place on the raised platform behind the pulpit, as the bishops filed in to form two rows on his other side. When they were in place Polldor spread his arms wide, which was the signal for a waiting errander to pull a cord that released a curtain from the ceiling overhead. The curtain fell, hiding him from the watching crowd. Covered from view, he lowered his arms and went to the back wall of the church. There was a small door there that led to Bishop Braman's rooms. An errander opened it for him, and he went in to wait there while the assembled clergy went through the incantations necessary to invoke the Incarnation.

For the next four bells, each bishop would rise and read his own part of the story of Noah, imbuing it with life and meaning. For the next four bells the elite of the world would pay homage to their Prophet, while looking up at his anointed son. For the next four bells Prophet Polldor would wait out of sight and suffer the necessary boredom until the ritual was finished and he would come out and stand behind the curtain again. As the choir reached a crescendo the errander would pull a second rope, dropping the curtain to the floor to to reveal him standing there in all his glory. The miracle would be deemed complete, the Incarnation renewed for another year. He would walk back down the church aisle, his son and the bishops would follow, and the procession would reverse itself, back through the main square of Charity, back out of the city, back to the temple.

Waiting was not something Polldor did well, but it was a something that had to be done. And it's better than standing there listening. The curtain was another innovation he had added to the ceremony, to spare himself the mindnumbing tedium of listening to the bishops droning on. He had long contemplated having a woman waiting for him in Braman's quarters, one of his junior wives or even a serving girl. It would be a more pleasant way to pass the time, but he also knew that sooner or later news of the dalliance would leak, and it would undermine the impact of the solemn ritual if those watching it knew their Prophet was having sex while it went on. The same reasoning prevented him from simply leaving the building and spending a couple of hours hunting. He went into the bishop's sitting room, and found his High Inquisitor waiting for him there.

"Balak," Polldor frowned in surprise. "You were supposed to be leading the guard in the procession."

Balak bowed his head. "My apologies, Prophet. I was delayed on a matter of critical importance. I couldn't get back to the temple in time, I came here to meet you as soon as possible."

Polldor raised an eyebrow. "What is it?" He went over to the bishop's reception couch and reclined on the well padded sheepskin.

"It's private." Balak looked at the errander, who had followed Polldor into the room, ready to do the Prophet's bidding.

"Leave us," Polldor said. "Come back in a bell. We'll be done by then."

The errander scurried out a side door and Polldor returned his attention to Balak. "Tell me."

Balak didn't answer right away. Instead he walked to the window at the back of the room. The shutters were open but the curtains were closed, and the light that filtered through them was patterned red and white. Balak parted them and peeked outside, as though looking for eavesdroppers. He let them drop, turned again to face Polldor, opened his mouth and closed it again. Polldor waited, until finally the other man spoke.

"You are Noah's son, Prophet. I know this is true."

"Go on."

"Faith commands me . . ." Balak halted, groping for words. "Prophet, I don't know how to say this."

"Just say it, Balak. There's no one's loyalty I value as much as yours. You can't offend me."

"I'm honored by your faith, Prophet, but it isn't . . ." Balak stopped himself, took a deep breath. "Prophet, I've had Bishop Nufell watched, as you instructed. And I've been watching your daughter myself. There's no one else I would trust with that."

"What have you found?"

"Not what I expected. Your daughter is . . . willful. Well, we already knew that, but it's your son who has . . ." The High Inquisitor seemed in physical pain as he spoke the words. ". . . who has betrayed you."

"What?" Polldor stood up, suddenly angry. "My son? Olen? Impossible."

"Prophet, I assure you, this is why I've come late. I had to go and see for myself. Your son is plotting against you with Bishop Nufell, and he's raising an army."

"An army? Olen? He hasn't got the yats to lead an army."

"He isn't leading it, his chief slave is, and your son has sent them tons of steel, stolen from your own stocks. Tons! That timber camp is a pretense. I watched them doing formation drills, forging weapons. At first I thought it was her Holiness who was responsible, but it's the Prophet Unrisen who's the common factor."

Polldor sat down again, shocked. "Is this true, Balak? I can barely credit it."

"I saw myself, your Holiness. Your son is building an army of slaves. What purpose could it have except to take your power?"

"But Olen—why would he? I can hardly get him to take an interest in command."

"I don't know. Perhaps his indifference is a cover."

"And Nufell. I promised him my daughter." Polldor felt anger creeping into his words. "He got everything he asked for."

"He wanted more than he made clear, Prophet. Perhaps that too was a cover. I know they're conspiring against you."

"Are you sure, Balak?"

"I confronted the bishop. He admitted it himself, though he denied the army."

Polldor stood again, his anger working in his face. "We'll arrest them. Now."

"Prophet!" Balak seemed shocked. "The Incarnation is in progress. You can't interrupt that."

"By Noah's name I can. Watch me."

"Prophet!"

Polldor's eyes met Balak's and saw the anguish there. I have to remember the strength of Balak's faith. Polldor himself saw the trappings of his position as nothing more than tools that were useful to maintain power. He found church doctrine as inconsistent as it was high-minded, and had too much experience with the political machinations of the bishops to be anything but cynical about their pious protestations.

Balak was different. He believed, with a fervor that Polldor had never understood, and unlike the bishops his belief was in no way self-serving. His devotion to Polldor, his commitment to the Prophetsy flowed naturally from that belief. Because Balak believed, Balak sacrificed, but Polldor could not bring himself to put his High Inquisitor in the same category as the commoners who tithed because they had been convinced their souls would be consigned to Hell if they did not. Balak derived a certain peacefulness of spirit from his belief, and Polldor sensed that without it he would be a tormented and dangerous man.

And it struck at the core of Balak's belief to see his Prophet so casually dismiss the central ritual of his faith. The High Inquisitor's eyes were almost imploring, and they held a strange vulnerability that Polldor had never seen before. For him the incarnation was both sacred and necessary, the reinvigoration of the Prophet's holy link with his ancestors, and with God. If the ceremony wasn't completed the foundations of his world would be shattered.

Polldor clenched his teeth and looked away from his subordinate. There was something innocent in Balak's fervent belief, and it would be almost vandalism to destroy it. And foolish. Who else can I trust as much as Balak? The Prophet breathed out slowly. It will do no harm to wait.

"We'll arrest them after the ceremony. Until then, tell me more."

Balak's face relaxed, his relief palpable. "Thank you, Prophet. What more is there to tell you? Your daughter has some hideaway in the temple depths. I haven't found it yet, but I will."

"What does she do there?"

"I don't know yet. Perhaps nothing . . ." Balak's words were cut off by a clatter from beneath the window. Polldor strode to the curtain and yanked it open. Outside he caught a glimpse of a fleeing boy. "That errander was listening, a spy for Nufell." Polldor felt his anger grow hot. "I'll have them both on the cross. If they die in a week it'll be a mercy."

"The servant and the bishop, you mean," said Balak, and there was something strange in his voice.

"The bishop and my son. Come on, we have to move now before that little sooksan warns them."

"Not your son, Prophet." Balak's eyes were imploring again. "He's your line, Noah's line."

"His blood is going to be all over the altar as soon as I get in there. Get the inquisitors in the street to surround the church. Nobody gets in or out. I want a half mark with me. We'll beat confessions out of them if we have to."

"His blood is as holy as yours." Balak was pleading. "He's the future of Noah's line."

"I can have more sons."

"I wish I could believe that, Prophet."

Polldor rounded on Balak, his rage suddenly refocused. "What did you say? What are you implying?"

"Prophet, I'm sure it's God's will." Balak wrung his hands together, anguished. "God's will. All those wives, all those women and only Olen to carry Noah's blood. Surely you see he's the one. The one . . ." His voice trailed away though his lips kept moving, no longer talking to Polldor but only to himself.

Polldor wasn't listening. "You insolent cur!" He backhanded Balak across the face, knocking him sideways to the ground. "You want to spare that useless pup I sired because you think I'm sterile, is that it? Enough of this, get the inquisitors, the ceremony ends now. I want those traitors on the cross in a bell."

Balak stood, rubbing his face where he'd been struck. He nodded slowly, still talking to himself, his expression far away. "I see now how God is testing me."

"Balak!" Polldor made his voice stern. "I gave you an order."

The High Inquisitor's eyes were still distant. "Yes, yes, the bishop said you would. He saw . . . foresaw . . . It was the Prophet Unrisen of course . . ." Balak drew his blade and met Polldor's gaze again, and his voice strengthened. "I apologize, Prophet. I know what I have to do now."

"Good." The Prophet turned to the small door, to go through it, to confront his son and the traitorous Bishup Nufell, to demonstrate to them the exercise of power. And suddenly Balak was in front of him, blade in hand and pointed at him. "Balak, what are you . . ."

The blade moved and pain blossomed in Polldor's belly as the steel drove in and up, searching behind his ribs for his heart. The rest of his sentence came out as a gurgle, and he dropped to his knees as he felt wetness spreading from the wound. Balak knelt with him, his hand still on the blade's handle. The Prophet inhaled sharply, felt the hurt sharpen. "Balak . . ." The word came out in a hoarse whisper.

"God will welcome you, Prophet. God will embrace you in his love." Balak smiled a small, sad smile. "Noah's line is safe now, safe with Olen. Please forgive me the pain, I'll make it short." He shoved the blade higher, and Polldor stiffened as he felt its cold bite up inside his chest. Balak was still speaking, but there was a roaring in his ears now, and his vision was blurring, going grey. The room spun, and he felt himself falling over. The pain began to recede, replaced by a chill that spread from his chest to his limbs. He shivered once, closed his eyes, and relaxed into the onrushing darkness.

 

Annaya sighed and looked up from her script sheets, letting her eyes follow the elaborate geometric tracings on her wall-quilts. She had gone looking for the secret of Noah's temple in the Prophetsy's archives and found it there. It was ancient text, elaborately scribed on sheepskin pages, a copy of an even more ancient document called Physical Constants and Formulae, 14th edition. The scriptkeeper she'd asked about it said it was supposed to contain all the knowledge of Noah's people. Unfortunately the language had changed considerably since it was written. Half the words were foreign to her, and she understood none of the symbology that occupied the better part of every page. She strongly suspected that the scribe who'd copied it hadn't understood it either, and a second layer of incomprehension couldn't be helpful. She'd puzzled out enough to understand that tremendous power was locked up in its pages, but she couldn't figure out how to put it into use.

Which is purely frustrating. She alone had access to Noah's chamber in the heart of the temple, and the strange blue light that lit it was evidence enough of the ancients' power. If she could somehow turn the words in front of her into a prayer, a ceremony, a ritual that she could perform in that space then the power could be hers. But she couldn't.

There was a knock on the door, and Annaya looked up from her script sheets. "Enter," she said.

The door opened to reveal Balak. "You are summoned to the Prophet's tower, your Holiness," he said. He bowed as he always did, but there was something changed in his manner, his usual calm-over-tension replaced by something else, though Annaya couldn't quite finger it.

"Is the incarnation over already?" She'd lost track of time.

Balak's expression didn't change. "I'm to bring you to the tower," he repeated.

Annaya sighed in annoyance and looked back to the script sheets. The chapter she was trying to read was entitled "Light as a Wave." She'd thought she might make a connection between it and the perpetual ghostly glow in Noah's chamber, but the entire chapter was as cryptic as its title. There was no point in beating her brain further, and no point in making her father wait. He can't have found out about the steel. She had covered her tracks well, and even if he'd discovered the missing trade tokens, the clues would point back to Olen. She closed the book and stood up. "Let's go then."

She followed him in silence down to the gallery, and then up the tower to her father's chambers. He opened the door for her, and she went through, steeling herself for whatever it was that Polldor was angry about this time. To her surprise it was Olen who was waiting for her. She opened her mouth to ask where their father was, and then closed it again. Olen was wearing the Prophet's robes, Polldor's robes, and Bishop Nufell was standing beside him. The atmosphere was tense, and something was very wrong.

"It's time for you to be placed, Annaya," Olen said, his young face overlaid with a pompous gravity he couldn't quite pull off.

"Placed? What do you mean? Where's Father?"

"He's dead. Your brother is Prophet now," the bishop answered for Olen.

"Dead?" Annaya felt her throat constrict. It can't be . . . She had hated her father, wanted him dead herself, and yet the news struck her heart like a knife. There was a ringing in her ears, and from a long way away she heard her own voice. "How?"

The bishop's eyes met hers and then slid away. "It doesn't matter. What we're here to discuss—"

"Balak, what happened?"

"Your Holiness . . ." Balak struggled with the words. "Your Holiness, your father was a fine man . . ."

"A fine man?" Annaya blurted the words incredulously. "He was Prophet! What happened to your loyalty, High Inquisitor? Don't tell me you're involved in this."

Balak was silent, and wouldn't meet her eyes.

"Go on, tell her," said the bishop. Balak's jaw worked, but no words came. "Well, if you won't, I will." There was a note of smug triumph in the Nufell's words, and Balak turned away, walked to the large windows to look out into the mist.

"You don't need to tell me," Annaya snapped. "It's written in your eyes, sooksan. You killed my father, and you've convinced my weakling brother to save you from Balak's blade."

The bishop laughed. "You malign me, your Holiness. It wasn't me who killed the Prophet."

"No, you don't have the yats to dirty your hands in person." Annaya spat at his feet. "Some underling did it for you, I'm sure."

The bishop's face darkened in anger, but before he could answer Balak turned back from the window. "It was me, your Holiness." His expression was tortured. "Forgive me. I had to."

"Balak?" Annaya looked at him, her anger replaced with shock. "You? Why?"

"For Noah's line." The High Inquisitor looked at the floor. "He . . . he gave me no choice."

Annaya could see that something had happened to Balak. For as long as she had known him his equanimity had been unbreakable, his commitment to the Prophet unquestionable. Now he was . . . shattered. Annaya couldn't find words.

"He was going to put your brother on the cross," Balak went on. "The holy line would have ended." He looked up again, his eyes anguished with her. "I made it quick, Holiness. He was purified in his own blood."

"You did that for Olen?" Annaya looked in astonishment at her half-brother. Her father's robes were a half-size too large for him, and the pathetic authority he'd tried to assume when she'd come in was gone. "He's unworthy of my father's name." Olen shrank back from her words, a frightened child caught playing a man's game that had gone too far. "Balak, how . . ." She couldn't finish the sentence, it was too unbelievable.

"He's the Prophet's son," said the bishop. "Polldor's mistake was to confuse the High Inquisitor's faith for loyalty." He smirked. "I suggest you don't make the same one. And as for worthiness, we know all about your own plan to overthrow your father."

Fear shot through Annaya. They know! She suppressed her reaction but the bishop must have caught a hint of it in her eyes, for he smiled a wide and dangerous smile. "Oh yes, we know all about the pathetic little army you've been building at your lumber camp. Clever of you to make it look like your brother's work, and ironic. You fooled Balak, which cost your father's life. It took us a while to figure out what you'd done. It could have been quite messy, but Olen is Prophet now, and he'll be a good one with my strong tutelage. The inquisitors will be taking care of your lumber camp soon enough, and in the meantime . . ." His smile got wider. ". . . you're going to be placed with me."

"I'll die first," Annaya snarled, feeling her face flush with anger.

The bishop chortled. "I doubt that's necessary. You're not the first new wife I've had to break."

He reached out to take her hand, and Annaya smacked him across the side of his head as hard as she could, cupping her hand to rupture his eardrum. The bishop sprawled sideways, and when he got to his feet his face was a mask of rage. He came at her then, his fist cocked back, and Annaya twisted to receive his attack, not caring that she'd started a fight she could only lose.

There was a blur and suddenly Balak was between them, his blade at the Nufell's throat. "She's Noah's daughter, Bishop." The High Inquisitor's voice was quiet, but the anguished uncertainty was gone from his eyes. In its place was the burning zeal that Annaya had always seen hidden in their depths. "Until the Prophet declares the placement, you won't put a hand on her."

Nufell looked shocked, fear replacing the arrogance he'd carried a second ago. He breathed in, breathed out, getting himself under control. He put his hands out to show he was no threat, and took a step backwards. When he had a little distance he turned his head towards Olen, though his eyes stayed locked on the blade in front of him. "Well, Prophet," he said, his voice controlled but not quite hiding his unease. "Declare the placement. Just as we discussed, declare the placement."

Olen opened his mouth to answer and Annaya pointed a finger at him. "Olen, don't you dare speak a word. Don't you dare or I swear on our father's pyre I'll have your yats on a stick."

Olen's eyes darted back and forth between Annaya and Nufell, but it was Annaya who could hold them, while the bishop's were still fixated on Balak's weapon. "Balak," she said. "Kill him."

Nufell's eyes widened in fear, and Balak looked to Olen. "Shall I, Prophet?"

Olen swallowed hard, his jaw working as he tried to speak, his own expression showing more fear than Nufell's. Annaya let her face show her disgust. He can't even say yes or no. He's just as useless as he's always been. She shook her finger at her brother's chest. "I will not be wed to this . . . this animal. I will not, and take my promise, Olen." She lowered her voice, barely containing her rage. "If you let this inbred sooksan talk you into that declaration I will make you suffer every single day for the rest of your miserable life."

She turned on her heel and left, shaking with reaction. As soon as the door closed behind her she started running, her head spinning with what had just happened. My father . . . Her throat tightened as she thought of Polldor dying on Balak's blade.

They know about Danil, how did they find out? She'd been so careful. With an effort she pushed the question out of her mind. The immediate problem was getting away. Olen feared her instinctively, just as he always had, but it wouldn't take the bishop long to get him back under his thumb. She had to be long, long gone when that happened.

She went into the gallery, through the wood-partitioned halls of the vast steel space. The stables were at the far end, and as she went through the troop areas as the inquisitors on guard jumped to give her the salutation as she passed. She grabbed a blade from one, a bow and quiver from another, leaving the men staring open-mouthed after her. The familiar scent of horses and hay filled the air, pungent but somehow inviting.

She hadn't been into the gallery since the day after Sem was killed, and she'd forgotten how much she liked to ride. And today I'm going to ride. The stablemaster was sitting at a workshelf in his small office, writing something with quill, ink and a painfully careful hand. He leapt up when Annaya came in, his face a study in surprise.

"Your Holiness!"

"I need a horse saddled this instant," she said. "The fastest short-horse you've got."

"Your Holiness, your father has forbidden—"

"My father is dead," Annaya cut him off. "You may be next. Saddle my horse."

The stablemaster's eyes grew big, and he looked uncertain, and Annaya realized that the news of Polldor's death was not yet widespread. It was even possible Olen and Nufell were keeping it secret for some purpose of their own. She pressed her lips together and gave the stablemaster a look that could well have killed him all by itself. His resolve collapsed and he scurried out, shouting for the horsehands. Minutes later she was astride a dark-grey and high-strung stallion, trotting out of the gallery towards the outer wall of the Temple courtyard and the great, steelbound gates that closed its entrance.

"Open the gate," she commanded as she came closer, and the detachment of inquisitors there gave her the salutation as they obeyed. She breathed a sigh of relief as she came outside the Temple walls, but couldn't help looking over her shoulder as she did. A boy with a yellow errander's scarf was running across the courtyard from the base of the Prophet's Tower, waving his arms and shouting. Annaya didn't bother trying to understand what he was saying, she just spurred her horse and rode, out of the cleared area around the Temple, following the log-laid trading road into the forest of sapling dougfir beyond.

Ahead of her was Charity, the aftward forest, and Danil, and she planned as she went. Two bells of hard riding would take her to the aftward forest, if nothing stopped her, but as soon as the errander told Nufell that she'd escaped an alert would go out in mirror code to every inquisitor station. The overcast and mist were too heavy for them to use the big, polished steel reflector on the forewall ledge above the temple, which meant they'd have to send a rider with the message to Charity, to use the mirror at the station there. Her lead over the messenger would only be the time it took to saddle his horse, and it wouldn't take long to flash the message ahead of her. I can ride as far as Charity, but after that they'll be watching for me. She'd have to abandon the horse there and find another way aftward. That would take time, and if Nufell knew about Danil's army he'd be ordering Balak to march against it immediately.

