Ral slipped behind a stack of cloth bundles as a band of men in bloodred robes burst from a merchant's tent. Their scourges split the air as they flung the object of their ire onto the dirty pavestones. The man was dressed in the tattered remains of a fine suit. His round cap rolled in the dust. The Flagellants surrounded him-Ral could now see he was the owner of the stall-and proceeded to beat him without mercy while a scrawny woman, possibly his wife, wrung her hands and sobbed in the tent's doorway. What had been the man's crime? Ral couldn't guess. It could be almost anything, from cheating his customers to failing to display a proper image of the prelate within his establishment. Like the Brotherhood, the Flagellants were a law unto themselves, answerable only to the Church.

Ral skirted the scene. He found his quarry on the other side of the forum and followed him into the Temple District. A few streets farther, Markus entered the Pantheon, a converted pagan temple. While the prefect entered the stolid building through the front via a set of immense bronze doors, Ral went around to a side entrance located in a constricted alley. Avoiding piles of garbage, he wedged the tip of a dagger into the keyhole and snapped the simple lock. The door accessed a crowded storage room. The deep tones of choral singing filtered through another door on the other side of the room. Ral took a moment to rummage through a varnished wardrobe, selected a white cassock, and pulled the garment over his head. A red stole stitched with circles in gold thread went around his shoulders. Smiling, he slipped through another door.

The Pantheon's circular walls bowed over the main worship chamber of the church. The building was an architectural masterpiece, dating back to imperial days when Nimea had enjoyed an era of magnificence unmatched by any nation in the world. The ceiling was open to the sky, another sign of its pagan origins. Prayer mats formed orderly rows on the floor's red-and-white checkerboard flagstones where priests and trains of dutiful acolytes walked among the faithful, swinging pots of smoking incense and murmuring prayers.

Ral pulled up the robe's hood and slipped behind a gaggle of old women in black shawls, their eyes downcast as they walked the stations around the perimeter of the great chamber. He slowed as they stopped before a hollow niche inhabited by the gray stone statue of some saint. So pious, they made him sick as they whispered fervent prayers over clenched fists. If any of them dared to raise their eyes high enough, they would see the marble base of the original statue that had adorned this shrine before the advent of the True Faith. Perhaps it had been the likeness of Torim, the Storm Lord, or Hisu, the patron goddess of love and nauseating poetry. Whichever god it had been, the name had been chiseled out of the pedestal as if it never existed. Ral smirked under the hood. It was a shame people couldn't be eliminated as easily as deities. His life would be a lot simpler.

As the old women shuffled off to the next station, Ral sank down beside Markus, who knelt in the last row, his large hands clasped together.

Markus barely looked over. "No, thank you, Father. I'm-" Then the prefect caught sight of his face. "Ral? God's breath! Isn't anything sacred to you?"

Ral glanced at the massive sculpture of the Prophet of the True Faith. Lord Phebus, the Light of the World, towered above the high fine at the end of the nave. The statue was clothed as a simple peasant, but glittering rays chased in real gold radiated from his bloodied brow.

"I'll worry about God when he starts worrying about me."

Markus looked around. "Someone could see you."

Ral had already checked during his approach. No other worshippers were in earshot.

"Not likely. These bleaters are too busy worrying about saving their souls. With all this praying, you'd think there was an army of Shadowmen banging at the gates, eh? Or old King Mithrax riding from the grave with his Hellion Host."

The scabbard of Markus's sword scraped on the floor as he shifted position. He moved easily for a big man. "What are you doing here?"

"Just making a last-minute visit. I take it you haven't heard the latest?"

"No, what?"

"Your grand master has been arrested."

"On what charges?"

Ral put his hands together as if to pray. "Treason. Sedition. It doesn't matter. Our benefactor will make sure he never sees the light of day again."

"I never thought-"

"That's your problem, Markus. You never think. But now that the head of your order is out of the way, the way is clear for new blood to rise to the top. Especially for those with allies on the Elector Council."

Markus sucked in a deep breath.

Ral let him ponder that idea for a moment. "Is everything in place?"

"Sure. The plan is simple. I'll get there a candlemark after sundown. The signal is-"

"How many men are you bringing?"

Markus glanced over, a flicker of annoyance passing across his pale blue eyes. "I got a few boys on board, just like you told me. A couple of them owe me money, and another guy is bucking for a promotion so he can move out of his mother's house. They'll do what I say without question."

"And afterward?"

"They'll keep their mouths shut."

"They'd better. Our patron doesn't forgive mistakes. If one of these men talks-"

"I know what I'm doing."

Ral leaned into Markus, hooking his right arm through the man's elbow. His left hand pressed into the prefect's side, the needle-sharp point of the stiletto held in his palm pricking through both surcoat and mail to touch the flesh beneath. Markus huffed and strained to remain still.

Ral pitched his voice to a low whisper. "Listen to me. You don't have to worry about the boss. If you mess this up, I'll peel your worthless hide from your back myself. Do you understand me?"

Markus nodded. With a hiss, Ral released him. The stiletto vanished into his sleeve. Markus clutched his side and stared at the floor with his lips compressed into a tight line. The prefect wasn't used to being manhandled, but he had to understand and fast. Both their lives hung in the balance if he messed up.

"Get more men," Ral said.

The prefect rolled his shoulders. "I'll need more money for that. God's soldiers don't come cheap."

Ral wanted to laugh, but he didn't let it touch his features. He reached under his cassock. Markus stiffened, one hand dropping to the hilt of his sword, but he relaxed as Ral passed him a heavy pouch.

Ral stood up and rested his hand on the prefect's beefy shoulder, the very picture of a pastor counseling one of his flock.

"Remember, Markus. No mistakes. No loose ends."

"Don't worry. We'll arrive just a moment too late to save them."

"And their killer?"

An evil grin dimmed the prefect's chiseled features. "Sadly, he'll be killed trying to elude capture."

"Perfect."

A moment later, Ral was out the side door and down the alley, heading toward home. He had his own preparations to finalize. A horse was waiting for him at the west gate, reserved by the offices of the Elector Council, with remounts at every roadhouse and garrison station between here and his target. Tomorrow night, the culmination of his dearest ambition would begin. He would rise higher than his departed father had ever dreamed. Soon people would call him the most feared man in the city, and in the process he would eliminate his only true rival to that title.

Tomorrow night Caim, Low Town's favorite son, would die.