"This isn't bad." Eyes turned his way. "After the gruel and crud you get served in Triamolin." The real Aelford daSkees had served that minor coastal city-state before being summoned home.

"Good old maggoty hardtack straight out of the barrel, with meat so foul a vulture wouldn't touch it," Scolora said. "It's the romantic soldier's life for me."

The exigencies of life in the field were universal. Else said, "You have to keep your livestock on the hoof until you need it"

"You guys never did that. I never saw such a piss-poor excuse for a bunch of soldiers as you guys when you came in before the Battle of the Well of Days."

Else pretended to look around for eavesdroppers. "You didn't hear this from me. Prince Aderble is an idiot. Literally. He doesn't care about anything but his own vices. The priests use him as a figurehead while they line their purses. Your real reaction should be amazement that we got there in time for the fight. He was retailing nothing that was not common knowledge. Triamolin's company had been devoured by Indala al-Sul Ha-laladin. The rest of the crusader force had not fared much better. Which led to the inevitable question.

"How did you survive the Well of Days?"

"I was clever enough to be laid up recovering from a poisoned arrow I took in a skirmish with bandits from Dreanger." He had a scar he could show if necessary.

"There is a God."

"You wouldn't think much of Him if you ever took one of those arrows. They stings a bit."

"Where you from?" Scolora asked. "Originally."

"LaTriobe. In Tramaine. I know. You never heard of it. I've been in the Holy Lands since I was fifteen. Why?"

"You've got a funny accent."

"I talk Peqaad or Melhaic most of the time."

The old soldier made a sudden warning gesture. The table fell silent. The rest of the hall had done so already.

Two members of the Brotherhood of War had entered the mess. One was a grizzled, scarred fellow in his fifties. The other was under thirty. Both were lean, hard men, very clean and well-groomed. They looked enough alike to be family, though the Brothers took vows of chastity when they took orders.

The older man said, "Continue your conversation." He took a seat at Else's table. The younger man did the same.

Both wore Brotherhood black with a red hourglass and crossed white swords embroidered over their hearts, on their overshirts. The same symbol was repeated on their backs, much larger.

"Are you traveling?" Else asked. No one else seemed inclined to speak, let alone make introductions.

Most crusaders did not like the Brothers. They were fanatics, much too humorless, grim, and in a hurry to get to Heaven. Good to have on your side when you were in deep shit and needed somebody to save your ass, though.

Trenchers arrived for the newcomers. The older man said, "We're bound for Dateon. Sometime tonight." His stare was piercing. It reminded Else of Gordimer at his most intense. "You were talking about your adventures in the Holy Lands."

"I didn't have many. My father sent my uncle and me to Triamolin because his uncle told him that young men could make their names and fortunes there. He didn't understand the reality."

The younger Brother grunted, swallowed a chunk of pork he had not yet chewed. "The Carpets are a waste of flesh as warriors or nobles."

The elder said, "Except for Ansel, who founded the Triamolin state."

"A pity the Patriarch back then didn't check the Carpet offspring out before he put a crown on the old man's head."

The elder Brother let that slide. He addressed Else. "So you finally had enough, eh? You could become part of something with real meaning, here. The Brotherhood of War always has room for men who want to do the Lord's work."

Else did not observe that, to his recollection, the Chaldarean god was a pacifist. "That isn't it. I've been called home. I'm the last daSkees. The rest died when the Duke of Harmonachy invaded Tramaine. His Grolsacher mercenaries killed anybody who got in their way when they were running away from Themes."

"You said an uncle went east with you?"

"Reafer. Yes. Dysentery got him."

"It's a harsh world. Disease claims more good men than the efforts of any enemy."

That was true on the other side, too, where the medical and surgical arts were more advanced and ideas about prevention and containment of disease were more practical. Else grunted agreement. He continued to down bites of pork mechanically.

The younger brother observed, "You aren't afraid of us. The rest of these are."

"No. Should I be? Are you demons wearing the skins of men?"

"They all think we're sorcerers."

This was news to Else. He knew of the Brotherhood of War only as a band of ferocious warriors. "And? Have you turned on your own kind?"

Gentle gasps told him that a few of his companions did harbor some such suspicion.

"There are weeds in the gardens of the Lord. We face an age of renewed crusade. The steel must be tempered. We face formidable enemies in Indala al-Sul Halaladin and Gordimer the Lion. The battalions of the Lord will have no place in them for doubters or the faint of heart."

Some things were the same on both sides, Else reflected. "How about the worn out and exhausted who don't have anything left to give to kings and warlords who care more about their own glory and fortunes than they do about reclaiming the Wells of Ihrian?

"God and the Patriarch willing, that won't be a problem, next crusade."

"Enough," the old brother said. "He hasn't seen the Holy Lands yet," he told Else.

Apparently, the younger man had said something he should not have. Would extraordinary measures be taken to arm a new crusade with competent, motivated, true-believer commanders? That was not good. Arnhanders were formidable fighters. Only the pettiness and incompetence of their captains assured the failure of their efforts.

ELSE STARED AT THE CEILING IN THE DARK. THE PORK CHURNED in his guts. Somewhere nearby someone used a woman with great vigor, with her enthusiastic participation. He paid little attention.

He had collected important intelligence already. The next crusade might be better organized and led. And the new Brothen Patriarch expected to pick and choose his commanders.

Else's thoughts drifted to the company he had taken to Andesqueluz. They should be home, now. He hoped they had been well rewarded.

He drifted on to the puzzle of the slain bogon.

Who conjured it? No friend, certainly. Someone who did not want the mummies to reach er-Rashal? That made sense. Assuming those brittle old sticks could be put to major sorcerous use.

In theory, the mysterious enemy could be any sorcerer aware of what er-Rashal was planning. Which, certainly, was nothing urgent. Or he would not be cruising the Mother Sea just to check on one spy's progress.

That deserved reflection, too.

There was a soft tap at his door. He did not respond. That would be another house whore offering her services. Or maybe a boy, since he had refused two women already.

NAHLIK SAT DRINKING WINE ACROSS FROM ELSE. ELSE CONfined himself to coffee. It would take him a while to wean himself from dietary law.

Nahlik had succeed a long time ago.

Two more men shared their table in a sailors' dive known as the Rusted Lantern. Mallin had come in with Nahlik. The other man was a stranger. He had been there when Else arrived, unconscious in a pool of his own vomit. Customers took what seats they could, though that settled them in the company of strangers.

Mallin said, "We'd better talk before they throw this one out so they can fill the seat with a paying customer."

Else grunted. "Nahlik, you were on the mark when you said don't take anything embarrassing ashore. Somebody went through my stuff last night. While I was at supper."