Or rather, ordering Olen to order Balak. Balak was another mystery. What possibly could have happened to make him turn against Polldor? I would never have doubted his loyalty.

She came out of the forest and into the cultivated fields that surrounded Charity, and paused long enough to look back and listen for pursuing hoofbeats. There were none, but she didn't allow herself to relax. The mist thinned at the treeline, and the crops were growing tall and green beneath their overstory of olive trees, thriving on the perfect combination of light and moisture they got along the border of the forelands. If she rode on through open fields and the city itself there would be witnesses aplenty to testify to the flight of a young woman on a dark-grey horse, but if she abandoned the horse and took to the fields she'd be easy prey for a mounted search. She bit her lip, considered the fields again. They'd hide her, but . . . 

No time to delay. Speed counted, and she'd have to accept the risk of witnesses. She dug her heels in again, and her mount snorted and leapt forward. She could see the buildings of Charity, three kilometers ahead, and she had to get there. The wind rose in her hair as her mount accelerated, and despite the danger she was in she found herself smiling.

I'm free, finally free. Riding always gave her that sense of freedom, but this time it wasn't going to end when she brought the horse back to the stables. Her life as the Prophet's daughter was over, and all the restrictions and expectations that came with it were gone. She laughed out loud at the realization, and leaned forward in the saddle. The trading road surface changed from logs to fired-clay cobbles just beyond the start of the fields, and the rapid drumbeat of her mount's hooves set her blood racing. Ahead a farmer was harvesting squash from a truck field, piling the ripe gourds on an open cart driven by a boy. They stopped working as she galloped past, and then a thought struck her. She reined up, turned the horse and trotted back to the cart. The man was elderly, but still fit and strong. His face was lined above his graying beard, and his clothing, worn but serviceable, seemed to make him as much a part of the land as his crop.

"Would you like this horse?"

He looked at her with a raised eyebrow. "That's a generous offer, young woman."

Annaya smiled to herself. He doesn't recognize me. That's helpful. "It is. There's a price of course."

He laughed. "I doubt I can afford your price."

"It's cheap enough. I need to travel aftward. Take me in your cart and I'll give you the horse."

He gave her a sideways look. "Why bother with the cart? You can get there yourself faster than I can take you."

Annaya hesitated, but there was no point in deceiving him. If he was going to help her he needed to know all the facts. "The inquisitors are chasing me. I need to hide as well as travel."

The man nodded, considering, and looked back the way she'd come, perhaps looking for her pursuers. After what seemed like an excruciatingly long time he spoke.

"I'll take you. Get in the cart. Kesalem, take her horse," he said to the boy. "And give her your cloak." Annaya demounted the horse and the boy took off his rough brown field-cloak and gave it to her as he climbed down from the cart. She climbed up, and the farmer did too, heaving his last squash onto the back. "Now, fast as you can to the upper pasture. Leave the horse there, by the spinward trail, and take the treeline back to the barn. They'll track the horse, but they'll miss you. If they come looking, tell them you've seen nothing, and let them search all they want. Leave the horse there until tomorrow, then take it into the barn yourself. I should be back by then."

"Yes, grandfather," said the boy. He mounted Annaya's stallion and galloped away.

The farmer turned to Annaya. "Now get under the gourds." He cleared a space for her to lie flat, laid the cloak over her and started piling the ripe squash over her. Their weight pressed lumpily against her, but there was no point in complaining. Still, it was nerve wracking being unable to see anything. When she was covered she felt the cart shift as he climbed off. After a while the cart shifted again, and it took her a moment to realize that he'd gone back to loading his crop. Some time after that she heard hoofbeats on the hard road surface.

"A young woman on horseback came this way just now." The voice carried authority and the expectation of obedience. Certainly an inquisitor. Annaya tightened her grip on her blade.

"She went through my fields, that's where," the old man answered. "I told her to stop. Who's going to pay—"

The inquisitor cut him off with a barked command to his subordinates, and hoofbeats sounded again. The old man's voice rose plaintively. "Not there, those are my crops! Come back! Who's going to pay for this? Who's going to pay?" He kept it up until Annaya could no longer hear the horses. After a pause the cart shifted again as he climbed up to take the driver's seat. She heard him stir the reins, the horse whinnied and the cart lurched forward.

"The signal mirrors are blinking," the man said a little while later. "Is that for you?"

"I'm sure it is."

"They're eager to get you back."

"Can I come out now?"

"No, let's wait until we're in Charity and those soldiers are well away."

Annaya grimaced to herself but didn't answer. Her head was pressed uncomfortably against the cart floor, and the piled gourds didn't help. Every jolt banged her teeth together, but she wasn't about to second-guess her benefactor. Eventually the cart slowed and she heard more hoofbeats, not the pounding of galloping inquisitors but the slow clop-clop of farm carts. They were entering Charity.

Her heart stopped once, when another authoritarian voice ordered the old man to stop, but whoever it was must have waved him on without further investigation. More voices rose, and soon the pungent and competing odors of the main market reached her nostrils, the savory scent of cooking meat mingling with the sweetish smell of ripe fruit and the earthy tones of stacked root vegetables. She caught a hint of fresh-cut pine, the sourish smell of a mash tent, and everywhere the musk of horse and human, blended together into the omnipresent background. There was music and laughter everywhere—the Festival of the Incarnation was in full swing. It seemed amazing that it would continue when Polldor had just died, until she heard a street-preacher declaiming praise for the newly incarnated Prophet Olen.

They turn my father's death into a celebration, and to the commoners one celebration is as good as another. Did the bishop plan this, or just seize the opportunity? She couldn't know. And it doesn't matter in the end. The cart stopped, and there were more voices as the old man unloaded it, tossing the heavy gourds down to someone below. The weight came off Annaya, but she knew better than to move until she was told to.

There were more voices, too low for her to quite make out the words, and then the cart creaked forwards once more. It stopped again soon afterwards.

"Take off your gown, put on the cloak, but stay down doing it," the old man told her.

Annaya obeyed, trying to not only stay down but to stay under the cloak while she got her fine white-flax gown off, a maneuver that involved a lot of uncomfortable wriggling. When she'd succeeded she stood up, and saw that the farmer was looking the other way. He respects my privacy, that's good. He'd parked the cart in a narrow alley, and between that and the high sides of the cart she could have changed with less effort. But I didn't know that. "Thank you," she said. "I owe you more than I can easily say."

"You can thank me when we get to the aftward forest. We aren't there yet."

"How did you know I was going that far aftward?" She climbed up to the front seat to sit beside him.

"Where else would you run? The fisherfolk are gone, but the trees are still there." He stirred the reins, the horse took the strain, and they moved off. Annaya started to tell him that she wasn't a slave, then thought better of it. The less he knows the better, for his own safety and mine. "I'm Moren," the man went on as he twitched the reins. The horse wearily started forward again. It was an old and tired mare, a work-horse, pulling alone a cart made for a team of two. She could only imagine that her fine, fast short-horse was worth a lot to him.

"I'm . . ." Annaya hesitated.

"You're Annaya, the Prophet's daughter."

She gave him a look. "You know who I am?"

"Am I wrong?"

"No, I'm just surprised you'd take the risk to help me knowing who I am. You must know what you're risking."

"I had a daughter once. I didn't like the man she was placed with, but . . ." He shrugged. "The bishop's word is law. She didn't like him either. She ran from him, and was caught and beaten. She ran again, was caught again . . ." Moren looked up to the suntube, his expression distant. "You've got your own reason for running. I've got my own reason for helping you."

"I'm grateful."

"Pull your hood up, like a modest girl should. Keep your eyes down. We're going to Hope, anti-spinward of here and then we'll head aftward."

She did as he asked, and they rode in silence through the busy streets. Once a full mark of inquisitors galloped by, parting the crowd as Moses parted the ocean. She stiffened as they went past, but they showed no interest in her.

"They'll be putting a watch on the trading road first," said Moren. "But they're going to get in front of us too."

"What should I do?"

"Sit there, stay quiet, leave the talking to me."

Before long they came to the edge of Charity, and there was a mounted inquisitor there, armored and cloaked, watching the traffic. He was stopping carts, questioning people, and Annaya's heart raced as they drew close. Her throat tightened hard when a half dozen more inquisitors rode up just as they were coming up to him. They were setting up a checkpoint, and she fully expected to be stopped, but the mark-leader with the new group was talking to the first soldier, and she and Moren clopped past without incident. She imagined their eyes on her back as they continued through the open fields, and didn't relax until they were a kilometer down the road. The road antispinward rose up and ahead of them, and she followed it up towards the suntube, squinting to make out the circular blotch that was Hope. After a while she relaxed.

I'm safe, for now. And free. The horse plodded on, pulling them past fields of cheerful sunflowers and pastures full of peacefully grazing sheep and cattle. She took a deep breath, feeling suddenly renewed. Freedom. It felt strange. Her father was dead. How did that happen? She felt a deep sadness in the pit of her stomach, a feeling entirely at odds with the joy of escape and release, and she didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

Moren left her alone with her thoughts, and Hope had moved well down the world before he spoke. "Do you know anyone you can go to?"

She nodded. "There's a man I know, aftward. In Far Bay."

"Far Bay has been burned."

"I know."

"What will you do when you get there?"

"Retake what my brother stole from me." The answer surprised Annaya even as she said it. She hadn't made a plan beyond immediate escape, and if anything she'd imagined simply hiding with Danil for the rest of her life. And yet as soon as Moren asked, she knew with crystal certainty that her destiny was bigger than that.

The farmer's eyebrows went up. "What did he take?"

"My father, and my birthright." Her voice was harder than she meant it to be.

Moren nodded slowly. "I wondered why they were celebrating Prophet Olen in the market."

"Olen is a puppet, nothing more than that, but I'll still have him on the cross for his part in it."

Moren nodded, slowly. "Vengeance is a poor staff to lean your life on."

"Vengeance." Annaya laughed bitterly. "What else have I got now?"

"This man you're running to."

Annaya pressed her lips together. "He doesn't love me, he just finds me useful."

Moren was silent a long moment. "Do you love yourself, Annaya?"

She looked at him sharply. "Why do you ask that?"

"When you reach my age you gain a certain amount of insight into people. You don't have to answer."

Annaya pressed her lips together. "Danil asked me that once."

"Danil, is that the one you're running to?"

She nodded. "Yes."

"What did you answer?"

"I didn't."

He nodded silently, and the conversation lagged as Hope grew lower, closer, larger. The frantic blinking of the signal mirrors around the world had subsided by then. A bell later they crossed the bridge over the Golden River, and then another over the River of Joy, and finally they came to the outskirts of Hope. There was an inquisitor checkpoint there, and again Annaya felt herself tense up as they drew near. The soldiers were dismounted, but their horses were tethered nearby. There would be no running, they would have to brazen their way through.

But I knew we'd be here, I knew we would face this. Strangely she felt worried not for herself, but for Moren. If she were caught she'd be placed with Nufell, but Moren would be crucified. She pulled her hood down and did her best to think like a demure farmer's daughter.

One of the men held up a hand as they approached, and Moren reined their horse to a stop. Annaya peered from beneath the edge of the hood to see if she recognized any of the soldiers, but she didn't. Which is no guarantee that none of them will recognize me. Most of the inquisitors quartered in the gallery were from Charity and the parishes aftward of it. Hope was three quarters of the way around the world, but the odds were good that at least some of the officers in Hope's parisha would know her on sight. And all I can do is hope.

"Where are you from?" asked the one who'd halted them, climbing up on the wagon's footboard. Two more inquisitors came over to check the back of the wagon.

"Charity parish, inquisitor," answered Moren.

"You've come a long way." Annaya kept her head down, but she could feel the unfriendly eyes on her. The inquisitor climbed up on the wagon. "Who's this?" he asked Moren.

"My daughter Suleen, inquisitor."

"Suleen." The soldier raised the edge of her hood, looking down into her face and Annaya avoided meeting his gaze. "You're a pretty one." He turned again to Moren. "She'll have to come with us."

"Why, inquisitor?" Moren asked. "She's late as it is."

"Orders. Any woman her age coming into Hope is to be brought to Charity as soon as possible. The High Inquisitor is looking for someone."

Fear shot through Annaya, and she swallowed hard to control it. We've been caught. She stood and started to climb down from the cart. There was nowhere to run, and no point in further endangering Moren.

"Of course, of course." Moren got up to help her down. "I'll tell Bishop Hern at once."

"The bishop? Why would he care?"

"He's going to be angry already, just because we're so late. Suleen is here to be placed with him."

The inquisitor paused, and when he spoke he sounded suspicious. "The bishop isn't back from the Incarnation yet."

"He must still be at the Festival." There was relief in Moren's voice. "It took so long to get through the crowds I was afraid . . . well, never mind. He's probably looking for another new wife." The old farmer lowered his voice. "Although I'm sure he won't find one as fine as Suleen, or pay a higher brideprice. Show them your hands, Suleen." Moren sounded proud. "She hasn't spent a day in the fields. We knew we'd get a high placement for her."

Obediently Annaya put her hands out for inspection, inwardly marveling at Moren's brilliant performance. Not only had he very subtly maneuvered the soldier into an untenable position, but he had explained away her callous-free fingers before the inquisitor even thought to check them.

The soldier glanced at her hands, but he wasn't really looking at them. His eyes were distant, his expression unhappy as he considered his options. His didn't want to back down in front of his comrades, but his bishop wouldn't be pleased to discover that his fresh new bride wasn't waiting for him when he got back from the Festival. The calculation was simple. If he let the fugitive Prophet's daughter escape he'd lose the glory of the capture. If he turned back Bishop Hern's new wife his punishment would be severe.

"Get back on the wagon," he told Annaya. "Take her to the bishop," he added to Moren. He stepped back and waved them forward. "I'll tell him she's waiting when he comes through."

"As you order, inquisitor," Moren answered, helping Annaya back up with one hand and stirring the horse with the other. She sat back down beside him and they moved off.

"That was too close," she said when they were out of earshot. "You can leave me in the market square. I'll make my own way aft from there."

He shook his head. "No. I'll get you where you need to go."

She tried to protest, and he calmly insisted until she gave in.

Hope wasn't as large as Charity, the buildings less grand, the church less impressive, but the streets were still crowded with post-Incarnation revelers, eating and drinking and dancing. There were inquisitors on the streets, both on horseback and on foot, but they didn't seem to be looking for anyone in particular. They made their way through the throng, turned aftward at the market square and left Hope behind them. The bells rang past from the forewall to the churches, and to the churches beyond them as they traveled. The evening meal came and went and Annaya grew hungry, but didn't complain.

Several times they were stopped by inquisitor patrols. Each time Moren repeated the same routine, substituting the name of the bishop in the next parish as Annaya's newly betrothed husband. Each time they got away with with the deception. They angled back towards the trading road at Benediction parish, and when they came to it turned aftward again. Eventually they came to the Prophetsy wall, where the huge gates stood abandoned and open, the arrow towers empty, the once-neat guard posts surrounded by weeds and already showing signs of neglect.

"This is as far as I can take you," said Moren. "Good luck."

"I'll remember this, always," Annaya said, and hugged her benefactor before stepping down from the cart. He turned the cart around and she watched him go, then turned herself and went into the forest.

The trees were much bigger in the aftward forest, towering giants that spoke of calm ages. Grass was already growing between the resined brick cobbles of the trading road, evidence that the merchants no longer traveled it. She walked down the middle, wondering how she would find Danil, until she came around a corner and saw Far Bay. The city my father destroyed. She had never been there, but there was no mistaking it, blackened timbers, collapsed roofs set against the blue of the ocean and the looming gray disc of the aftwall. She remembered the smell of burnt wood falling out of the sky with the murky rains that had poured down after the conquest, the funeral pyre for the fisherfolk. My father will have his own pyre soon enough. Perhaps he would have made different choices if he'd known he was going to die so soon.

As she grew closer she could see the ruins were softening, weeds showing through the collapsed frames of burnt out buildings, the hard black of burnt timber fading to a subtler shade. She went to the ocean shore, found ruined wharves sinking slowly. The water was reclaiming the fisherfolk city. She passed the market stalls where Prophetsy merchants had once traded steel for fish, incongruously undamaged amid the devastation. But it makes no difference. The merchants were gone, the city dead. It was as if the fires had burned it out of the memory of the conquerors. But Danil is here, somewhere. She knew that instinctively.

She also knew he'd have his sentinels watching the approaches to his stronghold. Ahead of her a plume of smoke rose, a single sign of life in the otherwise abandoned ruins. It was what she was looking for, but at the same time it worried her. It was possible it was just the last smoldering fire in the ruined city. But it isn't, it can't be. She walked towards it, carefully, slowly, keeping to the middle of the road. The sentinels would have rabbit bows, and she wanted to give them no reason to fire. She went as far into the city as she dared, and stopped, sat down in the road and waited.

There were no bells in the aftward forest, and that was strange. Had there ever been? Had the fisherfolk echoed in their own towers the peals that drifted down from the most aftward parishes of the Prophetsy? She couldn't know. With no way to tell time she let her mind drift, looking up the curve of the ocean, watching the waves. Eventually she lay back, exhaustion overcoming her. She slept then, throwing her arm over her eyes to screen out the suntube, too tired to notice the hard, uneven bricks beneath her.

She woke up with a foot in her ribs, and opened her eyes to a drawn bow. A man stood over her, looking down. "Who are you?" he asked.

"Annaya. I'm here for Danil. Danil Fougere."

"The parishan?" The man's eyes registered surprise. "How do you know him?" He wore leather armor, a wickedly curved fighting blade on his hip, and a red title scarf at his neck.

Annaya pointed to the blade. "I got him the steel to make that."

"So?" The man backed up a few paces. "Get up, we'll see what he says."

She got up, and saw that he wasn't alone. There was another man, down on one knee, his back turned to her, watching up the road. The first man made a clicking sound, and the second looked back over his shoulder. A crisp gesture brought him to his feet. As he moved more figures appeared around her, four men, two women, deployed in a circle around her. They moved with silence, purpose, and discipline, falling into a file, moving down the road, eyes alert, bows ready with arrows nocked. This is Danil's army. This is my army. She felt a kind of safety, despite the implicit threat of the weapons, and something else as well.

Pride.

They moved through the destroyed city in silence, heading for the plume of smoke. Eventually they came to a bridge, unburned. On the other side of it a waterwheel turned in the river flow, and the smoke plume she'd followed was coming from the building it was attached to. The structure was an utter ruin, the torched roof fallen in over the resined brick walls at the back, a skeletal frame of blackened timbers was all that was left of the front. For a moment she thought she'd made a mistake, that the curl of smoke really was nothing more than the last-smoldering fire in the destroyed city, but then she caught a sound, a rhythmic clang clang clang rising over the otherwise silent scene, the sound of steel on steel. The building was a forge, and despite all evidence to the contrary, it was working. My steel, my risk, my gift to Danil. They crossed the bridge and she saw that the forge wasn't actually a ruin. Its roof had been burned, but the bricks beneath had held. What had been lost had been rebuilt, using partially charcoaled timbers arranged to look like the ruins of a larger building almost entirely collapsed, just one more skeletal frame on a deserted street that had once bustled with life.

Her escort halted his group with a gesture, and went alone into the forge. After a while he came out with a man she felt she should recognize, leather armor, a blade on his hip, dark blue title scarf . . . "Danil!"

"Annaya!"

She ran to him, threw her arms around him. "Danil."

He hugged her back, lifted her, put her down. She wanted to kiss him, but somehow sensed that wasn't the right thing to do with his soldiers watching.

Perhaps it wasn't, but he kissed her anyway. "What are you doing here?" he asked when he'd finished. "Why have you come?"

