The Hierophant beheld a battalion of gaping stonethralls. Stark lights above cast deep shadows on eyesockets and grotesquely open mouths. Lilitu searched her robe and, glancing instinctively about the empty chamber, withdrew the secret behind her mysterious network of spies. It was a little scroll of tightly furled parchment. Binding it was a loop of string, which pierced one end, and as she pulled it from around the scroll it unwound into a lolling ribbon. Lambskin sewn with cuneiform symbols in tiny golden thread. Apart from the God-King Himself, only His bodyslave and His Hierophant knew that such a thing could be. Lilitu went to a cushioned pedestal and took up the Rod of Command. “You,” she said, pointing at the left-most golem in the first rank. “Fetch that mounting block, return to your place in the line, and set the block down before you with the steps facing me.” The gaping thing obeyed her. Then she ascended the little staircase and thrust the ribbon down the golem’s throat. Rooting around for the hook—and careful not to impale herself—Lilitu snagged the string over it. Then she fed the ribbon up the throat and draped its loose end upon the bottom teeth.

  The golem belonged to Aharra and her cuckold of a husband, but until sunrise, when Lilitu had to relinquish the battalion she had borrowed for the wedding feast, the golem would be hers. And now it had a voice. Cradling the rod, Lilitu asked a question. “Tell me no lie. Since the last time we spoke, what have your masters said regarding me?” The jaw moved, the leather twitched, and the tongue flapped about the golem’s mouth like a sparrow trapped in a cellar. At first the sounds were gibberish, and then they became a soft and fluttering voice.

  “What do you suppose it is that Nemmen has over our good Hierophant?” the golem said, mimicking Aharra crudely. “To think, the Rod of Command wielded for a wedding! Perhaps she fancies him.” And the words deepened in tone.

  “Perhaps. They were practically engaged, once, before the God-King chose her.”

  The golem’s tone began to alternate with every line. “Really? I never knew.”

  “It was well before your time, my dear. But must we speak of her? We were having such a pleasant evening.”

  “How could we not? The woman is an absolute menace! She’d jail us all and say it’s peace.”

  “Hm. It would be only her and Shindar then. I’m sure she’d like that. But you are wrong to worry, my dear. She takes her post rather seriously, it is true, but she has no cause to persecute us. She has no cause.”

  “Who said worried? I’m not worried. I was just thinking. She’s so lenient with him—and only him. Do you really believe she’s chaste? At her age?”

  “Believe me. I grew up with her. But let us pursue a lighter topic—the pestilence in the land of Karaam, perhaps, or the floods in Lusheya.”

  The golem mimicked laughter. “She is chaste, I think, or else utterly depraved.”

  “Depravity would improve her—the terrible bore!”

  “Not only her. It would benefit us all.”

  “That’s true! If she really cares about us as much as she claims, she’d go out and find some athlete. Have herself a good, vigorous fu—”

  “Enough.” Lilitu said. She would have to be more specific. “Have your masters, or anyone else, said or implied that the father of Aharra’s child is not her husband?”

  “No, High Magister.” the golem said. “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Have you observed anyone conspiring to move against me in the Circle? Or harm me in any other way?”

  “I have not, Your Eminence.”

  The Hierophant frowned. Perhaps Shur-Balat had panicked under interrogation and invented the plot. Or perhaps the conspirators obey a policy of such strict silence that they don’t speak even in front of their golems. Did the couple know Lilitu’s secret? Had she let slip some fact that only they and their stonethralls should possess? No. She had been careful always. And Shur-Balat had told her the alias of the conspiracy’s ringleader. “Have you heard mention of a Mossy Tortoise?”

  “I have, Your Eminence.”

  “Elaborate.”

  “I was delivering my master’s breakfast when Aharra asked if she could borrow one of his messenger cranes. He said he’d already sent them all out—to confirm with the other magi that no one would arrive at the wedding dressed exactly like him—and none had yet returned. He asked her why she needed a crane. She began to whisper. Said the Mossy Tortoise had asked her to arrange a meeting, but that she’d already sent her messengers out on other errands. ‘Can the invitation wait?’ he asked. No. The stonethralls would be requisitioned soon to help with the wedding, and if she waited and a crane did not return, she would have to trust a human messenger, which of course she could not do. So they decided to use me.”

