“The Sept of Gerant?” exclaimed Tier, distracted from the question of who knew enough to send this boy after him.

“That’s right,” said the boy. “I don’t know him by face, but it sounds as if you’ve met him.”

“He’ll not have been at court,” murmured Tier, reading the rest of the document rapidly. “He’s an old warrior, not fitted for wearing silks and such. The Sept of Jenne, hmm.”

“I have this, if it helps,” said the boy, and he pulled a small, faded map from a pocket. “I can show you where the land in question is—I just don’t know what’s so important about it.”

The soft hand that handed Tier a map had a signet ring on it. Tier noticed and catalogued it, but he was thinking about the map so it took him a moment before he realized who was sitting on his bed beside him.

The Emperor?

His night had acquired a new level of strangeness. Tier glanced at the Memory. Was it some sort of body guard?

He forced his eyes back to the map. If the Emperor had wanted him to know who he was talking to, he would have introduced himself.

The boy tapped a spot on the old map. “That’s where it is. It doesn’t even connect to Jenne’s lands.”

Tier closed his eyes and thought back twenty years, trying to make the lines on the map correspond to the land he had known rather well at one time.

“Water rights,” he said finally. “That’s the headwaters of the creek that gives Gerant’s people water. This piece of land belongs to the Sept of Jenne’s father-in-law—or it did twenty years ago. The current Sept might be the son or grandson of the man I’m thinking of, but at any rate, the land’s in Jenne’s family’s hands. It’s pretty useless despite its size, because it’s in the rainshadow of Brulles Mountain—won’t grow anything but sagebrush. If Jenne had control of Brulles—that strip of map should be marked to show the mountain—he could hire a wizard to divert the flow of water and send it down the other side of the mountain, or find some way of diverting the small river that runs on the wrong side for their purposes.”

“Hah,” the boy exclaimed happily. “It’s a payoff. That’s the one I want, then. What can you tell me about Gerant’s allies?”

Tier hesitated. “Gerant’s a good man,” he said.

The boy raised an eyebrow. “I’m not planning on hurting him. I…” Now it was his turn to hesitate.

“I suspect,” said Tier softly, “that there’s a law or two against a common man like me sharing a seat with the Emperor. If you’ve a need to be incognito, it might be better to take off that ring.”

Phoran (doubtless the boy’s name was Phoran—though Tier couldn’t remember the number that went with the name) looked upset for a moment, glanced at the ring that was the Emperor’s seal, then shrugged.

“I’ll keep your advice in mind. Well enough. If you know that much, look here.” He tapped the paper impatiently. “I need something I can use as a fulcrum to move the power structure in the Council of Septs so that I don’t continue to be just a figurehead, and this document is it. It was in my twice-yearly stack of petitions to be signed into law. There aren’t many signatures on this—only a few people who owed Jenne something. Like as not most of them didn’t know what it was they were signing. You can’t even tell that this land is Gerant’s without this map.”

“Right,” said Tier. He hadn’t realized that the boy was a figurehead, but then he hadn’t concerned himself with any news outside of Redern since he’d left Gerant’s services several years before the last Phoran died. “Twenty-sixth,” he said aloud.

“Only if you don’t count the first Phoran,” said Phoran, not the least discomposed. “I like to, though my father didn’t. Are you still with me?”

“Right,” Tier nodded. “You have a bill, obviously a favor, but not for a Sept who is very powerful. So if you decide to decline to sign it, you’re not going to make a slew of enemies. Who could object to your refusal to grant one Sept’s lands to another without better reason than you’ve been given? And I’ll put up my right arm that Gerant is no traitor or mischief maker that will embarrass you on this. He’s true as oak. So you refuse to sign it, and the rest of the council either supports you, or makes it look like they think the council should have the right to take land from whatever Sept they want without giving an adequate reason.”

“That’s it,” said the boy, gathering up his map and document. “And I have a toehold into ruling on my own. So, you have done me a favor.” Carefully he folded the parchment so it fit into his pocket with the map. “I owe you an equal favor. Before I determine how best to repay you, tell me what you are doing here, what this Path that I’m not a member of is, and what the two have to do with each other.”

“It’s faster if I start with the Path,” said Tier after thinking about it for a minute. “The rest of the story should fall out of that.” Briefly he outlined the information Telleridge and Myrceria had given him.

Phoran stopped him. “They kill the Traveler wizards for power, these wizards who wear black robes?”

Tier nodded. “So I’m told. I’ve only met two people—three with you—since I was brought here.” He thought the ladies in the bath didn’t count. “I haven’t actually seen any of this for myself.”

“You still haven’t told me what you are doing here,” said Phoran. “Or who you are, other than someone who fought under Gerant in the last war.”

“I am a farmer who occasionally sings for a few coppers at the local tavern in Redern,” Tier said. “I usually spend the winter months trapping for furs. I was on my way home. I have a vague memory of seeing a group of strangers, and then I awoke in this cell. Telleridge—that’s the man I told you about—”

“Telleridge?” said Phoran. “I know him, though I didn’t know he was a wizard. Did he tell you why they wanted you enough to take you from Redern?” asked Phoran. Then a strange expression came over his face. “Is that the Redern that belongs to the Sept of Leheigh?”

“Yes,” Tier agreed.

“Avar?” said Phoran almost to himself.

Avar, Tier recalled, was the given name of the new Sept, the new Sept who was supposed to be so influential with the Emperor.

“Is Avar a member of this Path?”

Tier shrugged. “I don’t know. The only two I’ve met by name are Telleridge and Myrceria—and I don’t think she’d be considered a member.”

Phoran got to his feet and began pacing. “Why you?” he asked again. “Why did they go all the way to Redern to find you? You aren’t a Traveler, not if you’re a farmer in Redern who used to be a solder.”

“Because I have a magical talent usually associated with the Travelers,” replied Tier. Preempting the next question, he began telling Phoran what he knew about the Orders.

Phoran held up a hand. “Enough,” he said. “I believe you. Let’s get you out of here, then you can explain anything you feel necessary.”

Tier followed him to the threshold, but when he leaned forward to step through the door, white-hot pain convulsed his body and a shock of magic threw him back several feet into the cell.

“What was that?” said Phoran, startled.

“He is bound,” said the Memory. It sounded like a crow’s mating call or the rattle of dry bones.

Tier wobbled to his feet. “It talks?”

The Emperor looked at the Memory. “Sometimes. But this is the first time it’s ever volunteered information. Are you all right?”

Tier nodded. “Your Memory is right. There must be some sort of magic here I cannot cross.”

“Can you do something with it? Didn’t you say that you have magic?”

“He is bound,” said the Memory again.

“Stop that,” said Tier, a command that usually worked when Jes began to get too creepy. He turned to Phoran. “I don’t have the kind of magic that could counter this, and they have managed to keep me from what little useful magic I do have. It looks like I’m stuck here.”

Phoran nodded. “Very well.” He came back into the room and shut the door. “There are wizards who are supposed to serve me, or serve the Empire at least, but I don’t know if any of them are the ones who belong to the Path. Find out who the Path’s wizards are, and then maybe I can find a wizard to undo this.”