"There's a lot to explain. The High Inquisitor killed my father. My brother is Prophet. They know about the army. I don't know how much."

"Are they coming?"

"I don't know, Danil. If they aren't now, they will soon. Bishop Nufell has taken over."

"Who?"

"The man I was to be placed with. I don't think they have everything figured out yet, but it won't be long."

Danil frowned. "This is bad." He looked away, thinking, then turned to the sentinel leader who'd brought her in. "Coss, go up to the main camp, find Avel. Tell him we need sentinels forward as far as Tidings. Tell him to assign a mark to it, in groups of four, with a horse each. If they see the inquisitors coming in force, the rider is to report back, the remainder to keep watching. I need to know how many parishas, and which ones, speed of march, everything."

"At once, parishan." The other man nodded, signaled his followers and they moved off.

"This is early, too early." Danil continued. "We aren't ready." He paused and looked off after the departing patrol. His brow furrowed in concentration, as though with sufficient effort he could see through the burned out buildings and the forest to spot the advance of his enemies. He stood there watching until the last person in the patrol had vanished from view, and then he relaxed and looked back to Annaya. "But come and see what we've got."

He led her into the ruined forge. Inside it was a hive of activity. There were dozens of people there, most in leather smocks, firing steel, beating it, lathing it to shape. A broad-shouldered man was directing the work. "Six more, just like that . . ." he said, examining an angled steel fitting. ". . . and we'll be in good shape for today." His apprentice nodded and went back to her work table, and the broad-shouldered man turned around as Danil and Annaya came up to him.

"Era," Danil said, "we have a problem." He quickly outlined what Annaya had told him. "We have a day, I think, certainly not much more. How many turtles can we get finished in that time?"

"Finished?" Era looked dubious. "I'll put everyone on it, but realistically only one."

Danil shook his head. "We need more than that. Forget everything but the basics, how many are close?"

"Half a dozen that have wheels and gears, but . . ."

"I need them all finished."

"Danil, three of those are just frames with wheels, we need—"

"Finish them, Era. At least to the point where they can carry soldiers. I'll send you a full flank, will that help?"

"If I can get them organized, if they don't break more than they build." Era made a face. "Send them, Danil. I'll do what I can. . . ."

"Good man."

The big blacksmith turned back to his work and Danil led Annaya back out of the forge, and over the bridge to what had once been a cutyard. Like the forge, it had been arranged to look like a complete ruin from the outside. Like the forge, it was a hive of activity inside, with workers lifting timber, sawing beams, hammering chocks. Eight timber structures, overbuilt three-axle wagons on huge, wide wheels, filled the center of the space. The first was no more than a frame, the next five in various stages of construction, the wood and steel of their bodies only hinting at what they would become, but the last two were finished war turtles, and Annaya found them amazing. They were six meters long, three wide and two and half high, slope-sided boxes with harness bars for a horse team at the front, controlled by a horsedriver who sat behind the wooden armor. Sharp wooden spines protruded from the sides like porcupine quills, to dissuade the enemy from trying to climb on top. There were two huge bows mounted on either flank, their steel-sprung limbs mounted horizontally. Each was aimed by a single soldier who stood in a protected well behind it. How they were cocked was another question, they seemed far too big for a single person to operate.

"Would you like to see inside?" asked Danil.

Annaya nodded, and Danil took her around to the back of the war machine. Access was through a heavy timber ramp, which would be raised or lowered by a rope pulled from the interior. Despite the huge size of the turtle, the inside was claustrophobic. Low benches ran along each wall, each facing a row of hand-cranks linked to foot-pedals, and cramped in by the slope of the sides. There was room for ten on each side, and each crank-line drove a wooden gear train. The gear train turned the huge wheels that took up much of the compartment, and the fighting wells for the springbow archers encroached further on the available space. She ran a hand over the steel fittings that held the structure together.

My steel. Now I see why he needed so much of it. The pride she felt when she'd seen the first soldier's blade grew stronger. She had taken a lot of risks to get the steel smuggled to Danil. It was good to know they had been worthwhile. The design used steel only where absolutely necessary, but even so the turtle was so large there had to be a hundred kilos in it. She went deeper into the beast, saw how the huge bows were to be cocked. Haul lines ran through tacklewheels to their mainstrings so the whole team inside could apply their muscle to them. Storage for food, water and supplies took up the forward section, ranked around the hatch where the horsedriver stood. The platform above the central gear train opened to a small pulpit where the turtle's captain could command the whole contraption.

"Impressive." Annaya sat down on one of the benches and put a hand to the wheel cranks. It moved reluctantly and she put her back into the effort. Even with all her strength she could barely shift the turtle, and it was immediately obvious that even with twenty soldiers on the cranks the war machine would be slow and ungainly.

But I knew that. It's the protection that matters here. She turned back to Danil. "How do you steer?"

"The wheels on each side are independent. The horsedriver tells one side or the other to stop cranking, and the turtle will turn to that side. We'll only use the cranks in battle, when we have to disconnect the horses."

Annaya nodded and made her way forward to the horsedriver's hatch, crouched beneath the machine's low ceiling. "How many of these do you have?"

"Twenty-two, not counting these. The real challenge is going to be getting enough horses."

"How many?"

"We need an eight horse team for each one, at least. Ten would be better, even twelve."

She looked at him askance. "That's a parishan's worth. You could mount half your force."

"But we can't train them to fight mounted. Not well enough to take on inquisitors even one for one, and it won't be one for one." Danil smiled. "That's why we've built the turtles."

"No, you're right of course." Annaya put her head out the horsedriver's hatch, and saw how it was cleverly hinged upwards to protect the driver from above even when it was open. Wooden shields protected the position on either side as well, but the view forward was adequate to control the horse team. Short lines ran down to the hitching points, quick releases, to cut loose the team in a hurry should the horses be killed or fouled on an obstacle. Danil really has thought of everything. I chose well when I chose him. "But will these win for us?" she asked.

"Mechanically, they work well. In battle, who knows? We have protection and strong weapons, but not speed. We have two other versions, one is an assault turtle, with a ladder tower on top to get over the temple walls. The other is a ball thrower to knock them down."

"A ball thrower?" Annaya turned around and made her way out of the beast's belly and back down the rear ramp.

"Baked clay balls, fifty kilos each, with a four hundred meter range. When we get to the temple we'll take down the towers on the outer wall, and kill the rest of their archers with springbows. Then the assault turtles move to the outer ditch, put their ladders over it and up the wall."

Annaya nodded, looking over the machine's lines. "You've thought this out."

Danil nodded slowly. "I hope so. Unfortunately part of my thinking was that we'd have more time." He bit his lip, looking at the unfinished war machines, and Annaya could feel his worry.

 

The armor breastplate was heavy and the straps rubbed uncomfortably on Bishop Nufell's shoulders. Nevertheless, he smiled in satisfaction as he walked out into the Temple courtyard. Six full parishas were drawn up beneath the tall walls, a sea of horses, spears, and red cloaks in ordered ranks. It was galling that Polldor's daughter had managed to escape him, but there was only one place she could run, and she couldn't hide there long.

I'm going to enjoy taming her. He shouldn't have allowed her the opportunity, but he had underestimated how callow the newly ascended Prophet Olen really was. Nufell frowned. It wasn't the first mistake he'd made, and he wasn't a man who forgave mistakes easily, least of all in himself. It should have had been immediately obvious that Olen had neither the intelligence nor the ambition to put together the scheme of rebellion that Balak had uncovered. Nufell frowned. He hadn't known right away, and he had thought Olen's protestations of ignorance and innocence were disingenuous.

But I was right about Balak when it counted. In fact, everything was working out rather well. Annaya's secret army provided the perfect excuse to solidify his control. The inquisitor ranks had dwindled as they went to collect their aftward farms. Now he had an excuse to bring them back under his own command. Without the threat Annaya posed there was no way they'd follow weak Olen, even with Balak leading them.

Perhaps if Polldor hadn't been so involved with leadership himself . . . But he had, and Olen could not fail to disappoint in trying to follow in his father's footsteps. Balak was necessary now, to show the soldier-priests that the new Prophet would be only a figurehead. In time they would learn that Nufell's strong hand was behind the Prophetsy's rule, and they would learn to obey him directly. Of course Balak would have to die after this last campaign. His faith made him uncontrollable, and that made him too dangerous to live.

Time to worry about that later. First the rabble had to be destroyed, and then Annaya found and brought to heel. The woman was smart, and dangerous herself, but he couldn't just kill her; she was the key to his dynasty. Once she bore him a son he could dispose of Olen. With his own line blended with the descendents of Noah his sons and his son's sons would rule the world for the indefinite future.

At the gallery stables, the stablehands had his horse ready. He mounted and rode to the gate, then out to where the troops were assembling. Balak was there, two message riders and a signaler by his side.

"How soon will you be ready?" Nufell asked.

Balak turned in the saddle. "We're ready to leave now. We'll be meeting the other parishas aftward of Charity." His eyes were bright and hard, focused on his mission. Whatever inner conflict he had felt over killing his master seemed to have vanished.

Nufell nodded. "I'll ride as your bishop."

"No, you won't. Bless the soldiers if you must, but I have enough to worry about without having to look after you. Stay here and keep the Prophet safe." Balak turned away without waiting for an answer. "Signaler, sound for the parishans to come to me."

The signaler blew five quick notes on his steel-trimmed ram's horn, and a moment later he repeated them.

Anger surged through Nufell at Balak's brusque dismissal and he felt his jaw clench, but he turned his mount and urged it forward, away from a confrontation. For now.

There was no point in trying to impose his will on the High Inquisitor. Balak had made it clear that he followed only Olen's orders, and Nufell remembered only too well the scratch of Balak's blade point against his throat. Fortunately the new Prophet had proved himself easy to control, and so long as Nufell's words came out of Olen's mouth, Balak had shown himself willing to obey. He considered going to Olen to force Balak to take him on the attack, but decided against it.

Still, I'm going to enjoy that man's death. It couldn't be anything obvious or the inquisitors themselves would revolt, but that didn't mean it couldn't be painful. Nufell smiled a hard smile to himself. With Balak out of the way he'd appoint a pliable parishan to be High Inquisitor, and he'd have nothing to fear from the order when the time came for Olen to go as well.

He guided his horse into the ordered ranks, offering blessings left and right. Going into battle wasn't necessary anyway. What was necessary was that he show himself. It was important that the inquisitors know his face, and got used to seeing him in a position of authority, and for that purpose he didn't really need to leave the Temple courtyard. He had worked his way well towards the front ranks when the signaler's horn blew again. He didn't know what the signal meant, but the mark-leaders and flank-captains started getting their troops into line, and the parishans were riding back from their conference with their commander.

The horn blew again and the front ranks moved off, forming themselves into a four-wide column on the trading road. Spotters galloped past, no doubt on their way to find the enemy and report their strength. Nufell was nearly caught up in the movement, but managed to maneuver his horse to the sidelines. Balak's command group followed the lead parishan with battle banners flying, and Nufell watched them go in silence. He was used to being in charge, and it felt strange to be on the sidelines at such a pivotal moment.

Never mind that. It's going to be Balak's battle. But it will be my victory.

 

"Advance!" Danil Fougere shouted the order down from his command pulpit to his war turtle's driver. Simultaneously he brought his arm forward over his head, signalling the following machines to move with his. The driver stirred up his eight-horse team, and the turtle lurched and moved forward at something less than a walking pace. At the same instant Annaya, now acting as Danil's signaler, ran the green battle pennant up the signal mast. Behind them the other turtle captains echoed his commands, and the great column moved off. The ponderous war turtles lived up to the sedate reputation of their namesakes, and the slow pace of the machine was somewhat anticlimactic. There was no immediate threat, no sign the Prophetsy had any idea it was now under attack. The frantic effort which had gone into preparing for the coming war gave way to a kind of nervous boredom. It took them a full bell just to reach the Prophetsy wall, and when they did Danil found everything there peaceful. That won't last long. It was a wish almost as much as a prediction. The sooner the battle was joined the sooner it would be over, and the waiting seemed interminable.

He bit his lip, trying to imagine what he had overlooked. Not that I can fix it now. There were so many unknowns in the assault, from how well the war turtles would perform to how well his soldiers would. And how well their commander will.

He swallowed hard and reminded himself that no one else in the world had ever led an army of battle machines either. He had structured his force so all the springbow turtles were at the forefront, with the heavier ball throwers and assault towers coming up behind. At their current rate of advance it would take nearly forty bells to reach the Prophet's temple, and that was if the inquisitors didn't find some way to stop them. Like digging up the road. The war turtles could negotiate pastureland, at something even slower than their already sluggish speed, but even a ploughed field was a serious obstacle. The trading road was the key to victory. If he was lucky the inquisitors wouldn't realize that.

"Signal open formation," Danil told Annaya.

She nodded and, somewhat inexpertly, blew her ram's horn. Nobody in Danil's army had slept in the last twenty-four hours, and Annaya had spent a lot of her time learning the army signals. He would rather have left her behind, but she had protested with her typical ferocity. She was an expert bow shot and an excellent rider. He may have trained the fisherfolk army, but she had paid for it, and she was not going to be left behind at the critical moment. Making her his signaler was a compromise he'd made only because he didn't think she would manage to master the horn in time. And I should have known she would. She was just that headstrong.

Slowly the war turtles spilled through the trading road gates and expanded into formation. Danil watched, his tension dissipating somewhat. The turtles were strongest in extended array, when they could mutually support each other. Strung out in a long line through the forest they were very vulnerable. He had plans to deal with the various obstacles his army would face in its advance. But hopefully the inquisitors won't understand our weaknesses until it's too late.

Around the world's cylinder he could see the flashes of inquisitor signal mirrors. He had no doubt the coded messages were all about him. It was the second time in his life he'd been the focus of the undivided attention of the Prophetsy's warrior priests, and it was flattering in a way. But I wish I could read the messages.

It took a whole bell for the trudging turtles to deploy, while Danil fretted that the enemy would come before his force was ready. Finally the last turtle moved through the gates and into the open pastureland beyond, and he could finally tell Annaya to signal the advance once more. The turtle's wheels were huge, half a meter wide and two around, with steel spikes set into them for traction. The arrangement allowed them to move their massive bulk on ground too soft and uneven for a conventional wagon, but their speed on the fields was less than a walking pace. It was going to be a slow war. They'd advanced another kilometer when one of his sentinels came into view, riding down the trading road at a gallop.

Annaya waved Danil's black command flag, and the rider angled towards them across the field. It was a woman by her stature; most of the sentinels were. They could ride faster than men, and men were better on the war turtle's cranklines.

She drew her horse up beside the turtle. "Parishan, the inquisitors are ahead."

"How many?"

"I make it six parishas. They're over the next rise, making camp. I don't think they know you're coming."

"Did they see you?"

"No. I've got my people still watching them." She pointed. "We're in that orchard, where the lane turns forward from the road."

"Good work. Go back to them, and then move to where you can watch Tidings parish. They haven't sent all their strength against us, so there'll be more parishas on the move soon. Let me know as soon as you see anything."

"I will, parishan. Good luck." The rider spurred her mount and rode off, and Danil contemplated what he should do. The ground rose gently to the low ridge she had indicated, half a kilometer ahead. It would be hard going to cover that distance of soft pasture under crank power . . . but if they catch us with our horse teams still connected . . . it would be less than optimal to fight the battle with his soldiers tired from cranking, but the horses were vulnerable as the turtles were not, and if they lost them his soldiers would be turning cranks all the way to the forewall.

"Cut loose the horses," Danil ordered the war turtle's horsedriver. He turned to Annaya. "Signal that to the rest of the army." She ran up a new set of signal flags, but didn't sound her horn. Danil was about to mention that to her, when he realized she was doing it to avoid alerting the unsuspecting enemy ahead of them. The horsedriver unhitched the team from the war turtle's yoke, and was leading them back to the war wagons that followed behind the turtles. "Advance on cranks," he called into the turtle's belly. Down on the wheel deck the mark-leader echoed the order, and the soldiers took up the wheel cranks. There was a pause while they got themselves coordinated, and then the battle machine lurched forward, moving even more slowly now. For a moment Danil was tempted to send ground skirmishers forward instead. With luck they could lure the bishop's forces into bringing the battle to them instead. Except that would give them time to prepare, and I don't want that. Better to take them by surprise when he could. He was somewhat surprised that the inquisitors hadn't taken a basic step of putting out spotters. But they've always brought the attack to their enemies. Their arrogance is my advantage.

He kept the turtles moving forward until he could just see over the rise, and then had Annaya signal the halt. The front rank of turtles all carried springbows, the second rank were ball throwers, with the assault towers ringing up the rear. He hadn't been sure if that was the best arrangement, but now it proved its worth.

There was still no sign that the enemy had seen them, and he climbed down from the command pulpit and moved forward on his own. When he got to the top of the rise he dropped to his hands and knees and crawled the last few meters. He could hear the enemy before he saw them, and sure enough on the other side the ground fell away into a broad, shallow bowl, full of white tents and fluttering banners, and several thousand red cloaks. Once he was satisfied that he knew where the enemy was, he crawled back down the rise until he was low enough that he could stand and jog back to his turtle. He climbed back to the pulpit, and had Annaya run up the signal flags to command the ball throwers to fire. A minute later the heavy kachunk of their throwing arms sounded, and the heavy clay balls soared over Danil's head to crash into the enemy camp beyond.

"Signal the springbows forward," Danil said, and Annaya ran up the flags and blew her horn. Her signal was echoed by the other turtles, and the weary soldiers inside started cranking again. Even before they got to the rise Danil could hear the chaos the surprise attack had caused, with leaders yelling orders and horns sounding. When they cleared the rise the camp was in chaos. The heavy balls tore through tents and bodies with indifferent ease. Frightened horses had stampeded, trampling men and overturning wagons.

"Springbows, fire!" he yelled, and the archers in the lead turtles responded even before Annaya blew the signal.

The sharp twangsnap of the steel-sprung bows echoed over the battle, and the heavy bolts cut into the confused mass of the inquisitors. He told Annaya to order the ball throwers to stop firing. The enemy was fleeing in all directions now, leaving their dead and wounded where they lay, and they were no longer clustered close enough to be a worthwhile target for the heavy weapons. A few arrows rose up against them, but there was no organized resistance. Most of the inquisitors were running, those who'd managed to mount their horses were already gone. Minutes later the enemy encampment was abandoned, save only the dead and those too wounded to flee.

"Advance the rear turtles to this line," Danil ordered, and Annaya set the flags to transmit his command. "Dismount the troops," he yelled across to the neighboring springbow turtles. "Have them search for . . ."

"Danil!" Annaya shouted. "They're coming back."

Danil looked to where she was pointing. Ahead of them a formation of horses was drawing up, just out of springbow range. As he watched more joined them. "Cancel that order," he yelled to the springbows. "We aren't finished yet."

"There's so many of them," said Annaya, her eyes big as she took in the ranked horses. A second formation joined the first as she said it. The inquisitors had rallied their forces.

"We've beaten them once," Danil said, with a confidence he hoped was warranted. "We can do it again."

"They can wait us out."

Danil nodded, and considered his options. His soldiers had already been awake forty-eight bells preparing for the battle, and he couldn't afford to exhaust them. At the same time he had to advance in order to win, and there was no sense letting his enemy consolidate their reorganization. Time was on the inquisitor's side. He had to bring the battle to them, no matter what the cost. "Advance," he shouted. Annaya blew her horn to send the signal. The war turtle lurched forward as the sweating soldiers inside bent to their cranks once more.

The turtles went faster on the downslope, but still the range closed with painful slowness, to eight hundred meters, to seven, and then to six. The big springbows could throw a bolt that far, but not with any accuracy. Nevertheless one of the leading turtles fired, the twangsnap echoing over the field. The big bolt cut the air, arcing high and curving spinward as it did. As Danil watched it fly, the turtle's second springbow fired as well. Both of the missiles fell short of the enemy, though the closest landed within fifty meters. The springbows sounded again, and then the turtle on Danil's right flank joined in. It was exhilarating to watch the bolts flying, but . . . We're wasting them, and warning the enemy.

