The proprietor of the kiosk bar limped back out from the shadowed alcove that served as kitchen and storehouse, bearing a splintered tray with another dusty bottle of Bluerose wine. The stunned look in the old man’s eyes had yet to retreat, giving his motions an oddly disarticulated look as he set the bottle down on Venitt Sathad’s table, bowed, then backed away.

The few figures that had passed by on the concourse this morning had each paused in their furtive passage to stare at Venitt-not because, he knew, he was in any way memorable or imposing, but because in sitting here, eating a light breakfast and now drinking expensive wine, the servant of Rautos Hivanar presented a scene of civil repose. Such a scene now jarred, now struck those who had weathered the chaos of the night before, as if lit with its very own madness.

A hundred versions clouded the riot’s beginning. A money-lender’s arrest. A meal overcharged and an argument that got out of hand. A sudden shortage of this or that. Two Patriotist spies beating someone, and then being set upon by twenty bystanders. Perhaps none of these things had occurred; perhaps they all had.

The riot had destroyed half the market on this side of the city. It had then spilled into the slums northwest of the docks, where, judging from the smoke, it raged on unchecked.

The garrison had set out into the streets to conduct a brutal campaign of pacification that was indiscriminate at first, but eventually found focus in a savage assault on the poorest people of Drene. At times in the past, the poor-being true victims-had been easily cowed by a few dozen cracked skulls. But not this time. They had had enough, and they had fought back.

In this morning’s air, Venitt Sathad could still smell the shock-sharper by far than the smoke, colder than any bundle of bloody cloth that might still contain pieces of human meat-the shock of guards screaming with fatal wounds, of armoured bullies being cornered then torn apart by frenzied mobs. The shock, finally, of the city garrison’s ignoble retreat to the barracks.

They had been under strength, of course. Too many out with Bivatt in the campaign against the Awl. And they had been arrogant, emboldened by centuries of precedent. And that arrogance had blinded them to what had been happening out there, to what was about to happen.

The one detail that remained with Venitt Sathad, lodged like a sliver of wood in infected flesh that no amount of wine could wash away, was what had happened to the resident Tiste Edur.

Nothing.

The mobs had left them alone. Extraordinary, inexplicable. Frightening.

No, instead, half a thousand shrieking citizens had stormed Letur Anict’s estate. Of course, the Factor’s personal guards were, one and all, elite troops-recruited from every Letherii company that had ever been stationed in Drene-and the mob had been repulsed. It was said that corpses lay in heaps outside the estate’s walls.

Letur Anict had returned to Drene two days before, and Venitt Sathad suspected that the Factor had been as unprepared for the sudden maelstrom as had the garrison. In Overseer Brohl Handar’s absence, Letur governed the city and its outlying region. Whatever reports his agents might have delivered upon his return would have been rife with fears but scant on specifics-the kind of information that Letur Anict despised and would summarily dismiss. Besides, the Patriotists were supposed to take care of such things in their perpetual campaign of terror. A few more arrests, some notable disappearances, the confiscation of properties.

Of course, Rautos Hivanar, his master, had noted the telltale signs of impending chaos. Tyrannical control was dependent on a multitude of often disparate forces, running the gamut from perception to overt viciousness. The sense of power needed to be pervasive in order to create and maintain the illusion of omniscience. Invigilator Karos Invictad understood that much, at least, but where the thug in red silks failed was in understanding that thresholds existed, and to cross them-with ever greater acts of brutality, with paranoia and fear an ever-rising fever-was to see the illusion shattered.

At some point, no matter how repressive the regime, the citizenry will come to comprehend the vast power in their hands. The destitute, the Indebted, the beleaguered middle classes; in short, the myriad victims. Control was sleight of hand trickery, and against a hundred thousand defiant citizens, it stood no real chance. All at once, the game was up.

The threshold, this time, was precisely as Rautos Hivanar had feared. The pressure of a crumbling, overburdened economy. Shortage of coin, the crushing weight of huge and ever-growing debts, the sudden inability to pay for anything. The Patriotists could draw knives, swords, could wield their knotted clubs, but against desperate hunger and a sense of impending calamity, they might as well have been swinging reeds at the wind.

In the face of all this, the Tiste Edur were helpless. Bemused, uncomprehending, and wholly unprepared. Unless, that is, their answer will be to begin killing. Everyone.

Another of Karos Invictad’s blind spots. The Invigilator’s contempt for the Tiste Edur could well prove suicidal. Their Emperor could not be killed. Their K’risnan could unleash sorcery that could devour every Letherii in the empire. And the fool thought to target them in a campaign of arrests?

No, the Patriotists had been useful; indeed, for a time, quite necessary. But-

‘Venitt Sathad, welcome to Drene.’

Without looking up, Venitt gestured with one hand as he reached for the wine bottle. ‘Find yourself a chair, Orbyn Truthfinder.’ A glance upward. ‘I was just thinking about you.’

The huge, odious man smiled. ‘I am honoured. If, that is, your thoughts were of me specifically. If,, however, they were of the Patriotists, well, I suspect that “honour” would be the wrong word indeed.’

The proprietor was struggling to drag another chair out to the table, but it was clear that whatever had caused the limp was proving most painful. Venitt Sathad set the bottle back down, rose, and walked over to help him.

‘Humble apologies, kind sir,’ the old man gasped, his face white and beads of sweat spotting his upper lip. ‘Had a fall yestereve, sir-’

‘Must have been a bad one. Here, leave the chair to me, and find us another unbroken bottle of wine-if you can.’

‘Most obliged, sir…’

Wondering where the old man had found this solid oak dining chair-one large enough to take Orbyn’s mass-Venitt Sathad pulled it across the cobbles and positioned it opposite his own chair with the table in between, then he sat down once more.

‘If not honour,’ he said, retrieving the bottle again and refilling the lone clay cup, ‘then what word comes to mind, Orbyn?’

Truthfinder eased down into the chair, gusting out a loud, wheezing sigh. ‘We can return to that anon. I have been expecting your arrival for some time now.’

‘Yet I found neither you nor the Factor in the city, Orbyn, upon my much-anticipated arrival.’

A dismissive gesture, as the proprietor limped up with a cup and a second bottle of Bluerose wine, then retreated with head bowed. ‘The Factor insisted I escort him on a venture across the sea. He has been wont to waste my time of late. I assure you, Venitt, that such luxuries are now part of the past. For Letur Anict.’

‘I imagine he is in a most discomfited state at the moment.’

‘Rattled.’

‘He lacks confidence that he can restore order?’

‘Lack of confidence has never been Letur Anict’s weakness. Reconciling it with reality is, alas.’

‘It is unfortunate that the Overseer elected to accompany Atri-Preda Bivatt’s campaign to the east.’

‘Possibly fatally so, yes.’

Venitt Sathad’s brows lifted. ‘Have some wine, Orbyn. And please elaborate on that comment.’