“Yes, Highness.” The man stood and issued orders. Guards left their posts and could not be lured back no matter the curses or rewards Peyt offered. They opened the gates and once the wagons were on their wheels again, they hitched teams of horses to them. A bunch of the guards drifted off into the darkness, but quickly returned with their own families.

Once the way had been cleared, most of the people continued on toward Westgate. A few did enter the ministry compound, but quickly abandoned it again when Peyt and his senior officials hustled out and joined the throng.

Tyressa grabbed Jasai by the wrist. “We have to go.”

“I know, just a minute more.” Her voice dropped. “They’re taking heart from my presence. I have to give them that, because if I don’t, they won’t make it.”

A low rumbling thunder came from the east. It took Keles a minute to identify it as the tramping of booted feet. He ran quickly to the ministry compound and mounted the wall to give himself more perspective. He stared, barely believing what he saw.

Warriors were walking nine abreast, in ranks nine deep. They came down the road, working west, always west. At any crossroads, the first squad turned north, the second south. Odd and even they split and walked to the next intersection. There they turned back west, and at the next toward the middle again. Once they returned to that original intersection, then crossed it and the process began again.

Throughout the city, squads moved that way, searching, ever searching. Behind them, moving through the city in much the same way, other squads put the city to the torch. Block by block, Felarati burned.

And they’re searching for me. He had no doubt that his grandfather had sent the fleet, both to find him and to punish Felarati. To punish anyone who ever defied him.

Across the intersection, one of the monkey-things crouched like a furred gargoyle. It pointed a slender arm in his direction, then began hooting, punctuated with a screech. And back along the street, a company stopped. The squads that had already turned away spun about and rejoined the formation marching west. As one the soldiers drew their swords.

The stragglers screamed and began ducking into alleys and buildings. The invaders ignored them, but when the monkey’s hooting grew louder and faster, the soldiers began trotting. And when they charge, they will slaughter everyone in their way.

One of the ministry guards silenced the monkey with an arrow. For a moment the invaders faltered and then they started to run. Swords rose and fell. Peasants screamed and reeled away, clutching severed limbs or split faces. The invaders slew everyone in their path as if merely clearing foliage.

The press of refugees slowed them slightly, then the ministry guards countercharged. Their archers shot true and well, dropping the short, thick invaders. The spearmen ran them through and kept pushing, knocking front ranks into back. They looked as if they might succeed in forcing the invaders to retreat, but other companies came at a run, some directly and others fanning out to flank the defenders.

Rekarafi waved Keles down from the wall. “We have to go.”

The cartographer fled the compound and raced along the street, with the ministry warriors forming a rear guard for the column. He caught up with Tyressa and grabbed her arm.

“They’re looking for me. If I give up, they’ll let everyone else go.”

Tyressa shook her head. “Rekarafi and I did not cross half the world to give you up. Besides that, you’re wrong.” She pointed to the lurid flames spreading in the east. “If all they wanted was you, they would have made demands before they started burning things. They may want you, but whoever sent them also issued orders that Felarati must die.”

Keles nodded. My grandfather would do that. If he sent them to res-cue me, he would send them to punish Pyrust for being arrogant enough to take me prisoner.

Keles looked back and watched his work burn. “My grandfather did this.”

Tyressa looked at him with half-lidded eyes. “How is that possible? I don’t recognize the warriors or their insignia.”

“I don’t know. I don’t understand it.” Keles shook his head. “And unless we can figure it out, I don’t know how we can stop them.”

Chapter Forty-three

7th day, Planting Season, Year of the Rat

10th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Wentokikun, Moriande

Nalenyr

Prince Cyron paused in front of the enclosure housing the clouded linsang. With the owl-moon just rising, the slender tan creature with black stripes and spots should have emerged. He caught a quick flash of tan at the hole, then saw two dark eyes peering out at him.

The Prince smiled and slowly raised the basket he held in his left hand. He plucked a small blue egg from it and extended it toward the linsang. The creature’s face appeared at the hole. His nose twitched, then he hid his face again.

Cyron, shaking his head, returned the egg to the basket and set it on the ground. The sanctuary staff would come by later and feed the creature.

The Prince turned to his companion. “Perhaps I should let you try to feed him.”

The Lady of Jet and Jade politely refused with a shake of her head. “Perhaps he is not hungry, Highness.”

“He’s hungry. My gamekeeper believes the linsangs have mated, and Jorim Anturasi’s notes indicated the male would be hunting more. He tucks the eggs into his cheeks and brings them back to the den.” Cyron sighed and glanced at his left arm. “Linsangs have sensitive noses. He smells the rot.”

“I would counsel against your taking this as an omen.”

“And you are doubtlessly right, but the fact of rot cannot be denied. My arm, everything else.”

The Prince’s wound had not healed well. The Lord of Shadows had stabbed all the way through his forearm, as the Prince had directed. Such was his skill that he avoided nerves, tendons, and blood vessels. It had hurt, but the Prince’s physician, Geselkir, had been confident it would not suppurate.

It did, however. The Prince had tried to ignore the pain, and had not summoned his physician to look at it in a timely manner. Then, in the middle of the night, the pain had been such that Cyron, hot with fever, had risen from bed to get water and to summon help. He fainted and fell on the arm, reopening the wound.

Geselkir had done what he could, cleaning the wound and packing it in poultices. The Viruk ambassador had even come in and offered to work magic to help. Others had suggested that the Prince send a message to Kaerinus to get him to effect a healing, but a half dozen messages to the vanyesh survivor had gone unanswered.

Which is an answer in and of itself.

The Lord of Shadows had offered to kill himself for what he had done, but the Prince had refused him. Geselkir worked very hard and was confident he had the infection under control. The Viruk had suggested sewing maggots into the wound to let them devour the dead flesh, but Cyron had refused that idea. I already feel dead inside. How would they know when to stop eating?

The Prince gestured gingerly with his left arm. “I don’t know which hurts more: the wound in my arm or the wound in my heart.”

She nodded solemnly. “Both are grievous, Highness. Do not feel you would burden me if you chose to speak your mind. You know that though your words will reach my ears, they will never reach my tongue.”

“I know.”

He reached down and gently grasped his left wrist. Earlier in the day he’d learned that Prince Eiran had gone missing from the Helosundian border. While neither the messenger, his Lord of Shadows, nor the Grand Minister could tell him if Eiran had been assassinated, there seemed little question. The Helosundian Minister of Foreign Relations-a man Cyron had no liking for at all-had been killed in Moriande. It seemed as if the Helosundians had not yet tired of killing each other.