"Stop firing!" Danil yelled. "Stop firing, you sooksans. Let them get close!" He heard the order being passed down the line, not fast enough to stop another volley of springbow bolts from being launched, with two more turtles farther down the line letting fly, but finally his eager springbow archers obeyed. He had a signal flag to command them to start firing, but none to command them to stop.

Something I didn't think of. There would be other things he hadn't thought of, and some of them might lose him the battle. He looked across to the enemy. Three full parishas had rallied from the chaos of his assault and were drawn up with their horses in battle order. Clusters of banners marked the command groups, though he was still too far away to spot the insignia on their chest plates. He held his breath, afraid his over-eager archers had given the game away. The inquisitor parishans now knew they were badly out-ranged. The smart thing for them to do would be to withdraw just a little, to force the war turtles to keep advancing on crank power until Danil's troops were exhausted. They were so much more mobile than Danil's force, and it occurred to him that they could simply sweep around the edges of the war turtles to attack the vulnerable horse teams and supply wagons from behind.

But it's too late to do anything about that. The entire attack was a gamble and there was no turning back now. Mobility was the enemy's strength, protection was his. Even as he considered what he might do in the face of incremental withdrawals by the enemy, a horn sounded from the enemy ranks. There was a collective shout from the massed horsemen, a warcry that chilled Danil's blood, and then the center parisha charged. It seemed that it was an independent decision by the center parishan, though Danil couldn't be sure. It will be good if they come one at a time. For the first long seconds he dared hope the inquisitors would make that mistake, but then more horns sounded and the two flanking parishas followed the first. Six hundred horses came bearing down on Danil, spears lowered, and the ground trembled beneath the impact of their hooves. He had an instant vision of himself fleeing the lumber crew as the mounted inquisitors chased him down, and the image paralyzed him. Time seemed to slow down as the horses charged into range, and then finally he found his voice.

"All archers, rapid fire! Ball throwers, rapid fire!"

Annaya blew her horn, and yanked up the red ball and arrow flags to convey the command. He heard the other turtle captain's echoing it up and down the line, the twangsnap of heavy springbows filled the air. The big bolts spiraled into the oncoming horde, and one, two, four horsemen were down. From behind him the heavier chunk of the ball throwers told him the following turtles were also engaging, and seconds later the heavy clay balls arced over his head. Most of them went wide, and Danil's heart sank. He had imagined his heavy weapons cutting down the enemy in droves, but it wasn't happening. Charging horses were much harder targets than stationary tents, and all of a sudden his awkward array of lurching wooden battle machines looked wholly vulnerable to the descending mass of horses and armor. We'll be swept away. His own springbow archers cut loose, and one of the heavy bolts took an inquisitor in the chest. Danil couldn't tell if the shaft had penetrated the enemy's armor, but the man was knocked clean off his horse, to vanish beneath the pounding hooves of those following.

"Yes!" The archer pumped his fist in the air in exhultation.

"Don't cheer! Fire!" Danil snapped, and the man reloaded, aimed and fired again. The bolts were striking home hard now, the distance already down to two hundred meters, and the springbows were more effective. So close it's hard to miss. An answering shower of arrows came up from the enemy ranks as they closed to rabbit-bow range, and he ducked behind the command pulpit's shields as they rained down, spiking themselves into Victory's wooden flanks. The war turtle's archers swiveled their weapons to face the onslaught, firing steadily while the troops below hauled on the cocking ropes so the archers could reload. Their bolts were hitting home harder now, opening gaps in the inquisitor ranks, and then the charge was on them in a hail of arrows, and Danil ducked behind the pulpit to peer through the narrow slot beneath its rim, bracing for impact. The momentum of the charge seemed unstoppable, but as the horses came upon the strange, slope-sided war machines they balked, and ran to the side. One brave man leapt from his mount to grab the downsloping defensive spikes on the turtle's side. He made it, and used them to climb hand over hand to the top deck. His attack was so fast and so unexpected that Danil barely had time to bring his own blade up before the man was climbing into the command pulpit. Reflexively Danil swung, and the heavy shipsteel cut through flesh and bone. The inquisitor screamed and fell away. A gurgling cry behind him made him spin around, to see a second red-cloaked figure falling backwards with an arrow in his groin. Annaya didn't have her bow in her hands, and it took Danil a moment to realize that she had simply stabbed him with the shaft.

Danil grabbed up his own rabbit bow and put an arrow to the string, determined not to let another inquisitor get so close, but most of the riders were simply flowing through his formation, unwilling or unable to mount the steep-sided war machines against their bristling layer of spines.

He picked a target to his front and fired, saw his arrow bounce from an armored chest plate. He fired again, this time taking his target's horse in the flank. The horse whinnied and reared, throwing its rider off backwards. The wounded horse galloped off, following the rest of the charge and the inquisitor disappeared from Danil's view, hidden by the war turtle's massive prow. Danil picked another target and fired again. His arrow went wide, and then the turtle lurched violently and a bloodcurdling scream came from beneath him. The thrown inquisitor had been unable to get out of the way of the huge wheels, and the turtle was running him over. Bones crackled sickeningly, and the scream seemed to go on forever until it suddenly cut off. What a horrible way to die. There was no time to reflect on the fate of his enemies, but he was reminded that his army was still advancing when there was no longer any need. The inquisitors had brought the battle to him.

"Halt!" he yelled, and his horsedriver echoed the command into the war turtle's belly, but there was no way his voice would carry even to the next turtle over the sound of the battle. "Annaya, signal the halt."

She hauled at her flag ropes, and blew her horn, and Danil took a deep breath, and looked to assess the situation. Around the battlefield the other war turtles were stopping too. The heavy springbows were still in action, though not at their best at the close ranges, and the horsedrivers were engaging with rabbit bows. His ball throwers had stopped firing altogether, unable to engage an enemy closer than a hundred meters, and having scored few hits firing on moving targets. It was unexpectedly the assault tower turtles who were dealing the most damage. Avel was in charge of them, and he'd ordered the rear turtle captains to put their troops up into the protected ladder towers. From there they were firing down into the milling red mass of inquisitors with terrible effect.

Another brave inquisitor leapt on to the side of the neighboring turtle, and Danil put an arrow to his string and fired reflexively. The arrow took the man in the back, and he fell. A second inquisitor had joined the first, but before Danil could fire again he slipped, to be impaled on the protective spines.

"Danil!" Annaya grabbed him and hauled him down into the pulpit, just as a shower of arrows flew through the space where his head had been, some smacking into the pulpit shields. Danil stuck his head back up to see one of the trailing parishans drawn up short, its archers firing volleys at the ranked war turtles.

"Signal the ball throwers to fire left front."

Annaya nodded. The red ball flag was still up, and she blew her horn and pointed to show the thrower captains where to fire. Nothing happened, and Annaya cursed and shouted at them, a pointless gesture. The nearest thrower turtle was a hundred meters behind him and its captain was surrounded by inquisitors and firing his rabbit bow, oblivious to the danger of the incoming arrows. Danil cursed himself, and turned to direct his own springbow archers to direct their fire at the target, but something struck him from behind and he fell, staggering into Annaya. They both crumpled to the bottom of the pulpit in a tangled heap. He struggled to get to his feet, and found himself looking up at an inquisitor who'd managed to make it onto the war turtle's back. The other man had his spear upraised, ready to drive it down into Danil's chest, and Danil desperately tried to push himself out of the path of the weapon.

There was no room in the cramped pulpit, and Annaya was blocking the narrow space that led down into the turtle's belly, but unable to get through it with Danil's weight on top of her. He saw the man smile in triumph, and then an arrow bounced off his chest armor. The inquisitor looked up, surprised, and a second arrow took him in the forehead. He fell forward, the spearpoint coming down hard on Danil's chest. A second later the soldier's body fell on top of him, blood gushing from the man's impaled skull and all over Danil. Danil tasted blood and spat it out, struggling to get the man's dead weight off of himself in the cramped space. With he and Annaya helpless there was nothing to stop another inquisitor from gaining the back of the war turtle, and if that happened they would certainly die.

He heaved himself upwards, his feet slipping on wood made slippery with his enemy's blood, and managed to get out from underneath the body. He struggled to his knees, and hauled himself up to the pulpit's rim, keeping his head low against the possibility of another volley of arrows. None came, and when he looked over the top he saw that the ball throwers had found the new threat. The heavy clay balls were arcing overhead into the halted parisha, tearing huge gaps in the ranks and leaving crushed men and horses in their wake. The center of the formation had dissolved into milling chaos. The flanks were still in good order, but they'd stopped firing as their flank-captains tried to maneuver them sideways and out of the line of fire. As Danil watched, a springbow volley cut into the left hand flank, killing the flank-captain there and perhaps one of the mark-leaders as well. A second volley speared into the ranks, and that was all it took. A wounded horse screamed in pain, rearing and bucking and turning to bolt. The horses beside it turned to follow, though Danil couldn't tell if that was in spite of their riders or because of them, and then suddenly the parisha's whole left flank was in full flight, with the remnants of the center following them. The right hand flank-captain already had his flank moving out from the killing zone in the center, and he simply wheeled his formation around to retreat in good order. The ball throwers and springbows shifted fire to follow them, but the horsemen were out of range before they could have much effect.

With their departure there were no more enemy in front of him, and Danil turned to see that behind him the charge had been completely broken up. Most of the enemy force was now fleeing in all directions, with springbow bolts flying after the stragglers. Behind the battle line a determined inquisitor flank-captain was still trying to rally his troops against the war wagons, but the fisherfolk there had formed a spear wedge, and the rattled inquisitors failed to press home the charge. Having finished with the remnants of the parisha in the middle of the formation of war turtles, the archers up in the assault towers switched their fire to the group trying to break the spear wedge. The turtle captains were shouting orders, directing the fire on the hapless Prophetsy troops. Only three or four turtles were within good rabbit-bow range of the enemy, but their archers were deadly accurate from the protected elevation of the assault towers. The inquisitor armor turned many of the arrows, but their horses were vulnerable and a horseman thrown to the ground was no longer a soldier but a target. Those who turned to flee were vulnerable, because their armor offered no protection from behind. As Danil watched the heroic flank-captain died, crushed beneath his fallen horse, with half a dozen feathered shafts skewering his body.

That quickly, it was over. The attack had lasted a few minutes at most, and it was a total victory for Danil's force. A cheer went up from the fisherfolk as the last inquisitor galloped out of range, leaving the terrain strewn with dead men and horses.

Danil found himself shaking, and grabbed the edge of the pulpit to steady himself. "Signal a war council," he told Annaya, then yelled down into Victory's belly, "It's over, we won this one."

More cheers answered him, and he hoped what he said was true. He clambered down from the turtle's back to meet his leaders. It took them a while to gather, and Danil kept his eyes moving in case the enemy brought forward fresh parishas. It would be a bad thing to be caught with all the commanders outside their turtles. The hardest part of being a commander, he was learning, was not the actual fighting but organizing the force so that when the fight came it was ready.

Avel was the first to arrive, a broad smile on his weathered face. "Three parishas, Danil. We beat three parishas in open combat." The half-parishan was exultant. "War turtles! What a wonderful idea."

Danil nodded, and he fought down the urge to succumb to his own exhilaration. We beat them, but they'll have learned from this and the next time won't be so easy. He kept the thought to himself and slapped his half-parishan on the back. "You did a fine job, putting the archers in the towers was brilliant."

His other turtle captains were coming up, all of them equally excited. Danil let them talk for a moment before calling for their attention. It did seem to be a great victory. The inquisitor dead numbered in the hundreds, and the fisherfolk had lost only three killed and half a dozen injured, along with some twenty-three horses. All of their losses were with the supply wagons. The turtles had proved themselves invulnerable. And yet we can't afford to lose so many horses each time. The turtles were invulnerable, but his army wasn't.

"We've done a great thing today," he told his captains. "But it's still a long way to the forewall. We've beaten three parishas, they've got nearly twenty still to come at us. Bury your dead, get your wounded back to the war wagons so they can be looked after, and make sure your soldiers rest and eat. In the meantime I want all the springbows and ball throwers ready to fire, and archers up in those towers. Understood? They came back once. They might come back again."

There were murmurs of assent from the group, and Danil turned to Era, who was commanding the war wagons. "Priority for horses goes to the turtles, so Era, that means you're going to have to give up some. You're in charge of making sure that teams are hitched and ready to go."

Era nodded. "We'll be slower. I'll be down to three horses for almost every wagon."

"I know, you'll just have to do what you can to keep up. These turtles aren't fast."

"Oh, we'll do it, don't you worry about that."

"Good." Danil smiled. "For the rest of you, get gathering parties out to recover arrows, and let them take what they want from the inquisitor dead. The priority is weapons and armor, and it should go to whoever can use it best. I'll leave that to your judgment."

"What about trade tokens?" asked one of the springbow captains, a tall lanky woman named Mira. "And anything else of value."

"Everything else goes back with the wagons. When this is over, it'll all be shared out equally." He looked around his assembled leaders, meeting their eyes. "Make sure everyone gets some sleep, yourselves included. We're going to move again at the morning-meal bell. Hitch the horses back to your turtles and be ready to go by then. Any questions?"

There were none, and the meeting broke up. Danil clambered back up onto his turtle and then down into the command pulpit.

The rear ramps on the leading turtles went down and the marks unloaded to go forward and search their fallen enemies. One of the inquisitors nearby wasn't dead, though he had a heavy springbow bolt through his belly. A fisherfolk raised his blade, and before Danil could object the weapon came down. Blood spattered, and the man was dead. Reflexively Danil looked away, and was immediately disgusted with himself for his reaction.

War is a hard thing, and I must be hard to win it. He forced himself to look back to the now headless body, and strangely he found himself angry, not at his enemy but at his own soldier. A feeling rose in him, a motivation, an idea only half formed, and he climbed out of the command pulpit. The soldiers had found another wounded inquisitor, this one trapped under a dead horse. The man had been playing dead, but now was pleading for his life as the blade rose for the killing stroke.

And Danil found himself jumping down from his turtle's top deck in the grip of something very close to rage. "Stop!" he yelled, letting his anger show. "What do you think you're doing?"

The soldiers looked up at him, surprised more than anything. "He was still alive," said the man with the blade, as though that explained everything.

"I know that." Danil strode towards the group. The other soldiers gave him room. "Do you know what you've done here?"

The soldier mutely shook his head.

"The Prophetsy will be back, you can count on that. And when they come, how hard do you want them to fight?"

"I . . . I don't know . . ." The man looked confused.

"Well, think about it," Danil snapped. "Think about how hard they're going to fight if they learn we kill their wounded."

The man's face was blank, and Danil cuffed him, hard. "Try that again and I'll kill you myself." He looked back over his shoulder. "Flank-captain!"

"Parishan!" The flank-captain moved to be by him.

Danil met her gaze. "See this man is looked after and taken back to the surgeon. Tell the other captains that all our prisoners are to be treated well. And tell the surgeon that once this one's wounds are dressed he's to be sent back to his parishan to let the Prophetsy know we treat our prisoners well."

"At once, parishan." The flank-captain began yelling instructions to her troops, and Danil turned to the captured inquisitor, moved close to the man's face, looked him straight in his frightened eyes. "And when you get back to your comrades, tell them that Danil Fougere is coming with the wrath of Noah in his right hand. Make sure they know."

The man's eyes grew wide with fear, and Danil turned to walk back to his turtle without waiting for an answer. As he climbed back on he found himself shaking with reaction.

Did I do the right thing? He had acted on instinct, and he wasn't used to that. Annaya's eyes were big and he looked away from her, not wanting her to see the uncertainty in his face.

"Annaya, I need you to go to each turtle. Let the turtle captains know we'll be making camp here. We've won some time, and everyone needs sleep. Make sure they keep a good watch. We don't want the Prophetsy surprising us the way we did them."

"I will," she said, and Danil watched as she climbed out of the pulpit and jumped down to deliver his message. He was afraid she would be difficult, as she always had been before, but she seemed to understand whatever disagreement she might have with Danil Fougere, she could have none with the parishan of the fisherfolk army.

Danil watched her go, and then sagged against the side of the pulpit. Annaya's errand was probably unnecessary, a simple confirmation of what the turtle captains should be doing anyway. He'd sent her so he could have some time to himself. I can't let her see doubts, I can't let any of them see doubts. There was thankfully little for him to do as his army dealt with the aftermath of the attack, and he had time to recover himself.

His footing was unstable, and he suddenly realized that he was standing on the body of the inquisitor who'd nearly speared him. The inside of the command pulpit was smeared red with blood, and the man's brains were splattered on the shields. Danil felt suddenly sick, but his stomach was too empty to actually vomit.

The episode left him weak and shaky, and then he had to heave the body up and out of his pulpit. The limp corpse was a cumbersome, uncooperative burden, and the man's dead eyes stared at him with empty accusation. When it was gone he looked out over the battlefield, where fisherfolk troops were sorting the living from the dead, collecting unbroken arrows and bolts, and those balls that hadn't shattered on impact.

He became aware of a soreness in his chest, and looked down to find his shirt ripped open and blood soaked. Most of the blood was the inquisitor's, but beneath the tear there was a nasty gash in his chest. The soldier's spearpoint had sliced almost to the bone. If it had come down full force he would have been dead in that instant. The blood was already clotting, and the forming scabs pulled away painfully as he separated the fabric from the wound.

My enemy's blood and my own, blending his death and my survival. Reflexively his hand went to the scar on his arm where the arrow had pierced him as he fled slavery across the Prophetsy wall. He would have two battle scars now. And I'll be very pleased if I never earn another mark on my body.

He looked foreward, to the distant forewall, and the still invisible temple he hoped to assail. It was a long way to go with the lumbering war turtles, and it seemed unlikely he would cover all that distance without another injury.

He studied the ground ahead, ground he thought he had already learned in his many journeys up and down the trading road. Now at the head of his army a host of new details came to his attention. An irrigation ditch at the edge of the next field was an obstacle that required consideration. A clump of shrubs might shelter an enemy spotter, or offer cover for one of his own.

I have so much to learn, and an error would be disastrous. High on the curve of the world he could see the flashes of inquisitor mirror code, flickering news of his victory to his enemies. He had chosen to take on the Prophetsy, and now the Prophetsy would respond to his challenge. There was no sign of the parishas he had defeated, the survivors had fled out of sight, but the next parishans he faced would know the impact of the war turtles. The element of surprise was gone, at least from his side. The fisherfolk could have no other strategy than to advance up the trading road with their ponderous war machines to assault the Prophet's temple, and any halfway rational parishan or bishop would realize that. What surprise the enemy came up with as a counter to the power of his turtles he would not know until they sprung it on him.

"Danil, are you all right?" It was Annaya, returned from her errand.

"Yes, of course." Danil wasn't sure it was true, but he assumed the mantle of surety that was a requirement of command.

"You were . . ." Annaya stopped, not wanting to question him, perhaps not wanting to acknowledge in her own mind that he might not know what he was doing. "I've told the turtle commanders, and they're getting their people food and sleep."

Danil nodded. "Good."

"And you need sleep too." Danil opened his mouth to object but Annaya held up a hand. "Don't argue with me, we need you at your best."

She was right. He nodded, and climbed out of the bloodsoaked pulpit to lie on the war turtle's top deck. He wrapped his cloak around himself, threw an arm over his eyes to block out the suntube, and was asleep in seconds.

It seemed like he'd barely closed his eyes when Annaya was shaking him awake.

"Danil, get up. We're moving out."

He was awake instantly, looking around to see the war turtles loaded with their troops aboard, the horse teams are hitched, and the war wagons lined up to the rear in good formation, the battle flags flying to show his army was ready to move.

