"You think they'd run around in their black and red yelling, 'Hey! Here I am?' Whatever they're up to, we already know it's supposed to be secret."

A closed coach drawn by a two-horse team clopped to the foot of the gangway.

"There's what I call timing"

The older man began wrestling baggage aboard the coach. The driver helped. The tall man examined his surroundings intently.

"I don't like this," Tonto said. "Something's wrong. I'm out of here." He slid away into shadows, fast and silent.

"Damn!" Scolora said. "What was that all about?"

Adrano had known Tonto in the Holy Lands. He said, "I don't know. But him and me are still alive because his instincts were always right around the Wells of Ihrian."

Then we'd better listen," Else said. He was accustomed to crediting the undirected misgivings of Bone and al-Azer er-Selim.

"Coach is moving," Scolora said. "Coming our way."

"Damn! Get down, then. Get invisible."

Scolora protested, "There're other people around."

The coach, moving fast, drew abreast of their hiding place, Else glimpsed its polished ash flank through a gap between bales. Then all the darkness went out of the world.

A god's fist smashed into his chest and flung him against a warehouse wall. As he flew he heard shredded screams from his companions. Cotton fountained, some of it on fire.

Unconsciousness came.

It did not last long. A few numb-looking dock wallopers were just starting to get in amongst the bales, chattering too fast to be understood. Else picked out the word for sorcery, though.

He became aware of pain in his left wrist

"God is merciful," he murmured. His wrist had been burned. Blisters were rising already. His amulet had protected him.

He staggered to his feet, covered in cotton, startling the Sonsans. "What happened? Where are my friends?"

In an exchange made difficult by language problems Else explained that he and his friends had thought that they could save money by sleeping amongst the cotton bales. Then there had been an explosion.

That was all the Sonsans knew. Just, Boom! and the quay was covered by tons of smoldering cotton. They thought it might have something to do with the squabbles between me great families.

They found Scolora right away. The Direcian was dead. Thoroughly and gruesomely so. He had been torn into four pieces loosely connected by strings of skin and flesh. And Adrano was scattered almost as extensively as the cotton.

At that point me dock wallopers really caught on. They had used the word sorcery before. Now they saw the proof. They scattered immediately.

The quay was a complete ghost town, now. Where were the workers? The crews from the ships? Where were the curious, drawn by the explosion? Did bad news spread that fast here?

Else considered Scolora and Adrano. He could do nothing for them now. He felt guilt and anger.

He collected their gear and helped himself. Then he eased out onto the quay. No one was watching. All was still. Darkness was falling. He had to disappear into the city.

He could not turn up at that factor house now.

A light shown through the leaded glass stern lights of Vivia Infanti. From the captain's quarters.

ELSE MOVED QUIETLY INTO THE STERN CASTLE. NO LIFE HAD yet returned to the quay. But that would not last.

Someone in the master's quarters played a lute, a dolorous tune that Else did not recognize. It was a sad song of unrequited love. Like most of its kind, it originated in the End of Connec, where such things had been invented.

Else pulled the latch string slowly, swung the door inward without a sound.

The ship's master sat in a plush chair, beyond a chart table, staring out the stern lights at stars coming to life as indigo skies gave way to true night. His back was to Else.

He ceased playing his sad song. "I didn't think you'd keep your word, sorcerer." The seaman made that final word a curse and an expression of boundless contempt.

He turned. And was startled. "Who me hell are you?"

"An unhappy man. Your secret passenger just killed two friends of mine. You're going to tell me about him."

"You're kidding, right?”

"He's bad. But I'm here. And I'm angry enough to make you wish you were carrying a lamp, to light the road to Hell for my friends."

The ship's master struggled but was past his prime and never had been a fighter. Else was in his prime, a fighter, and he knew how to get prisoners to talk.

Once the inevitable was obvious, the ship's master said, "The man was a stupid, arrogant, bigoted pig. I'll actually wish you luck if you go after him."

That was not Else's plan. It was not his mission. He just wanted to know what was going on in case it affected future planning.

The ship's master talked. Else prowled. He considered relics that said this man's whole life was right here aboard this ship. That there was nowhere else he would rather be. He had collected exotic souvenirs in interesting places, including swords with unusual blades; a composite bow of the type used by the steppe horse peoples; a Ghargarlicean infantry bow six feet long, of a type that had gone out of use centuries ago; and a Lucidian crossbow of a sort mass-produced for use by local militias tasked with defending city walls. It did not have much power but any idiot could use it at close range. This one had been painted, then decorated with sutras from the Written and given a quality string. None of which had done its user any good, obviously, or the weapon would not be in a Chaldarean sea captain's weapons collection.

"Be careful with that," the Sonsan pleaded. "It has a hair trigger." There was, of course, a bolt in the mechanism.

"It isn't a good idea to leave the bow bent all the time. Takes the spring out." From questions about the Brotherhood sorcerer Else moved on to broader questions. What were the attitudes of Sonsans toward the Church? Toward Sublime V? Toward the Patriarch's apparent determination to launch a new crusade?

"Crusades are good for Sonsa," the ship's master replied. "The Patriarch is a raving lunatic, but we don't mind as long as his gold pours into our coffers."

Else settled into the master's chair. The master himself was strapped down on his own chart table. Else finally broke out his letters from Gordimer.

Those letters did not contain much that he could not figure out for himself. Keep low. Keep his eyes and ears open. Learn whatever he could, even if it did not appear relevant. Try to discover why Arnhanders thought the way they did. Sow seeds of conflict between Dreanger's potential enemies so they would have no attention to spare for overseas adventures. Work his way closer to Sublime and the Collegium when he could. And so on and so forth, with not one word about what to do when attacked by murderous spies. Or sorcerers from the Brotherhood of War.

He did find out how to contact two Dreangerean agents in Sonsa, neither of whom knew about the other. He was to keep it that way.

"Idiot crusader," the ship's master barked, harshly enough to recapture Else's attention. "Wake up. Somebody just came aboard."

Else did not ask how the man knew. It was his ship. Else collected his letters and the Lucidian crossbow and faded into a shadowed corner.

The latch on the cabin door rose. The door swung inward. A shape in black stepped inside, saw the ship's master laid out, blurted, "What the hell?"

Else triggered the crossbow. "Give my regards to Enio and Adrano."

The invader moved like a cat but not fast enough. He grunted in pain, pierced through the right arm and shoulder.

Else discarded the crossbow and moved in, hoping to strike before the man could use his sorcery.

But the Brother met him with a short sword. He showed no lack of confidence despite being wounded and having to fight left-handed. Until he realized that he faced a skilled opponent.