Phoran raised his eyebrows again in surprise. “What, none?” He looked around the room. “Avar?”

“Yes, Imperial Majesty?” Avar stood.

“Did you not just put your life at risk in Our Service?” questioned Phoran.

To Phoran’s delight, Avar looked at the Septs around him and shook his head slightly. “I suppose someone might have gotten in a lucky blow, Your Majesty, but I did not feel imperiled.”

“Nonetheless,” said Phoran, “there was risk and you did not hesitate to serve me. Is this not a greater deed than raising funds to help a few merchants? A matter, I understand, of some two hundred and thirty-five gold pieces?”

The air went still as the more observant Septs began to realize that Phoran knew more about the affair than he’d appeared to at first.

“Perhaps, Your Majesty,” agreed Avar with seeming reluctance.

“Avar, Sept of Leheigh, please enlighten those here with the amount that you spent on that magnificent mare you purchased yesterday.”

Avar cleared his throat. “Ah, two hundred and forty gold pieces, Your Majesty.”

“We believe that the life of a Sept is of more value than a horse,” said Phoran firmly. “Therefore Avar, Sept of Leheigh, I put it before the council that I intend to gift you with a piece of land from Tisl to Riesling of a width not more than three miles—”

“But—” Servish, the hotheaded young Sept of Allyn, surged to his feet. Servish, though, was loyal to a fault and he caught his tongue and began to sink down.

“But what, Allyn?” invited Phoran gently. He had picked Servish especially for this role.

Servish swallowed and straightened up. “I am, always, your loyal servant, Majesty.”

Phoran nodded. “Please,” he said. “What was it you were going to say?”

Servish flushed and took a deep breath. “The land you spoke of is within my Sept, Majesty.”

Phoran smiled at him and then looked at Avar, who had remained standing. “Avar, I am afraid that I cannot grant you lands that belong to a loyal Sept. It would not be right.”

“No,” agreed Avar.

“What say you, my lords?” Phoran looked to the Septs. “Those who would grant me or any other such powers, stand and say, ‘Aye’ now.” The room was silent.

“Nor, Gorrish, can I take lands away from any loyal Sept just to grant them to someone who performed some small service to the Empire. The Sept of Gerant has never shown me anything but loyalty. It would be a poor emperor who took lands away from Septs who have committed no offense. You may all take your seats.”

He could feel it happen, Phoran thought. He could feel the reins of the Empire slip into his hands. He kept his face clear of triumph and picked up another piece of parchment.

“In the matter of the border dispute…” And the Septs all sat silently in their seats as Phoran read through every last one of the documents.

“What is your purpose?” Phoran asked, his hands only a little shaky as he pulled down his sleeve. The triumph of this afternoon was such that even the Memory’s bite wasn’t enough to sour his mood. If he could control the Septs, then surely he could rid himself of this curse.

“To destroy the Masters of the Secret Path,” it said.

“Ah,” said Phoran.

He’d known the answer, but he hadn’t thought of a better question. He had to steady himself when he stood up. “I’m going to see if our friend in the Path’s dungeons is any better. You may join me if you’d like.”

Truthfully, he was tempted just to go to bed. He had been tired before the Memory showed up, and losing more blood hadn’t helped any. But the memory of Tier’s unnaturally deep sleep had been with him all day. The Memory, for whatever reason, followed him to Tier’s cell.

There was music coming from the Bard’s cell, but the door was too thick to hear more than that. Drawing his short sword, Phoran tapped lightly on the door.

“Come in.” Impossible to mistake that voice: it was Tier.

Phoran sheathed his sword and opened the door. The Bard was sitting on his bed with a lute in his hands. He was pale and looked nearly as tired as Phoran felt, but when Tier saw that it was Phoran, he set the instrument aside and got quickly to his feet. “My emperor.”

“Just Phoran,” Phoran advised him and shuffled over to plop down on the end of the bed. He scooted back until his back was braced against the wall and motioned for Tier to do likewise. “I’m glad to see you in a better state than last night.”

“You came last night as well?” Tier sat down and pulled the lute back into his lap as if it were a baby. He glanced over at the Memory, which had taken up the same place it had on the first night.

“I couldn’t wake you,” Phoran yawned. He’d forgotten that he hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before. At least he had a better excuse for being tired. “I waited for a few hours, but decided that I’d give you a night to recover from—?”

“Something the wizards have cooked up,” said Tier unhappily. “I’m not certain what.” He shook his head and gave Phoran a small smile. “Nothing anyone can do about it right now. I do have some information for you. You asked about Avar, the Sept of Leheigh. I heard his name mentioned, mostly because his brother, Toarsen, is a Passerine, but if he’s a member, the Passerines don’t know about it.”

Phoran heaved a sigh of relief. He’d been almost certain after the council incident, but it was good to be sure.

“There are a number of Septs who are Raptors,” said Tier and rattled off a list of thirty or forty.

Phoran would have been more impressed if the list hadn’t frightened him so badly. “Could you go through them again, please?” he said tightly.

Tier complied, listing the same people in the same order.

“Did you hear any other names?” asked Phoran, almost afraid to ask. “Not of the Passerines, but the wizards.”

“The Masters, the wizards, except for Telleridge, keep their identities hidden,” said Tier. “I do have the names of more Raptors.”

Phoran listened to a recital that consisted of people ranging from Douver, the council secretary, to the captain of the palace guard, including any number of influential tradesmen and scholars.

“You have a remarkable memory,” said Phoran neutrally. “You heard all of those in the past two days?”

“Mostly today,” agreed Tier. He gave Phoran a small smile. “Bards have to have a good memory, and the Passerines weren’t at all unhappy to discuss the glories of membership in the Secret Path.”

Phoran believed him, and wished unhappily that he did not. “What if,” he said slowly, “what if I told you that the Path recruits the restless younger sons and cousins among the nobles of the Empire at the age of fifteen—the kinds of boys who are an embarrassment to their families. Remember, the one rule the Path has when the young men join is that they cannot be direct heirs of any Sept.”

“I have noticed that there are a lot of Septs among the Raptors,” agreed Tier, clearly seeing what was bothering Phoran. “But since I haven’t heard of a wave of assassinations of Septs and their heirs, I assumed there was an explanation—the last war or that plague.”

“You told the Memory the story of the Shadowed,” said Phoran.

Tier wasn’t stupid; he understood where Phoran was going. “You think that one of the Masters of the Path created that plague?” he asked. Unlike Avar, Tier had no incredulity in his voice; he was considering Phoran’s theory.

Thus encouraged, Phoran continued. “The plague twenty years ago was very convenient for a number of Raptors. Tomorrow I’ll bring paper and ink so you can write down the list of Septs for me again. Then I’ll do a little research, but I know that Telleridge, Gorrish, Jenne, the old Sept of Leheigh, and a dozen others you named inherited then. Some of them were six or seven people away from inheritance.”

Phoran glanced at Tier.

“Go on,” the Bard said.

“My father died in the plague. His brother, my uncle, was named regent. When I was twelve he was poisoned by his mistress, and the council, under Gorrish, took over an informal regency. The Sept of Leheigh’s son, Avar, took me under his wing.” Phoran smiled without humor. “He’s mellowed out a lot in the past few years, but when I met him he was a lot less respectable than his reputation would have shown him.”