Annaya handed him some hard bread and dried cheese. "Your morning meal, parishan."

"Why didn't you wake me earlier?"

"Avel and Era had it well in hand, and you still haven't slept enough."

Danil nodded slowly. He would have rather been up before his turtle captains, to demonstrate leadership if for no other reason, but Annaya was right. He would be no good to his army if he exhausted himself on the first day of the war. "Signal the advance," he said, and watched as Annaya ran up the flags. The horse teams were stirred up, and the formation of war machines moved off. A great many soldiers had chosen to walk behind their turtles rather than ride in the cramped compartments. Not a bad idea, as long as we have enough warning before the Prophetsy comes again.

"Any news from the sentinels?" he asked Annaya.

"They're in position. Four parishas are forming up at the Temple."

Danil nodded, thinking. The inquisitors were so much more mobile than his force. They could concentrate almost anywhere, and attack from any direction, while he was constrained to advance in a straight line at a predictable speed. There was no sign of attack as they moved across the aftward fields, though lone riders did appear in the distance, keeping well out of springbow range. They won't be surprised again.

A layer of low cloud shrouded most of the suntube, blocking the inquisitor mirror signals, but that wouldn't make much difference at this stage. A kilometer ahead the irrigation ditch he'd noticed loomed as an obstacle. He chewed his lower lip, considering how to get his force across it. Annaya brought up some dried fish from the rations below and he ate it while he ran different scenarios through his mind. It took a whole bell for them to advance to the ditch. The trading road crossed it over a culvert, and another five hundred meters down there was another where a farmer had connected his fields. Danil bit his lower lip as he studied the ground. If the Prophetsy managed to disable a turtle right there it would paralyze his whole force. And yet the risk must be accepted, all I can do is try to control it. He had Annaya signal a halt, and dismounted. On foot he went to the springbow turtles on either flank, and ordered the two on each side to release their horse teams and cross the narrow chokepoints under crank power. He climbed back up on his turtle, watched with his stomach tight as they did. Behind him the ball throwers maneuvered into position to support the lead elements. The ground offered little cover for a Prophetsy ambush, but the mounted inquisitors moved so much faster than his own awkward force than they could essentially engage at will.

The springbows crossed without incident at both points, though it took almost a bell for them to complete the movement. Once across they advanced a hundred meters beyond the irrigation ditch to cover the remainder of the army as it moved over the culverts. Then Danil had to rearrange his force from the battle line it was deployed in, to two single files to make the crossing. It took an excruciatingly long time. The plowed field was dangerously soft, and most of the turtle captains lowered their back ramps and ordered their soldiers out of the war machines to walk along behind them. That lightened the load for the toiling horses, and gave some much needed air and exercise to the cramped troops. It was a wise, even necessary decision, but Danil worried about what would happen if a parisha suddenly appeared to charge down on their flank. The midday-meal bell had sounded before the last turtle had crossed, and it was almost the evening meal before they'd managed to reform the battle line on the other side of the obstacle. He ordered a halt at that point, with sentries deployed and soldiers building cook fires around their machines. The day's advance had covered only five kilometers, half what he had hoped to achieve. That was worrisome, because the turtles only carried food and water for two days, with another two days of rations carried on the war wagons. There could be no question of sending the wagons back for more supplies, without the protection of the turtles they would be easy prey for the Prophetsy's riders.

Danil held another war council once the sentries had been posted, but confined the discussion to the details necessary to organize the next advance and kept his larger concerns to himself. He couldn't get the face of the inquisitor who'd nearly speared him out of his mind. He died so that I could live.

It had been an inquisitor arrow that killed the man, one of those random accidents of battle that could turn the tide of a war. His chest throbbed where the spearpoint had gouged the flesh, and now that the immediate stress of battle command was gone, the pain surged with every movement. The line between life and death is so narrow. The lack of further enemy action worried him, but there was nothing he could do about it. The inquisitors would attack when they were ready, and all he could do was wait.

 

"Again," said Bishop Nufell, and the driver brought his short-whip down. The man roped to the cross grunted, his face contorted as he clenched his teeth against the pain.

"Again." The whip fell again, and the man's body convulsed, though he managed to bear the stroke in silence this time. Tears were starting from his eyes, but still he said nothing. The bishop stepped forward to take his face in one hand, squeezing. "You can stop this any time you know."

The man shook his head, his eyes hard with defiance. The bishop squeezed harder. "God wants to forgive you. Why won't you let him?"

In reply the man spat in the bishop's face. Angered, Nufell backhanded him. "Break him, learn all he knows," he snarled to the driver, and turned on his heel. He heard the whip come down again, harder this time. The prisoner gave a strangled cry, and Nufell smiled as he wiped the spittle from his cheek. He won't last long. His smile faded as he went to the Temple's outer wall and climbed the stairs to the palisade. He had learned much in his long quest for power, but the most important thing was information, and information was exactly what he lacked. Waiting for it was not something he enjoyed.

And he was waiting for more than his enemy's confession. He watched aftward impatiently, until far down the road a rider on horseback appeared. He watched as the shape grew closer, resolved a red cloak, a heavy curved blade. The courtyard gates opened as the rider approached. Balak. The High Inquisitor was moving at a rapid trot, but Nufell found it annoying that he wasn't coming at a gallop. Nufell went down the stairs to meet him.

"Where have you been?"

"I've been fighting your war, Bishop." Balak's eye twitched, a signal that Nufell had learned that he was going to be unreasonable. "I hope that hasn't inconvenienced you." There was a nasty looking cut on the side of the warrior-priest's face.

"Inconvenienced." Nufell snorted. "What inconveniences me is the fact that this rabble has put six full parishas to flight."

"The material is unimportant. God has ordained our victory."

"God has ordained, God has ordained." Nufell slammed his fist on the table. "I don't want to hear what God has ordained, I want to hear that these sooksans have been crushed." He stood and turned away. "I'm disappointed, Balak. Deeply disappointed."

"Your lack of faith disturbs me."

"So?" Nufell spun around to meet Balak's gaze. "Your lack of success disturbs me."

"You forget that I battle for the Prophet, not you, Bishop." There was a warning in Balak's tone, and his hand moved to the handle of his blade.

The implied threat behind the motion wasn't lost on Nufell. But he knows his treasured Prophet needs me. He sat down at the table again. "Then let's pretend for a moment that Olen Polldor isn't a spineless child who wouldn't survive a bell in front of the Elder Council without me behind him. And while we're pretending that you and I can discuss the problem like adults."

Balak ignored the sarcasm, but he sat down at the table. "The problem will be resolved, shortly. I reorganized the lead parishas, and the rest of our strength is gathering."

"We can't afford to throw all the parishas into this. Rumors are already spreading in the slave crews, did you know that?"

"I've ordered a recall of those who've left the order. It will take time for them to gather and be organized, but they can handle the slaves, if necessary."

"Can they? The Elder Council is in a panic."

"The Elder Council is your concern, not mine."

"They'll become your concern if their slaves rebel. If your vaunted inquisitors can't handle a few hundred fisherfolk, I invite you to imagine facing thousands."

"God has ordained the Prophet's victory, Bishop."

"I would feel better if I thought you understood the forces at play here."

"God has ordained the Prophet's victory, Bishop," Balak repeated, and stood up with his eyes blazing. His voice grew intense. "I hear your doubts, I see the falsity of the faith you profess, but mark my words, I will destroy this threat to Noah's line. I will purify the world with holy fire, and I will not stop with the godless rabble you call your enemy."

Balak drew his blade and Nufell started back, almost falling out of his chair. "I know your ambitions, Bishop. I see your contempt for the power God has imbued in our new Prophet, but do not mistake weakness in the vessel for weakness in the wine." He leaned forward and locked his eyes on Nufell's. "You find me useful, for now. So too does God find you useful, for now.

"But know this, Bishop, know this. The time is coming when God will demand penance for your apostasy, and when that time comes I pray, I pray he will choose me to be the instrument of your destruction."

Balak yanked at a buckle and his breastplate fell to the floor. "God is my blade and my shield, Bishop." The High Inquisitor slammed the weapon down point first, burying it in the oak tabletop. "If you don't believe that, pick up that blade and kill me while you still can."

There was a look in Balak's eyes that wasn't fully human, a look almost feral in its paralyzing intensity. Nufell instinctively pushed himself back in his chair to get farther away from him. He found he wasn't breathing, and he inhaled consciously, slowly. "There's no need for us to argue. We're on the same side."

"We'll see." Balak reached over and pulled his blade from the table. He reached down and picked up his armor. "You keep the Elder Council in line and out of my way. I have a war to win."

He turned on his heel and left, and Nufell watched him go. His hands were trembling, and he laid them flat on the table while he tried to get his swirling thoughts under control.

He's dangerous, too dangerous. He had thought he could control Balak because he controlled Olen, but the High Inquisitor was more complex than that. Yes, his devotion to the Prophet's line was absolute, but he was still a man. He knew he'd been manipulated into killing Polldor, though he couldn't express that anger directly. And he blamed Nufell for the unresolvable anguish that had brought him.

And if I can't get him under control, I'm going to have to kill him, more quickly than I expected. He wouldn't do it himself of course. No, that would be more risk than Nufell really felt like undertaking. I need an assassin . . . There would be time to solve that problem. For now there was a rebellion to crush, and Balak still had his uses.

 

There was battle in the air, Danil could smell it. The cloud that had shrouded the suntube had spiraled forward and dissipated, and inquisitor mirror code flickered back and forth around the curve of the world. His sentinels were skirmishing with inquisitor spotters on every flank. At least eight parishas were on the move, probably more. The enemy was gathering, and from the thoroughness of the reconnaissance he was quite sure that when the battle came it wouldn't hand him victory as easy as the last one.

His army had advanced halfway to Charity, and his life had been reduced to a series of tactical decisions. Some of those decisions had cost him sentinels, and he was acutely aware that every loss weakened him. The inquisitors' advantage in numbers meant that they could win just by trading body for body, and they were using that advantage to press his reconnaissance forces hard. Danil agonized over the steady trickle of losses, but he couldn't give up his eyes forward. The cumbersome war turtles were powerful, but he needed all the advance warning he could get to make sure they were ready when the attack came.

And it will come.

His concentration was total, not a single aspect of his army's advance was too small for him to take notice of, though he tried not to interfere with the judgment of his captains. They need to know I trust them, if they're going to trust themselves at the critical moment. He didn't even eat unless Annaya reminded him to, and when he did he barely tasted his food. Sleep became a matter of a bell snatched here, another there.

The bells wore into days and the attack still didn't come. Even so the turtles advanced a couple of kilometers a day at best, and it was frustrating to call their evening-meal halt an easy walk from where they'd started at the breakfast bell. And the fourth day they reached the orchards surrounding the town of Praise. The fragrance of ripening citrus and mango filled the air, incongruously pleasant, but the close-spaced trees posed Danil a problem he hadn't faced before. The orchard floor was level enough for the turtles to roll, but maneuvering would be difficult at best. The springbows would have hardly any field of fire, and even communication would be difficult.

We'll be vulnerable from the trees at close range. He contemplated sending two turtles a side into the orchards under crank power and putting the rest of the army into single file on the road, a maneuver similar to what he'd done at the irrigation ditches, but on further contemplation he realized it wouldn't work. Controlling the movement would be all but impossible, and the turtles in the trees would be almost helpless to defend themselves against foot troops.

Fortunately he had time to ponder the problem as the war turtles lumbered slowly towards the obstacle, and before the first one had reached the edge of the orchards he had the solution. He had Annaya signal a halt and a war council, and outlined his plan to his gathered turtle captains. It didn't take long, everyone knew the drill now, and the captains ran back to their war machines to implement the plan. We're gaining skill, and that's good.

Annaya signaled the advance again and the mark-leaders led their units down the back ramps into battle order and filtered into the trees with spears ready. Archers moved farther out into the orchards to provide early warning. The fisherfolk had already proved they could beat the mounted inquisitors in the trees, and if their enemy came into the orchards they would prove it again. They could still try to use fire against us, but well kept orchards won't burn the way the forest with dead undergrowth did.

Still he held his breath as the first turtle reached the edge of the orange trees. If it did come to a battle there would be almost nothing he could do to command it. It would all come down to his mark-leaders and the individual turtle captains. The road curved, and with the turtles spaced twenty meters apart he could see only the one in front of him and the one behind.

It was far too late to change his deployment, but still he fretted over it. With their soldiers deployed the turtles had to be pulled by their horse teams. If the inquisitors managed to break through his flank guards they could kill the horses and take on the turtles one by one, and his army would be destroyed piecemeal. But how else could I have done it? In war every choice carried risks, and there was no way to know in advance which choices were the critical ones. He bit his lower lip, and waited.

There was no attack, and a bell later a runner came panting back to tell him that the lead turtles were entering Praise, and it was deserted. He sent word back ordering that the houses be left undisturbed. They should only gather food and water for resupply.

I used the destruction of Far Bay to fuel anger at the Prophetsy. I will not make the Prophetsy's mistake, and hand them a weapon so powerful. Beyond Praise was Charity, and while his army had the strength to take Praise in the face of its inhabitants' resistance, Charity was too big. If its people fought, the fisherfolk advance would stop there.

Soon enough his own turtle was moving through the village. As reported, it was completely deserted, without even a sleep watch on the main road.

Did the people run, or are they hiding in their houses? They hadn't been gone for long, to judge from the smoke rising from the blacksmith's forge. Where they'd gone didn't matter so much; it was enough that they weren't interfering with his advance. When he came at last to the far end of the town he was pleased to see that the lead turtles had moved forward and to the sides to cover the advance as it redeployed into open formation. It was well past the mid-day bell, but they were past the dangerous choke-point and once more into the rolling fields where the turtles could cover each other. They advanced another kilometer by the evening-meal bell, and Danil called the halt.

The advance through the orchards and village had the side benefit of allowing the army to restock itself, which took away the worry that their slow advance would cause them to run out of supplies before they could reach the Prophet's temple. The sleeping hours passed without any sign of the enemy, and the silence made Danil nervous. Even allowing for their first victory, the Prophetsy still commanded eighteen parishas of inquisitors. Their spotters were all around, keeping just out of springbow range and still skirmishing with his sentinels. They wouldn't allow the fisherfolk to simply walk into the temple unchallenged. He noticed almost absently that his jaw ached, and he realized he'd been unconsciously grinding his teeth together. Stress reaction.

He told Annaya to signal the advance, and just at that moment a cloud of dust appeared on the road beyond the next treeline, resolved itself into a sentinel rider, galloping hard. The sentinel stopped only briefly at the lead turtle, and then rode to Danil.

"Parishan! The Prophetsy is coming!" The rider was breathing hard and her horse was covered in sweat. Danil noticed an arrow shaft caught in her shield, another protruding from the back of her saddle.

"How many?"

"A dozen parishas at least, maybe more. They're five kilometers ahead and coming fast. They're staying off the road, coming through the fields, with heavy skirmishers forward. We've lost two sentinels at least."

"Are they mounted?"

"Yes, parishan."

Danil nodded. "Good job." He paused to survey the treeline ahead, as though through hard enough scrutiny he could see through it and straight into the mind of the High Inquisitor. "I need you to ride back, keep a close watch on their advance. I need a kilometer's warning before we make contact, and I need to know if they moved to either flank."

The sentinel's eyes widened, a trace of fear crossed her expression, and for just that instant Danil saw her not as a soldier but as a young woman, one who had just survived a dangerous encounter with the enemy, and one who he'd just asked to risk her life again. The moment passed, the sentinel nodded and rode off the way she had come, and Danil pressed his lips together. What right do I have to play with people's lives like this? He had no good answer to that. He watched the rider vanish through the trees, then turned to Annaya.

"Signal for the horse teams to be disconnected," he said. "Get the troops back in the turtles. We'll advance on crank power until they come."

"At once, Danil." She busied himself with her flags, and Danil watched as his army began to respond. While they moved, he contemplated his options.

They've come with all their force, they intend to force a battle. If that were true, the best thing to do would be to take positions and wait for the enemy. If the enemy didn't advance, he could always start forward again. The treeline ahead was thin, really just a windbreak between adjacent fields of ripening wheat, but it was the best cover available. He let his army advance until the springbow turtles were four hundred meters short of the trees. That would put the inquisitors under effective fire from the moment they broke into his field. He halted the ball throwers a hundred meters behind the springbows, so they could fire into the farther field. If the inquisitors tried to use the space to adopt battle formation he would make them pay. He left the tower turtles behind, in a circular formation around the supply wagons. He didn't want to repeat the heavy horse losses he'd suffered in the first battle. He barely had his disposition set when the sentinel came riding back to report the enemy dismounting in the next field, five thousand strong.

"Already?" Danil raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, parishan." Two more arrows were stuck in her shield, and her horse had a gash in its hindquarters where another had grazed it. "I'm sorry. I wanted to give you more warning, but some spotters got on my flank and pinned me down."

"Don't apologize. You did well. They've learned mounted troops can't stand against war turtles, so they're going to attack on foot." Danil stopped. What he needed was more eyes forward, to keep him apprised as the enemy advanced. But I can't ask this woman to risk her life again.

"Ride back to the war wagons. Help them keep the horse teams safe," he told her.

She didn't get a chance to reply. A sudden shower of burning arrows came over arcing over the trees. They left trails of smoke in their wake, but they were too far out of range to be any danger. They stabbed themselves into the ground three hundred meters in front of the closest turtle. The enemy had miscalculated.

"Annaya, get the ball throwers firing over those trees."

The enemy had to be there, drawn up in close ranks for volley fire with the spear-marks right behind him waiting to advance. His heavy weapons would force them to retreat or come forward, and when they broke the treeline the springbows would be waiting.

Annaya blew her horn, the notes crisp in the humid air. She's learned fast. Danil had been so focused on leading his army that he'd had no room for his emotions towards her, but all of a sudden he saw her once more as his partner, and his lover, the woman who had saved his life and made the whole enterprise possible. With an effort he pushed the feelings down and looked to the treeline. There would be time for that after the victory. If there is a victory.

Smoke was beginning to curl up from the dry wheat where the flame arrows had landed, and all of a sudden Danil realized that perhaps the inquisitors hadn't miscalculated after all. They were going to use fire the way they used it in the aftward forests. His turtles were all up to their wheels in dry tinder, and with the horse teams disconnected there was no way they could get out of the coming conflagration in time. Licks of flame rose beneath the smoke, and the fire began to take hold. The steady aftward breeze was blowing it straight towards Danil's stationary army. Danil smiled to himself. In the forest, fire was a surprise weapon. This time I'm ready.

"Water barrels," he shouted to the neighboring turtles. "Water barrels." He heard the message being passed on, and saw the back ramps coming down as the soldiers inside hauled out the heavy water barrels. Quickly they were passed up to the top decks and dumped over the wooden superstructures. The turtles were built mostly of greenwood, and soaked down they wouldn't burn easily. More barrels were left on top of the turtles, to deal with any flames that took hold despite the precautions. The chunk of the ball throwers sounded, and he heard the low whoosh of the heavy balls passing over his head. They vanished over the trees and Danil couldn't tell what damage they were doing. But the inquisitors will be feeling it, I'm certain of that.

A second volley of flame arrows followed the first, but the wheat was already burning well. Pungent smoke drifted over their position, and Danil's eyes stung. He blinked away the tears, watching for the enemy to make their move. The effort quickly became useless as the smoke and flame rose up in a solid wall, but the enemy would have to advance right behind the burning wheat or lose the benefit of its cover. Horns sounded from the enemy lines, and he knew the inquisitors were moving. He waited, visualizing what was happening on the other side of the trees. The enemy parishans would have waited until the smoke cover was complete before advancing, and they'd be delayed slightly coming to the treeline. A parisha on foot in four ranks would have fifty meters of frontage and four in depth, which meant the leading formations would be fully into the springbows field of fire . . . 

"Now! Springbows free fire!" he yelled. "Ball throwers, fire short." Annaya ran the flags up and sounded her horn, though it was doubtful that anyone could see the signals through the smoke. He heard his order being passed down the line though, and then the steady twangsnap of the big bows as they fired blindly into the murk. The screams of injured redcloaks came through the smoke, and he knew he'd judged the moment right.

The flame front came on, roaring and crackling and faster than Danil would have imagined possible. He ducked behind the pulpit shields as the heat rose, colliding with Annaya in the cramped space. The noise grew to a roar and the choking smoke swirled so densely that Danil thought they might suffocate even if they didn't burn. He coughed hard, squeezing his eyes shut, and then the flames were past.

"We're on fire," Annaya yelled, pointing, and Danil saw small licks of flame creeping up their turtle's flank, where the intense heat had dried the damp wood and set it alight.

"Water!" he yelled, but she was already out of the pulpit, dumping one of the barrels down to douse the flames. With the fire behind him Danil could see the inquisitors advancing. They were still two hundred meters distant. They too had been taken by surprise by the speed of the fire. As he watched they halted, drew bows and fired.

"Annaya! Arrows!" Their turtle was still burning, and Annaya was maneuvering the second barrel to dump it down on the flames. Danil lunged to pull her back into the pulpit. She was out of his reach, and the burning arrows stabbed down around them. Fire flared up from one of them, and without a second thought Danil grabbed up his cloak, climbed out of the pulpit, and snuffed it out. Even through the fabric the heat burned his hand, but he ignored the pain, grabbed Annaya and shoved her bodily back into the safety of the pulpit, just as another burning volley rained down around them. He stuck his head up again to assess the situation, in time to see one of the springbow archers beating out another flaming projectile with his bare hands. The turtle captains on either side of him had also kept their machines from catching fire, though farther down the line a pillar of smoke told him that at least one of his war turtles had fallen to the fire attack.

And the enemy was still advancing, a hundred meters away now, with a second wave coming up behind them.

"All springbows fire!" Danil yelled, though not one of them had stopped. The heavy bolts were cutting into the advancing ranks of the enemy, but there were too many inquisitors and not enough springbows. Another volley of flame arrows rained down, and a second pillar of smoke told Danil he'd lost another turtle. The inquisitors had measured the threat his war machines represented, and they'd had found a response. They would burn the fisherfolk army where it stood. Once the inquisitors were in close the springbows would be useless. A volley of balls soared overhead, but the missiles fell between the first inquisitor wave and the second.

"Dismount! Dismount!" he yelled to either side, then turned to Annaya. "Get the ball throwers to drop fire. Let's try and shut down those archers."

"I'll try."

Danil heard the other turtle captains passing his order up the line, the back ramps came down, and his soldiers piled out to face the enemy one-to-one. The mark-leaders shouted commands, and with well-drilled precision they formed a spear wall in front of the halted springbow turtles. They were heavily outnumbered by the advancing parishas and Danil felt a surge of pride in his troops. Flame arrows were still coming down, and his soldiers raised their shields to ward them off. An arrow stuck itself into the edge of the command pulpit, just inches from Danil's face and he jumped back, startled. Without thinking he grabbed it and threw it, still burning, over the side. More burning arrows protruded from Victory's flanks, too many to deal with at once. Some of the soldier's shields had been set on fire too, and they had to lower their protection to stamp out the flames. An incoming arrow took one of them in the chest and the man fell out of ranks, killed on the spot. At fifty meters, the front rank of the first inquisitor wave lowered their spears, and Danil realized that the second rank was carrying lit torches. A third wave was advancing through the trees. It was going to come down to a ground fight, with the enemy having the advantage in armor and numbers. His springbows fired again as the red-cloaked ranks came on. At that short range, every bolt killed at least one man or wounded several, but the disciplined inquisitors didn't waver.

They've got courage themselves; it's important to remember that. Behind Danil the ball-throwers had the range on the second wave now, the big clay balls wreaking havoc wherever they landed. He glanced up to see Annaya's command flags still flying. He'd wanted the ball throwers to fire over the trees, but they'd misinterpreted the order.

And they're probably doing more good this way. There was no use leaving an obsolete order in force. "Annaya! Get those flags down. Order the tower turtles forward." I have an advantage here, if I can use it. He'd set himself up to defend against a horse charge, expecting it to flow through his formation to the rear as it had in the last battle, but the foot battle would be fought at the front. The tower turtles had to come up to bring their archers to bear.

I nearly overlooked that. He bit his lip hard as he realized how closely he had come to making a crucial error. I have to remember there is no second chance here. At twenty-five meters he heard the enemy flank-captains command the charge, and a blood chilling battle-cry went up from the massed inquisitors as they broke into a run, spears lowered. The steady rain of flame arrows stopped, but they'd had a telling effect. More turtles were burning, and there were gaps in the fisherfolk battle line. Danil looked behind him to see the assault turtles slowly crawling forward, and willed them to come faster. Annaya had her rabbit bow in hand and was loosing arrows as fast as she could put them on the string.

"Set spears!" Danil yelled, and his flank-captains echoed him. The fisherfolk braced their spear hafts against the ground to receive the inquisitor charge, and seconds later the opposing forces slammed into each other. The battlefield filled with the sound of metal biting into wood, the shouted commands of the leaders, cries of rage and pain.

The first rank of inquisitors suffered grievously against the fisherfolk spear fence, but the defenders were forced back, and the second rank stepped forward to fight where they had stood, while the fire-bearers started throwing their torches. Those in front of Danil were still too far back, and the firebrands went wide or fell short of his turtle, but more flames rose to the right and left of Danil. We've lost four turtles at least, maybe five. He looked ahead to where the second and third inquisitor waves were still advancing with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. A fourth wave emerged from the treeline, and Danil's heart sank.

"Springbows, take them in depth!" The bolts from the turtle's heavy weapons were coming dangerously close to the thin line of defenders. On Danil's command they lifted their fire to the following waves, and their sharp twangsnap sounded in steady rhythm. The field ahead was littered with broken bodies. The springbows and the spear fence had broken the first wave, but the defenses had been torn open where the enemy had set the covering war turtles alight, and the second wave was already charging towards the gaps. Annaya dropped her bow to run up the signal flags, and the other springbow turtles lifted their fire as well. It was a gamble, because it meant what was left of the spear fence had to handle the remnants of the first wave by themselves. But a necessary gamble, because if the enemy isn't broken in depth they'll sweep us away.

"Ball throwers, concentrate on the gaps!" Danil shouted over the din of the battle, but there was no way the turtles in depth could hear him.

"What signals, Danil?" asked Annaya, now shooting again. The spear fence in front of their turtle was shattered, but her arrows were keeping the enemy at bay. Danil paused, paralyzed as he tried to think of how to signal his command. It's impossible. There was simply no way to direct the throwers' fire with sufficient precision by signal flag alone, the battle was too fluid for that.

"No signals. Run back and tell them, we need them to shoot where we've lost turtles."

"I should be protecting you . . ."

"So help me win the battle. Run!"

Still she hesitated, and then she grabbed him, kissed him, and vaulted out of the command pulpit. She ran to the back of the turtle and jumped to the ground. Enemy arrows followed her, and Danil grabbed his rabbit bow and began shooting to give her cover. The second wave of inquisitors had been shot ragged by springbows and ball throwers, but their charge collapsed what was left of the spear fence, and knots of red cloaks had gotten past the burning turtles on Danil's left flank. He took aim at an enemy flank-captain and hit the white inquisitor cross blazoned on the man's chest, but the arrow bounced off the inquisitor's armor. He cursed and fired again, this time taking the man through the shoulder.

His target dropped, writhing in pain but the rest of his group charged the war turtle. Danil nocked and fired again, took another one, and then the inquisitors were climbing the turtle's side, using the downsloping defense spines as climbing aids. His springbow archers had taken up their hand bows as well, abandoning their big weapons to fight off the close assault. Even as he absorbed that development the smell of smoke snatched his attention to the other side of the turtle. The right-forward springbow archer lay sprawled over the side of his weapon, the right-rear archer had vanished, and the enemy had thrown torches into the weapon pulpits. The flames had taken hold and were crackling up the war machine's side.

On the left side an inquisitor hauled himself onto the war turtle's top deck and came at Danil with his spear. Danil dropped his rabbit bow, grabbed his blade and swung. Metal met wood, deflecting the spear shaft enough that the point went past Danil's ear instead of into his face. The inquisitor was unable to check his momentum. Danil stabbed at the man's stomach and connected. The blow was awkward, but the enemy warrior grunted in pain and fell. Danil struck again as he came past, and the blade bit deep into the back of the man's thigh. He howled in pain and rolled away and over the war turtle's side, knocking another climbing enemy off in the process.

Heat boiled up from the crew compartment below, and the crackle of flames rose beneath Danil. The fire had spread from the right side springbow pulpits to the turtle's interior. An arrow hissed past and he ducked behind the pulpit shields as another one sliced through the space where his head had been a half second before. Smoke began to rise up around him, and the heat grew.

I have a minute here, maybe. After that he'd have to choose between roasting and getting skewered by the inquisitors. It wasn't a pleasant decision, but at least Annaya wasn't there to make it with him. And I pray she stays safe to the end of this. His rabbit bow jumped in front of him like a live thing, and he started back in surprise before realizing that the string had caught fire, burned through and released the tension from the limbs. A sudden cry drew his attention, and he stood up again to see one of the left side springbow archers jump from his position with his clothing on fire. He fell to the ground, rolled, and died before he'd stopped moving, run through the chest with an inquisitor's spear. Flame gouted from the pulpit he'd jumped from, and the smoke that was rising around Danil reversed itself as the new fire sucked in air through the turtle's openings. A heartbeat later it exploded out again as the fire in the war machine's belly roared up like a bellows-pumped forge. Pain burned wherever the flame touched his skin, and Danil leapt out of the pulpit before he could be burned alive.

He looked wildly left and right, but the inquisitors who'd been climbing the war turtle's sides had abandoned the effort in the face of the flames, though they still swarmed on either side as their flank-captain rallied them to push forward to the ball throwers. He threw himself flat on the deck to avoid their arrows. The signal mast was burning now, the flags blazing into ash, and the planks of the top deck were hot and starting to smolder.

He crawled towards the rear of the war machine to escape the heat. Fire roared up behind him and he glanced backwards to see a pillar of flame shooting up from the pulpit he'd just abandoned. Smoke billowed out and over him and he kept crawling, squeezing his eyes shut and trying not to breathe. He reached the rear of the turtle, and then there was nowhere to go but down. He rolled and fell from the burning deck, instinctively throwing out his arms to check his fall. Something snapped painfully as he landed and a split second later his skull hit the ground. The world spun wildly and he shook himself, tried to stand, and found he couldn't get his balance.

The best thing to do right now is play dead. He saw red cloaks through the thickening smoke, but nobody seemed to have noticed him, so he stayed where he was and closed his eyes. He shivered, suddenly cold despite the burning war turtle just a meter away.

Strange to be cold so close to a fire. It was a curious thought and he would have considered it further, but he felt suddenly sleepy, languid. That too was a strange thing in the middle of a battle, but it was difficult to think at all, and the lure of sleep was too powerful to ignore, and so he let himself drift away into darkness.

 

The courtyard of the Temple was crowded with injured and dying inquisitors, some on litters, most lying on the ground and Balak walked among them, kneeling beside those he knew, sometimes bestowing a prayer, other times just putting a hand on a shoulder, knowing the wounded man would feel God's power in his touch. The Prophet's word is with me now.

"Will I live, High Inquisitor?" asked one, his words coming in gasps. The red of his cloak concealed the red of his blood, but one of the slave's heavy bolts had punctured his chest armor.

Balak looked into his eyes. "You'll reach Heaven before any of us," he said.

"I don't want to die, please. . . ." The soldier was young, barely more than a boy. He had the triple-armed cross of Tribulation parish embroidered into his cloak.

"Death in God's name is a blessing. The Prophet knows your sacrifice." Balak moved the bolt and the young man gasped in pain. Gently he slid a hand behind the soldier's breastplate. Behind the armor the shaft was driven deep into his ribcage. It had torn into his lungs on the right-hand side, and Balak could feel the blood seeping from the wound. The shaft itself was all that was stopping an all-out hemorrhage. The soldier would die the instant it was removed, but he could not live the way he was.

"Tell my mother to come . . ." The soldier's eyes slid closed. With an effort he wet his dry lips, summoning the strength to speak again, and his eyes fluttered open. "Tell my mother . . ."

"God is coming," Balak answered. The young inquisitor stared blankly, not understanding, and then his eyes widened in fear as the meaning of Balak's words sank in. The High Inquisitor smiled gently to calm him. "Be brave and know God's love," he said, and stroked the man's forehead with one hand while he took the protruding shaft with the other.

"You are blessed to die in his service." With a sudden motion he yanked the bolt free. The man gave a short, strangled cry and convulsed, blood spurting from the now-open wound. His eyes registered pain, and then loss, and then peace as his jaw grew slack and his body relaxed into death. Balak stood and moved on. Today, God's mercy flows through me.

"High Inquisitor!"

Balak turned to see an errander coming towards him, picking his way around the scattered bodies.

"High Inquisitor, the bishop is looking for you."

"Which one?" Balak asked.

"Bishop Nufell," said the errander.

"I answer to the Prophet. Tell him that." Balak felt his eye twitch. Everyone knew the bishop didn't mean the high bishop anymore. Nufell had elevated himself above him. He acted as though he had elevated himself above the Prophet.

The errander's face showed worry. The bishop was likely to blame the messenger for the news that Balak was not scurrying to his presence. Still, it was not his place to question the decisions of the High Inquisitor. He bowed and left.

Balak watched him go and felt the need to kill rise in his heart. He sat down beside the now-dead inquisitor, crossed his legs, closed his eyes, breathed deep and sought the holy place within himself, where his will was subsumed in tranquility. The bishop would come, and it would be best to be prepared.

He didn't have long to wait. "What's your excuse this time?" an angry voice demanded. "I thought God had ordained your victory."

Balak pressed his lips together and breathed deep before he opened his eyes, still seeking calm. God had willed that he respect Nufell, willed it in the Prophet's voice. But some commands are harder than others.

"God has ordained the Prophet's victory, Bishop," Balak said, when he had regained control of himself. He stood up to face the other man. "I am only his instrument. And God has kept his promise. They have lost. We have reserves, and their strength is spent."

"You call this victory?" The bishop snorted and swept an arm to take in the bloody scene. "How am I supposed to explain this to the Elder Council?"

"Their souls will precede us to Heaven." Balak let a note of warning creep into his voice. "I'm committing our remaining parishas. The rabble will soon be crushed."

"What do you mean, committing the last of our parishas?"

"As it sounds, Bishop. The Prophet has commanded the destruction of our enemy. I'm going to drown them in their own blood."

"The Prophet commands, the Prophet commands. Are you really such a fool? You watched me tell the Prophet to give you those orders."

Balak felt his eyelid twitch at the bishop's near-blasphemy. The day will come when Noah will command this man's death. "His will is celestial. Do not flatter yourself that his words come from you."

"Must I make him tell you this, too? Is that what you want?"

"What the Prophet says is law," Balak cut the words off short and turned away, annoyed. It was likely the bishop would do exactly as he said. Olen Polldor wasn't the man his father had been . . . 

But he is the future of Noah's line. He felt himself losing control, though he'd just finished praying, and breathed deep again to keep the darkness at bay. The bishop was a trial. He let his hand fall to the blade at his side. Though his desire was to slice open the bishop's belly in holy sacrifice, he only pressed his thumb against the cutting edge.

The bishop was saying something, but his words faded and grew distant as Balak slowly increased the pressure on his thumb. The pounding of his own pulse surged in his ears, washing out the other man's words, until he felt the short, sharp pain that meant he'd drawn blood. I must never forget that I am the instrument of God's will. God demanded obedience, not understanding. He raised his hand to see the blood spill in a small, bright stream from the self-inflicted wound.

". . . I've got half the Elder Council in the tower, demanding their parishas back," Nufell was still speaking. "They're afraid of their own slaves. If you waste what we've got left we'll have a slave revolt on our hands."

"All the more reason to strike the enemy now." Balak focused on the dripping blood, keeping his gaze away from the bishop.

"No. Let them come to us, let them waste their strength against the walls."

"The Prophet commands me, Bishop, not you."

"You are a fool." The bishop's voice was somewhere between angry and exasperated. "Fine, if you want the words to come from his mouth, I'll go and tell him what to say." He turned and left.

Balak watched him go. He should not so disrespect the Son of Noah. The day would come when God will command him to gut the bishop like a feast lamb. Not today, but soon.

 

Danil awoke to pain, throbbing in his shoulder, his legs, his head, and found himself looking up at Avel. "What happened?"

"Danil, thank Noah you're alive."

"The inquisitors?" Danil struggled to sit up and the pain in his shoulder spiked when he tried to use it. His arm dangled uselessly.

"Gone, for now at least. Annaya got the ball throwers on target in time to break the fourth wave. We got the assault towers up to the front line to deal with the third. Barely."

"How many did we lose? There was a pile of burnt timber beside Danil, and it took him a moment to realize it was all that was left of his war turtle.

"A hundred and fifty dead, two hundred too hurt to go on. More or less."

"More than half . . ." Danil gingerly felt his injured shoulder with his good hand and felt bone grate against bone. No time to worry about that now.

Avel nodded, his expression somber. "Well over half. We're done, Danil, we haven't got enough left to go on."

Danil shook his head. "We have to finish this." He looked around the battlefield, still strewn with red-cloaked corpses. "We beat them here. Whatever it cost us, it cost them more. We'll beat them again." His calves and ankles were crusted red, raw and tender, and he vaguely remembered the lick of flame and the pungent smell of his own burned flesh.

Avel gave him a look. "How hard did you hit your head, Danil? We've got four ballthrowers, three tower turtles, and a springbow left. War turtles aren't a surprise anymore either, they'll come with fire again."

Danil stood, and staggered. Avel caught him and Danil pushed him away. "I can stand on my own, and I haven't come this far to surrender. Have you? We won, by Noah's name!"

"We won the battle Danil, but we can't hope—"

Danil cut him off. "We've always got hope, and hope works better if we help it. How soon can we move?"

"We're still burying dead, treating the wounded, recovering arrows. It'll be bells."

"Two bells, no more. We can't give them time to regroup. Tell the turtle-captains we'll have a war council at the next bell at . . ." Danil paused. He had been about to say "my turtle," but his turtle was gone. ". . . at that turtle there." He pointed. "Have you seen Annaya?"

"She's at the war wagons, helping with the injured."

Danil breathed out slowly. Would it be wrong to show my relief, with so many others dead? "I'm going to go and see the army for myself," he said, and and started walking before Avel could say more, ignoring the pain in his legs. And so he can't see my face. He was dizzy with the pain. I can't let my soldiers see that. At least it was his left shoulder that was injured; he could still swing a blade with his right.

His army was in sorry shape, struggling to recover in the aftermath of the battle. The ebb and flow of the battle was there to read. The skeletal remains of war turtles still smoldered where they'd burned, and in front of them piles of bodies showed where the spear-fence had stood, and where it had fallen. The burned-over ground was porcupined with hundreds, thousands of arrows, and in the field in front of the line clusters of red cloaks and the grey-white of thrower balls showed where the last enemy waves had been broken.

Danil felt no exultation at the slaughter the inquisitors, just exhaustion as he realized how many more he had to kill before he could claim victory. Is this even worth it? It was a question with no answer. They were doing it, had to do it because the alternative was death anyway.

War, he was learning, had its own logic, and it didn't bend for the mere desires of those who fought it. His soldiers were going about their tasks mechanically, their faces strained and distant. Some just sat, staring at nothing, while their comrades worked around them. His leaders had suffered heavily, and there were a lot of new faces wearing title scarves, some of them just bits of cloth torn to the approximate length. He traded words with them as he passed, hiding his injury and trying to be encouraging, but what he saw struck hard at his own heart. We always have hope. Maybe true, but they didn't have much.

The mood grew worse as he worked his way back to the wagons. Era was organizing the scene, allowing the overworked surgeons to concentrate on saving lives. He had the wounded arranged in ranks, bloodied, limbs broken, flesh laid open by blades or impaled by spear and arrow, faces contorted with pain. Many of them were semi-concious, moaning or calling for their mothers. Others lay quietly as death stole up on them, bleeding slowly into bandages. He recognized one, Fredir, one of his first soldiers, and still one of the youngest. He knelt by the young man, put a hand on his shoulder.

Fredir's eyes flickered open. "Have we won?"

Danil nodded. "We're going to."

Fredir gave a small, weak smile, and his eyes closed again. Danil watched him breathe for a long moment, and then moved on. At the surgeon's wagon, Danil found Annaya, her clothing soaked in blood that Danil hoped wasn't her own, putting a dressing on the stump where a woman had lost her forearm. He had thought to call her forward, to once again be his signaler . . . But they need her here more than I do. More than that, she would be safer here, and for some reason that had become very important to Danil. He didn't interrupt her, just found a surgeon.

It didn't feel right, somehow, getting treatment when so many of his army were suffering so much worse than he was. But I can't lead them properly like this. The surgeon dressed his burns, then moved to look at Danil's injured shoulder, running strong fingers up and down his arm.

He winced as the surgeon came near the injured joint. "I don't think you've broken it, but it's certainly dislocated." He bent Danil's elbow to form a right angle. "Can you make a fist?"

Danil nodded, and did as he was asked. The surgeon held his elbow firmly and moved his clenched hand until it touched his belly button, then reversed the motion, turning his elbow in and using his forearm as a lever to move his shoulder joint.

Danil bit his lip. "That hurts. A lot."

"It's going to, but not much longer." The surgeon put pressure on the elbow, gently rotating it, and Danil gritted his teeth as he felt the bones grind against each other. All of a sudden there was a sharp pop, a spike of pain, and the joint slid back into place. The sharp pain went away, and Danil breathed out in relief.

"Better?"

"Much better." Danil flexed his shoulder and tried to rotate it. It hurt, but not nearly so much as it had.

He again resisted the urge to talk to Annaya, and went back to the forefront of his Army. The turtle he'd picked for his war council was one of only two surviving springbow turtles. The back ramp was down, and he clambered in to tell the turtle captain he was taking it over. It was all he could do to climb up to the command pulpit, and he banged his burned calf on a projecting beam hard enough to make him woozy with the pain. The turtle's original captain was dead, and the replacement was a young man Danil didn't know, who was half relieved to have the parishan take over. A parishan with no parisha. I've got two understrength flanks left, maybe.

From the turtle's pulpit the battlefield gave lessons, and he understood now what he should have realized earlier. The assault tower turtles had to be grouped in with the ball throwers and the springbows. He had envisioned them as coming into play only for the final attack on the temple walls, but now he could see how important they were for the close defense of the longer ranged weapons. Had he done that right at the beginning he wouldn't have lost so many turtles to the dismounted attack. But I didn't, and I can't do it over again.

It took his captains some time to gather, and he used it to think, about formations and movement and exactly how to deploy his much diminished force for the renewed onslaught the Prophetsy would doubtless unleash very soon. When they were all together he briefly outlined his intentions. Every turtle would be fully crewed, and put under double draft since they now had a surplus of horses. The formation would be tightened to two ranks, with the two surviving springbows and the assault towers in the front, the ball throwers behind. Sentinel riders would continue forward, then move to the flanks as they approached the temple. They would advance to ball-thrower range of the temple walls, and once they were there the assault could begin in earnest.

"We can't do this," a ball-thrower captain objected. "All we're going to do is die."

"We won today."

The captain swept a hand to take in the battlefield. "You call this victory? We haven't got enough left to go on with."

Danil have him a look. "Would you rather the inquisitors hunt you down like a forest dog?"

"I'd rather not throw my life away for nothing." The turtle captain had a heavy steel blade on his belt and a red soaked bandage on his chest. "I'm not saying it wasn't right to try, Danil, but we're beaten."

Danil looked at the man, took his measure. "Your freedom is worth nothing?" he asked. Appeal to his sense of pride.

The turtle captain didn't answer him, but his face was full of doubt, and Danil could see the same uncertainty in the expressions of the others.

"What about the wounded?" asked another captain before the first could reply. "We can't carry them into battle."

"We can't leave them behind," Era put in. "The inquisitors will come around behind us and take them. They'll be crucified."

The turtle captain who'd spoken rounded on Era. "The inquisitors will be crucifying us all before tomorrow's done. You want to handicap us like that?"

Era's jaw clenched, but before he could answer Danil raised a hand. "The wounded who are able are going to look after those who can't, right where they are now. They're going to do what they can to get them back to the forest, independently. If we win, they'll be fine. If we lose, we're all dead anyway."

A babble of voices answered him. I'm losing control of this group, if I don't get it back my army is finished. Before he could address the question a sentinel rider came up at the trot. "Parishan, there's a group of Prophetsy slaves here, forty of them. They say they want to join us."

"The inquisitors have tried this trick before," said the belligerent turtle captain. "I say kill them. We're weak enough now, we can't afford spies."

"No," said Danil. "Era, bring them in, get them food and water."

The turtle captain's face darkened. "Are you out of your mind? They'll slit our throats the second they get the chance."

Danil looked at him. "Did you like being a slave?" He raised his voice so the whole group could hear him. "Did anyone here like it? The inquisitors might find men so desperate for his favor they'll volunteer to betray us. They won't find forty of them at once. You want to know what we've won here today? Not the war, maybe not even the battle, but we've won the hope of every slave who hears we're fighting the Prophetsy. And hope is what's going to win this war, nothing else." He turned to Era.

"You're in charge of getting them food, water and weapons. Get groups out to gather up everything you can from the inquisitor dead, armor and blades especially. Get a foraging party together and get back to those orchards, get everything you can carry. Take sentinels with you. If you see inquisitors don't hold your ground, get back here as quickly as you can. We can't afford to lose anyone." He turned to Avel. "There are going to be more escaping slaves coming in, you can depend on it. They need to know how to fight in formation, so get your best people and get ready to start training, just the very basics."

He looked over his assembled captains, meeting their eyes one by one by one. And this is where I win their loyalty, or lose it. "We've come a long way, we've paid a high price, but our dead have paid a higher one. To me, there's no option but to go forward, no matter what the risk. I know we might die doing it. But I've lived as a slave long enough to know I'd rather die free. If any of you don't believe that, if any of you think you stand a better chance hiding from the inquisitors in the forest, there's nothing holding you here. Anyone who wants to go will be assigned to escort the wounded back, and you can stay there. That goes for your soldiers as well.

"There are going to be a lot more slaves coming to us, as news of what we've done here spreads. And I'd rather have untrained slaves willing to fight than soldiers who don't believe in themselves. Now, does everyone know what they're doing?" He met their eyes one more time. It will only take one to challenge me now. None did, and the moment was over.

"Then let's do it," he said. "Avel, come with me."

Danil and Avel followed the sentinel to where the new arrivals had been taken. They were lying face down by the road, being guarded by a half-mark of fisherfolk. As they came close one of them made to stand up. One of the guards moved to push him back down, but he persisted.

"Danil! Danil Fougere! Remember me? Danil!"

Startled, Danil looked at him. He had a cross brand on his cheek, but Danil didn't recognize him.

"Danil! In Noah's name, tell them I'm not an inquisitor."

"I . . ." Why does his face seem familiar? Suddenly recognition dawned. "Bran! You got away!" Danil waved to the mark-leader. "Let him up."

The mark-leader nodded and the guards fell back, and Bran stood and came over to embrace him. "Danil, thank Noah."

"You know this man, parishan?" Avel asked, as though he doubted the evidence of his senses.

Bran looked surprised. "Parishan? You?"

Danil nodded. "Parishan, for all it's worth." He turned to Avel. "Bran and I escaped a lumber crew together."

Bran nodded. "Barely escaped. They hunted me so hard I had to hide out with a grain crew." He smiled a lopsided smile. "A slave pretending to be a slave to escape slavery. I thought you were dead." He paused, and his smile went away. "They crucified Jordan."

"I saw him . . . I'm sorry." For a moment Danil looked away, unsure of what he should be feeling. He had barely known Jordan, but they had risked their lives together. After a moment he went on. "We'll call you a mark-leader," Danil told Bran. "You've picked a bad time to join us, but we're glad to have you."

The hope he'd been clinging to grew stronger. The unexpected arrival of forty untrained slaves wasn't enough of a miracle to bring victory back into the realm of the possible, but there were tens of thousands of slaves in the Prophetsy, half of them fisherfolk used to their independence. If even a fraction of those came to fight they'd be unstoppable. Hope is what will win this war.

He left Bran in Avel's care and went back to his war turtle. Annaya was waiting for him at the war turtle's flank.

"I thought you were back helping with the surgeons," he said, repressing the urge to embrace her and kiss her. After this is over, I can stop being parishan, but not yet.

"They don't need me anymore, and you do."

"Who told you I was here?"

"Era did."

Danil looked around, considering what he should do next. The post-battle chaos was slowly coming under control, but it would still be bells before they were ready to advance again. His leg throbbed painfully and his arm felt numb, and he suddenly felt overwhelmed. There's so much to do, and so much more beyond my influence. He became aware of Annaya watching him, silent but with concern written on her face. His instinct was to send her back, but it was good to have him with her. And why give her an order she'll refuse to follow.

"You're right," he said. "I do need you." The emotions he'd been holding in check through the long advance broke through and he embraced her. "I need you so much."

He let her go when a sentinel rider came up to tell him the inquisitors seemed to have pulled all the way back to the Temple of the Prophet. Danil couldn't decide if that was good news or not. It meant that they would have all the time they needed to regroup, but it also meant that they would face the enemy's full remaining strength in the stronghold of the Temple. Still, we're fortunate; one more solid attack would overwhelm us right now. Another sentinel came to tell him that a group of thirty slaves had appeared three kilometers spinward, and wanted to join the army.

"Tell them they're welcome, and bring them to Era. He'll get them equipped."

The rider nodded and rode off, and Danil smiled. That's two crews now. One group of slaves escaping to join his army might have been a chance occurrence. Two hinted at a movement. A bell later a third crew came in, this one twenty-two women, the wives of the half-bishop of Purity parish. The senior wife told him they hadn't killed their husband, just strung him up on his own cross and castrated him.

By the time Danil's army was ready to defend itself, two more groups had arrived, one just five strong, the other sixty. And that is a movement. He had started something. Now, he just had to finish it.

A hundred arrived over the sleeping hours, and Avel trained them to the breakfast bell. There simply wasn't enough room to put all the newly recruited slave-soldiers into their remaining turtles, so they formed up on the flank, with marks commanded by soldiers who'd been spear carriers just the day before.

Danil told Annaya to signal the advance, and she smiled wide as she blew her horn, the notes sounding crisp and clear. Seconds later the war flags were up on the war turtle's mast. The wind had risen and they streamed aftward, fluttering. The horsedrivers stirred up their horses, and the ponderous wooden beasts began to move. As they advanced it became clear to Danil that their second victory, as costly as it had been, as weak as it had left them, had wrought a fundamental change in the Prophetsy. The farms they passed had been abandoned by their masters, sometimes because their slaves had forced the issue, more often simply in fear of the fisherfolk. Everywhere slave crews came out to cheer as they passed, and to join them when they learned that they could. The inquisitor weapons they had collected from the battlefield were soon exhausted, and Danil commanded an army twice as large as the one he'd started with. His concern moved from having not the strength to face the temple walls to the subtler issues of how to command, and even how to feed, such a large force. The influx continued, and by the evening-meal bell so many rebelling slaves had come to join his army that actual movement slowed to a crawl. Danil's new-minted soldiers were full of enthusiasm, talking loudly of the carnage they would wreak on the inquisitors, but most of them were armed with nothing more than farming tools, and they knew nothing of how to move or fight as a group. Half of them will run at the first arrow volley. A mark of riders could strip off all the strength he'd gained with a single charge.

By the next day's noon bell they'd come to the edge of Charity and he was forced to call a halt to try to impose some order on his formation before it devolved into a mob. The bell had a deeper, stronger note than the bells he was used to, but it took him a moment to recognize it was the timekeeper's bell, the standard by which all the other bells were struck, rung by the priests who counted the turning stars from the spire of the steeple of Charity's church. In the distance he heard other bells answering it, spreading the time-mark around the world.

The whole Prophetsy is collapsing, and the bellringers are still at their posts. Their dedication was inspiring. He called his sentinel captain forward, and had her organize a patrol into the city to find out was happening there. The patrol was back by the evening-meal bell, with news that through most of the city the streets were deserted, while most of the populace had either left or barricaded themselves in their houses. The exception was in the market district, where gangs of street guppies were ransacking the shops and stalls, grabbing anything they could carry.

"They've got yats, that's certain," the patrol leader told him. "They'd stop only when we were right on top of them, and they were back at it the second we left."

Danil nodded. "When we go in, I want some sentinels left there. We need to show the people we can protect them."

"I've already sent another patrol."

"Good work." He turned to go, then turned back. "And send another one to the church. Protect the timekeepers."

"It's done."

Danil watched her go, and wondered if he could afford the strength he'd just committed to keeping order. One more thing to worry about. The departure of the inquisitors had left a power vacuum, and those on the bottom of the social order were taking advantage of it to advance their position at the expense of those at the top.

And I won't have the inquisitors to keep order with. That thought brought up the question of what to do with the warrior-cult itself. We'll need order, some kind of law, a way to rule that's fair to people. He pushed it away. He knew nothing of governance, but Annaya did, and together they could establish a new system. Once I've beaten the old one. Looking around at the ragtag, half-organized mass that was his army that possibility still seemed remote, but less remote now than it had the day before.

The sentinel captain had pushed her patrols well past Charity, and fortunately they could still report that the inquisitors were licking their wounds behind the Temple walls. That respite will only be temporary. He'd struck fear into his enemy's hearts, but they'd learned how to use fire to beat his war turtles. It wouldn't be long before they'd regrouped enough to come out and face him again. I have to use the time I've got wisely. The first thing he did was organize a command structure, making his flank-captains into parishans and his mark-leaders into flank-captains, promoting his best soldiers to leadership positions. When he was done he found he was leading a full five parishas, though none were as good as the one he had started with. He set the new leaders to giving their troops some basic training in movement and weapons. Era somehow managed to forage enough food from the abandoned fields to feed his expanded army.

Halting the advance again was a calculated risk, an inquisitor attack with his force so disorganized would be disastrous. Danil put the turtles on his perimeter, manned by half the survivors of his original force on permanent guard duty. That left the other half to train the newcomers.

I need only a day. Please, Noah, let me have it. In fact a day turned out to be a very optimistic estimate. The simplest issues now demanded his attention, from how to feed soldiers who'd brought no bowls to how to equip his new formations with signal flags and horns. And when that problem was solved he had to teach his new recruits to use and understand them.

No sooner did he have one issue resolved than another group of slaves-turned-soldiers would arrive, setting the whole process back. The day turned into two, and two became four. Each day he got stronger, but the enemy was recovering too. Inquisitor spotters began to probe his sentinel posts with increasing vigor, and a large slave crew was reported digging a defensive ditch across the trading road foreward of Charity. Danil spent the days moving from parisha to parisha, pushing his new leaders to push their soldiers. Weeks of work had to be compressed into hours, and though Danil demanded perfection, he did it only to hasten the moment he could claim his force was minimally functional.

At the end of a week Danil was satisfied, barely. He gave his commanders twelve hours to feed and rest their soldiers, and then he told Annaya to signal the advance again. Once again, the war turtles creaked forward. They moved through Charity without incident, though many of the population had returned once they realized that the approaching army wasn't a threat to them personally.

On the far side of the city they encountered the inquisitors' ditch, but the slave crew that dug it had fled and no inquisitors defended it. He issued a few quick orders to his captains, and a parisha moved forward to fill it in, covered by the springbow turtles. Some few had ironwood shovels, others less useful tools, but whatever his new soldiers lacked in equipment they made up for in numbers, and the obstacle caused no more than a bell's delay. The turtles advanced again, and not long after, passed past the brickworks, where Danil had grown up hauling mud for the Prophet.

The slaves who'd worked there were now part of his army, and they'd strung their drivers up from the walls when they'd revolted. Danil recognized the overseer who'd sent him to the lumber crew. Another face took a moment to place. Hatch. He looked into the dead man's vacant eyes as his war-turtle ground slowly past the scene.

There should be some emotion attached to this. Hatch had tormented him, betrayed him, victimized him, but Danil could only look at the husk that had once been his nemesis and think how Hatch had ultimately destroyed himself. Danil bit his lip, absorbing the lesson. Best not to grow too fond of power.

The forewall mists were heavy ahead, and they'd come all the way down to the ground so the lower part of the foredome and the forewall itself were invisible. The trading road changed from cobbles to resined logs, and their progress slowed as the war turtle jolted uncomfortably over the rough surface. It reminded Danil of the first time he had come this way, as a prisoner marked for death in the back of an inquisitor wagon. The road was lined with saplings and a few young trees. They were nothing compared to the ancient giants of the aftward forests, but they were still enough to hide a substantial force, and if the inquisitors ambushed them at close range they could cut his army in half before he could even respond.

"Annaya, signal a halt, then take a message to the second parisha, and the third. Tell them I want their soldiers to fan out through the forest, second parisha on the left, third on the right."

"Yes, parishan." Annaya ran up the halt flag, then climbed down from the war turtle's back to deliver Danil's instructions. Soon enough the soldiers were moving past, sweeping the woods on either side in advance of the road. Annaya returned, and once the flanking troops had moved a hundred meters ahead Danil had her signal the advance. His turtle jolted into motion again, and Danil bit his lip.

They were protected now from a surprise flank attack, but he he had no illusions about the ability of his ill-trained auxillaries to take on an inquisitor force in close quarters. Time seemed to slow down to a painful crawl. Rain began to drizzle through the mist, soaking everything and making everyone miserable. But at least they can't use fire again. He strained his eyes to see forward through the mists. And then, sooner than he expected it, he saw the Prophet's tower looming out of the gloom.

It was an imposing site, a grey steel spire rising from the vast gallery behind it, protected behind its pallisaded walls of resined brick and heavy timber. The wall was studded with guard towers, and the red Prophet's Cross fluttered on banners hung from them. The same symbol adorned the sealed gates. Danil put a hand to the brand on his cheek.

Today the Prophetsy dies, or I do.

The leading marks of his flanking parishas were already moving through the field of crucifixes in front of the walls, but there was no other sign of life. The enemy was on the other side of the wall, waiting for him.

"The bishop will be in my father's tower," Annaya said.

Danil nodded, taking the measure of the looming structure, awed by what he was about to attempt. Slowly his army moved forward and deployed, setting up on an angle spinward of the fortress, so his archers would be on the right side of the antispinward range advantage. He positioned his war machine with the other springbow turtle in the center front of the formation, angled towards the gates. The ball-throwers lined up to either side of them, and the assault towers in a second rank just ten meters back. His veterans drew up just behind them, with the formations of newly escaped slaves moving to take up positions on the left and right, two parishas on each side.

"Danil! To the right!" Annaya yelled, and pointed.

Danil looked around to see a patrol of his sentinels burst out of the trees on his right wing, with a flank of mounted inquisitors in full charge half a second behind them, spears lowered and cloaks flying. The parisha there was trying to swing to face the threat, but the formation of poorly drilled slave-soldiers was already falling apart. Seconds later the inquisitor charge slammed into the disorganized ranks with lethal effect. It took just seconds for them to rip through the line, scattering the parisha like doves before a falcon, and leaving a wake of trampled bodies. The second parisha fared no better. His depleted veteran parisha was next in line, and Avel managed to get them turned to face the enemy with spears set, but they lacked the depth to halt the charge and the attacking inquisitors broke through the line almost without loss as Danil watched in paralyzed horror.

They hid their horses in the trees. The enemy had used surprise to stunning advantage, and the shock of the unexpected attack could destroy his entire stitched-together force in one stroke.

"Springbows! Right flank! Shoot!" he yelled, but the turtle archers were already swinging their weapons to bear. The heavy bolts arced up and over the approaching enemy to land among the scattered troops now behind them. "Spinward!" Danil shouted. "Drop your aim!" By the time he said it there was no need, the horsemen were on them and the ranges were too short to worry about the niceties of trajectory. The two shattered parishas were dissolving now, their cohesion broken. They were reduced to a mob of individuals, all fleeing aftward, even though they no longer faced any immediate danger. A few of the inquisitors had fallen to the springbows, and his half-parisha of veterans were trying to reform a spear fence behind the line of the tower turtles, ready to receive the attack should it veer that way. The most powerful move for the enemy would be to race across the entire frontage of Danil's army and vanish again into the trees on the other side. That would certainly break the raw parishas on Danil's right wing too, and leave a formidable force on Danil's flanks, able to sweep down and disrupt any assault on the walls. With the superior mobility their horses gave the inquisitors, there would be nothing he could do about them. And now is too late to think about strategy.

Danil grabbed up his rabbit bow and shot at the closest rider. He missed his target, but managed to catch his horse in the haunch. The animal screamed and stumbled, and the rider fell to the ground, to be trampled by the horses behind him. If Danil had his archers up in the tower turtles the inquisitors would have been slaughtered, but they weren't, and by the time they got into position to fire the attack would be past the turtles and into the vulnerable parishas on the other side. The ball-throwers were useless against fast moving targets at close range, and with only two springbow turtles his army was helpless.

As the charge thundered past him it seemed that was exactly what was going to happen, but then a horn sounded from the inquisitor ranks, and the attackers veered towards the temple. The gates were opening, and the red-cloaked riders galloped for them at full tilt. At the same instant red cloaks and helmets appeared all along the top of the palisade, and a shower of arrows arced through the air. Danil had thought his force out of arrow range, but the temple walls gave the inquisitors archer's another fifty meters. At the last instant he realized the missiles weren't going to fall short, and he ducked into the pulpit's shelter, pulling Annaya after him. He realized he had his bow still cocked, and relaxed the string. He'd nocked another arrow by reflex, and only then did he notice that the hand that held the string was shaking. The shaking got worse and he put the bow down to grab the wooden edge of the command pulpit to steady himself. And I don't have time for that now.

He stood up again. More arrows were raining down from the inquisitors, but the enemy wasn't used to shooting with a height advantage, and their fire wasn't very accurate. "Annaya, signal the assault," he ordered, but even as he said it the ball-throwers were launching their missiles at the guard towers on either side of the gate. His turtle captains weren't waiting for orders.

The first shots soared over the wall, but the next ones came closer, and the fourth volley caught the right hand tower and splintered it. The tower turtles ground forward slowly, as the ball throwers continued shooting, smashing first the other gate tower, and then moving along the wall to target the others. Volleys crashed into the wooden palisade atop the main wall, tearing it loose and throwing the red-cloaked soldiers manning it to the ground. The two springbow turtles were targeting individual archers, and the incoming storm of arrows began to abate. They had little effect on the turtles anyway, and his dismounted troops were just out of effective range. As Annaya ran up her flags a cheer went up from the fisherfolk ranks. The assault turtles began to grind forward, and his far left parisha started to advance as well, though they couldn't do anything useful until the towers were in place.

"Halt the left flank," he shouted, and Annaya blew her horn to signal the errant parisha to stop, but it kept advancing.

"Halt them!" he repeated, but now the other left-flank parisha was following the first one forward. His slave-soldiers had their blood up, and they weren't going to stop. They'll be trapped against the wall. All he could do now was support them, and hope it worked.

"Ball throwers, concentrate on the gates," he shouted back to the attacking turtles. "Tower turtles, full speed!"

He heard his commands being echoed down the line, and the ball throwers shifted fire again. Danil had wanted the assault to go over the walls, so that his archers would have a height advantage as his blades advanced across the open ground to the walls of the temple itself, but he learned enough as a commander to know what he could control and what he could not. Most of the enemy had been swept from the wall tops, and the attack had gained momentum all its own.

Despite his order the tower turtles didn't speed up, because they were already advancing as fast as they could. The assault would have to go through the gates or his army would pile up at the bottom of the wall. If that happened the ball throwers would have to cease fire for fear of hitting their own soldiers, the inquisitors could regain the top of the wall and slaughter them from above.

And now they need leadership more than anything. "Take the walls!" he yelled to Avel in the tower turtle behind him, then turned to Annaya. "Stay here. Keep the springbows firing."

She started to protest, but he put a finger to his lips, took her hand and squeezed it.

She closed her mouth, but her eyes showed her worry. With an effort Danil turned away and climbed out of the command pulpit. There were still a few archers shooting down from the palisade, and as he ran out in front of the advancing turtles he suddenly became an inviting target. He dodged left and right as he angled himself to get in front of his advancing left wing. "With me!" he shouted. "This way!" He made eye contact with the lead parishan, waved an arm to emphasize his words, then turned and started for the temple gates without looking back to see if they were following. He wanted to sprint, but he kept himself to a rapid walk. If he ran the parishas would charge after him.

Give the ball throwers time to work. If he arrived at the base of the gates before they'd broken them down, he'd be in exactly the position he was trying to avoid. His heart leapt as a ball sailed ponderously over his head to impact the middle of the left-hand gate, but it shattered when it struck and left the gate undamaged. The gates were more heavily built than the upper palisade, and it suddenly occurred to Danil that the heavy clay balls might not be enough. Two more balls arced overhead, and they too broke up when they hit.

He looked back over his shoulder to see his veterans had rallied in the wake of the inquisitor charge and were advancing as well. The flank-captains had formed them into assault lines, and he knew he was committed. If he tried to turn the army around now it would dissolve into chaos. The inquisitors had responded to the shift in fire, and already more arrows were coming down from the surviving sections of palisade. Danil slowed his pace as much as he dared, and then inspiration struck. He turned around to face his army.

"Archers, by ranks, fire!" he shouted.

Behind him his archers drew, nocked arrows, and fired in successive ranks. The shower of arrows that went up against the palisade didn't kill many inquisitors, but it stopped them from putting down their own much more accurate fire.

More importantly, his advancing parishas had to wait while the archers carried out their orders. That give more time for the ball throwers to do their work. More balls crashed into the sturdy gates without effect. Behind him, Danil could hear mark-leaders shouting. He looked back to see his blades and spear carriers spilling around to either side of the archers. They felt they were winning, and they wanted to bring the battle to the enemy. The tower turtles were still moving forward, but slowly, too slowly.

"Hold fast!" he yelled. "Hold your positions until the gates are down!" The parishans and flank-captains echoed his words. Danil's disciplined veterans obeyed, but there was no holding back the recently freed slaves at the front of his force. They simply didn't understand they were running into disaster. His recently promoted leaders struggled to keep their units in formation, but the tightly disciplined ranks had dissolved into a headlong rush at the forbidding walls.

And there's nothing to do but go with them. If he was to have any hope at all of salvaging the attack, Danil had to be at the forefront the whole way. He drew his blade, clenched his teeth and ran for the closed gates at the head of what was now no more than a rampaging mob. Another volley of balls slammed against the gates. One broke loose the top hinge on the left side, the others shattered with no more impact than any of those that had come before. A terrifying battle cry rose up from his army, and now Danil ran for no other reason than to keep those behind him from trampling him as they came forward.

Even laden down with weapons and armor the distance closed from a hundred meters to fifty in what seemed like an eye blink. Shards of baked clay sprayed past him as more balls hit the gates and the walls around them. He wiped his cheek where a piece had hit him and his hand came away red with blood. It was the same place he had been slave-branded, in a life that now seemed to belong to someone else. The gates loomed ahead of him, and he sensed his warriors start to hesitate as they realized they had nowhere to go once they reached them.

It's going to end now. Three more balls came over, so close that he felt the air they displaced as they went past his head. They hit the gate almost simultaneously, and more shards of clay sliced the air around him. The ball throwers would have to stop shooting at the gates now or wreak carnage among their own ranks, and he prayed their crews would realize that. Not that it matters whether I die at the hands of friends or enemies. The gates were still intact, and the premature attack was about to reach its logical end.

No! The last volley of balls had struck the upper left of the left gate, where the hinge had been broken by the earlier strike. The heavy structure was leaning backwards, pivoting on the lower hinge and the center crossbar that held both gates together and shut. That left a gap at the bottom, too small for a man to even crawl through, but enough for a man to get a grip.

"Pull it down," he shouted, and ran to the gap to haul at it. He felt the gate give slightly, and then other hands were beside his, pulling, twisting the bottom of the gate out, straining the remaining hinge.

"Heave! Heave hard!" he yelled and the familiar work refrain galvanized the ex-slaves fighting beside him. The gap widened, and more hands grabbed the steel-bound wood.

Deep-set bolts groaned against the vulnerable hinge plate, and then all at once something snapped. The top-heavy gate fell backwards into the temple courtyard, at the same time knocking Danil and everyone else who'd been pulling on it sprawling. He fell by the still intact right-hand gate, and feet pounded past him as his army poured into the Prophet's stronghold. He staggered to his feet, just in time to see Bran go by at the head of a half-mark of blades that had somehow maintained its formation.

"With me," he yelled, and led the small group through the gate. Inside the courtyard the horse mounted parisha that had devastated Danil's left flank had been drawn up inside, preparing, perhaps, to make another foray outside of the gate. Now they charged the expanding flood of slaves and fisherfolk pouring through the broken gates. There was no time to form a spear fence, but those soldiers closest to the attack set their weapons instinctively. The ground shook beneath the combined impact of four hundred hooves as the enemy came on.

"Double line on this angle!" Danil yelled, throwing out his arms to show the direction he needed the line to face, and Bran echoed him. There wasn't room in the crush of bodies to properly execute the maneuver, but Bran's soldiers knew what he wanted, and managed to get themselves more or less into position. They formed a solid second line behind the disorganized cluster of slave-soldiers in front of them.

"Set spears!" he commanded. Those who could obeyed, but most of Bran's half-mark carried only blades. Those with bows were shooting into the enemy ranks, but there weren't enough of them, and they weren't organized to fire proper volleys. He became aware of a presence beside him. Annaya.

"What are you doing here?"

"The springbows can fire on their own. This is my temple. I'm here to take it back."

Danil started to order her back, but the charge was coming and there wasn't time. He braced himself for the impact of men and horses, but as the riders drew near they slowed and balked, and suddenly the disciplined inquisitor ranks had become a milling mob just a few meters in front of Danil's front line. It took him a second to realize that it wasn't the paltry fence of spears that had stopped them, but the looming wall behind them. In the open the horses would have overridden the disorganized line without slowing down, but they'd instinctively shied away from running full tilt into an immovable obstacle.

"Take them! Take them now!" Danil shouted, but held up a hand to stop Bran's small force from joining the attack. The slaves and fisherfolk ahead of him waded into the melee, killing men and horses with savage indifference. The inquisitors on the edges of the crush broke loose and rode away, but they had nowhere to go in the confines of the courtyard and arrows rose up to follow them. More arrows rained down from the top of the wall, and Danil looked up to see the ramps of two tower turtles there where the palisade had been broken, with fisherfolk pouring over them. He realized with sudden exhulation that they were winning. Behind him the right-hand gate had been torn open as well, and his soldiers were pouring into the courtyard in a torrent. What they lacked in precision they made up for in raw ferocity, their long-repressed rage at the Prophetsy unleashed on the central symbol of of its power.

The inquisitors fell back and reformed a defensive line in front of the gallery entrances, but they were already being outflanked. Shouted commands and screams of pain and triumph overlaid the clash of steel on steel in the confined space.

"Danil, take the tower." Annaya pointed. "We can end this."

"With me, advance!" Danil called to Bran's small force, and ran for the main gallery door. The rampaging ex-slaves had already broken into the huge structure, and inside the inquisitors were fighting a desperate rearguard action. The dead and the dying lay intermingled in the corridors, the steel flooring slick with their blood.

"Here!" Annaya yanked a door open and Danil led the half-mark through it to find a set of stairs spiraling up. A red cloak behind a spear stood in his way, but he grabbed the spear shaft behind the point and pushed it out of line. He stepped inside the inquisitor's guard, brought his blade up, and then his opponent was on the ground bleeding and Danil's force was charging up the stairs. On the second floor an arrow flashed by his head, and he turned in time to see Annaya burying her blade in the archer's belly. They exchanged a glance, and he ran across the room to the opposite door where the stairway spiraled up again. He arrived at the next floor, panting hard.

The room was lavishly furnished with carved wood and elaborate wall quilts. It was the same one he'd stood in a lifetime ago, as Annaya's brother convinced the Prophet that he should have a lumber crew. I've come full circle.

Before he had a chance to catch his breath a half dozen inquisitors poured out of the opposite door. An arrow glanced off his blade, and he stepped back in surprise. Half a heartbeat later another arrow zwipped through the space he'd been standing in and took Bran in the center of his chest. Danil stepped forward to attack, but inquisitor dropped his bow and fell back to draw his own blade. Danil pressed his advantage, and swung. His adversary blocked and caught the blow on his own blade, and steel rang on steel as the impact numbed Danil's hand.

He went to swing again but the two weapons had cut into each other where they collided, and he had to wrench hard to win his blade back. He stabbed forward with a short jab and caught the inquisitor hard in his belly. The other man went down, bleeding as another inquisitor stepped forward, blade upraised. He swung, and Danil's blade fractured where the first inquisitor's strike had notched it.

Instinctively Danil dodged backwards, and one of Bran's soldiers lunged past with a spear to fend off the enemy. The inquisitor's companions came around to flank the ex-slave, and more of Bran's soldiers went to meet them. Curses, grunts, and the clash of blades filled the room, and one of the slave-soldiers fell. It seemed they should easily overpower the red cloaks, but suddenly the room was much more empty. Most of Bran's soldiers had fled when he died.

There was still enough of Danil's blade left to make a short stabbing weapon, and when Bran's spear carrier fell and his killer came forward, Danil stepped into the attack and thrust it under the inquisitor's guard. The point skidded off the man's chest armor, but dug in at his armpit. Danil shoved it home and his opponent screamed and fell to the ground clutching helplessly at the now gushing wound. Annother inquisitor stepped forward and Danil froze. Balak!

"So, it is you." Balak's blade was up and his eyes were locked on Danil's. "I had my suspicions about you from the beginning. God has been generous to give me this day."

Danil raised his damaged weapon, and darted his eyes to the door leading downwards, but the fighting had backed him into a corner, and there was no way he could make it. The rest of Bran's soldiers were gone now, either dead or fled and only two inquisitors were left standing, holding onto a struggling Annaya. Another man came into the room behind Balak, but Danil was so focused on the High Inquisitor that at first he didn't recognize him, until Annaya yelled, "Olen!"

"Sister." The young man's face was pale, his expression distant.

A third figure came down the stairs, heavyset and balding, this one in the formal robes of a bishop.

"Annaya." The man smile broadly. "To think of all the effort I put into finding you, and here you are coming to me." He laughed. "Announce the placement, Prophet."

"Olen, no!" Annaya shouted.

"I announce the placement of Annaya, daughter of Noah, with Redorn Nufell, Bishop of Sanctity Parish . . ."

"Olen, you miserable sooksan," Annaya's face was a mask of fury. "You half-bred half-wit . . ."

"Enough!" The bishop cut her off. "Kill him, Balak. We'll celebrate the wedding once he's dead."

"Kill him," echoed Olen.

"As you wish, Prophet." Balak took a step forward, blade at the ready.

Danil tightened his grip on his own blade, and his forearm ached. I'm spent from the fighting. He felt suddenly tired, and his weapon wavered. The High Inquisitor was relaxed and confident, and the certainty of Danil's death was written in his eyes. He advanced, blade raised to strike.

"Balak!" Annaya shouted. "Stop! I'm carrying his child."

"What?" Danil looked at her in surprise, then yanked his attention back to the High Inquisitor's blade.

"Shut her up," barked the bishop, but the red-cloaks looked to Balak. Balak held up a hand to countermand the other's order.

"No, let her speak," the High Inquisitor said. He kept his eyes locked on Danil, but withheld his attack.

"I'm carrying Danil's child, Balak, and Olen is sterile." There was an edge of desperation in Annaya's voice, but beneath it her words carried the conviction of truth. "He has my father's infertility. Noah's line flows through me." She pointed at Danil. "And through him now."

"It's not true," shouted the bishop. "Olen, tell him."

But Olen didn't answer, and Balak's eyes flicked to the young man's face. Danil followed his adversary's gaze to the young man's face and saw the truth of Annaya's words written there.

Annaya pointed at the bishop. "Take him, Balak," she said. "In Noah's name."

Balak nodded, and a slow smile crept across his features.

"I knew God would send me a sign," he said. He turned and advanced on the bishop. "I knew he would make me the instrument of purification."

He extended his blade as Danil watched in stunned amazement, and the bishop backed up, his hands held up to fend off the coming strike.

"Please don't, Balak. Please," the bishop pleaded.

Balak raised his blade to deliver the killing blow, but suddenly the bishop lunged forward, and the High Inquisitor staggered back, looking down at his belly, and at the knife handle protruding there.

The bishop was laughing, the fear he'd shown vanished. "Balak, you're still a fool. Did you really think I'd go unarmed?"

Balak fell to his knees, his face contorted in pain, but he still held his blade. The bishop kicked out and the blade clattered to the floor. Balak gasped, blood spilling from the wound.

"I'll take her," the bishop said to the stupefied inquisitors. "You take him." He pointed at Danil.

Before they could react, Danil leapt forward and drove his broken blade up into the underside of the bishop's chin, up into his brain. The man dropped, dead on the spot, and then Danil was facing the two red cloaks. The Prophet Olen had backed against the wall, his face a mask of fear.

"Now," said Danil, jerking his head at the erstwhile Prophet. "You can follow me, or you can follow him."

One of the inquisitors let go of Annaya and drew his blade. Danil tightened his grip on his own weapon, ready to receive the attack. I can take them if they come one at a time. If they both came, he would probably die.

"Don't be stupid, Caval," said the second inquisitor. "The High Inquisitor's dead. The bishop is dead. The temple is overrun. What do you think is going to happen here?" He let go of Annaya as well, but turned to go down on one knee before her. "My loyalty is yours, Prophetess."

The first inquisitor hesitated, then did the same.

"Go down to the gallery," she said. "Tell the inquisitors to stop fighting, on my orders. There's been enough bloodshed today."

"Yes, Prophetess," the first inquisitor answered. The two stood and went down the stairs.

Danil lowered his blade, let it fall to the blood-slick floor, and went to Annaya. He put his hands on her shoulders, looked into her eyes. "Do you really have my child?" he asked her.

She nodded, slowly.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"There was a battle to fight. You didn't need the distraction, or to worry about me. And I certainly wasn't going to stay behind."

Danil just looked at her. He had a duty to his army, to his soldiers, to get back into the fray, to lead them in their moment of victory. They need me.

"Danil?" Annaya was looking up at him, and for the first time ever he saw uncertainty in her eyes. There was a question there, a question she didn't dare ask.

But the battle was ending, and the army could wait. He drew Annaya into his arms and kissed her, slowly and tenderly.

Tomorrow he would have to figure out how to govern the Prophetsy and what to do with the surrendered inquisitors. But there's time for that tomorrow. Annaya sighed in contentment and pulled herself closer to him, and for the first time he could remember Danil felt himself at peace.

 

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