  Lilitu went to her writing chest. If the message had to be delivered before the golems were requisitioned, then the meeting would take place before they returned. Otherwise, the conspirators could simply wait. “Did you hear anything of the letter’s content?”

  “Only that it was an invitation on behalf of the Mossy Tortoise.”

  “And to whom was it addressed?”

  “To Banapaal, Your Eminence.”

  Lilitu raised her brows. Banapaal was known to prefer poetry and dancing girls over Circle politics. She reached for a clay tablet. Moistening it with water and scraping it with a copper stylus, she wrote in the Oscan tongue, of which Anbu was literate. The ringleader is to meet with Banapaal. Go to the after party and shadow him, if he still remains. And she rolled the wax with her cylinder seal, a graven image of Ner’gal the Shepherd of Souls enchained, and beside him Shindar as a mortal man in conversation with a bolt of lightning. “There is a man in my office.” she said, handing the slate to Aharra’s golem. “He may be asleep. Wake him if you must and deliver this to him as quickly as you can, and return here. But first—” She climbed the mounting block.

  “No, High Magister! I have more to say!”

  The Hierophant waited. “Well say it.”

  “Forgive me Your Eminence but you don’t know how this feels! Please, Lilitu. I beg you to end my sufferi—”

  “Open your mouth.” she said. “Wide.” And the golem was forced to obey. Its tongue thrashed and fluttered. “Be still.” Lilitu said, and the struggling sparrow died.

  While her commands were delivered and while Anbu carried them out she questioned the other stonethralls. They gave her nothing but idle gossip. When she had finished, dawn’s first light was seeping into the room and the Inquisitor still had not returned. The time had come for the stonethralls to be relinquished. She told them to find their masters and took a palanquin to the Circle hall. The day’s meeting would commence shortly. Lilitu hoped it would be brief. She hadn’t slept and she expected few of the others, still half-drunk from the night before, to wake up early enough to attend. The Moderator would ask if anyone had a proposal and, after nobody replied, would declare the session over.

  When Lilitu arrived, she found nearly two-dozen magi pressing cucumber slices and bladders of ice-water against their swollen eyes. She knew at once what had happened. Someone, anticipating a desolate Circle, had called in favors and stacked it with friends. Someone was trying to push through an unpopular vote. Lilitu took her seat and waited to find out who.

  The Moderator, holding a simple staff of palmwood, took his place at the auditorium’s center. “Let this session commence.” he said. The strike of a gong declared it—and induced groans from those assembled. “Does anyone have a proposal?” he asked. An old man with a long and nearly translucent beard rose to his feet. Istafel, one of the Hierophant’s earliest supporters. He was given the staff, which by custom confers the magus holding it, and that magus only, the right to speak in council. Clear-eyed and hale, Istafel must have abstained from last night’s revelry in preparation for this moment.

  “Greetings, fellow Magi.” he said, stroking his beard, which failed to hide a rather weak chin. “Let me commend you all, dutiful servants of Shindar, for joining the Circle this day. And let me beg your indulgence in allowing me to relate to you a story. Just the other night I received a guest-friend, the headman of a small oasis hamlet, but instead of drinking my wine and offering to exchange gifts, he grasped my knees as a supplicant! He said that he was ruined. That he would not be able to pay tribute to Shindar this year. Why? His village had been ransacked! Habiru had devoured the date-harvest, guzzled the wine, and had even managed to abscond with one of his slaves! It was only by the mercy of Enlil—and the courageous resistance of the headman and his kin—that the raiders were eventually driven back into the wild. But the damage had been done. His people are reduced to grinding palm-nuts and grazing at roots like sheep! And worst of all, he said, he knows who the raiders are. They are habiru of the Circle’s Chosen!”

  His supporters loyally gasped and Lilitu smiled. The Chosen hadn’t ransacked anything. They had merely overstayed their welcome as guests, leaving only when they had drained the headman’s wine. And his slave hadn’t been stolen. She’d run off with them willingly. She’d said so herself.

  The concerned muttering had ceased, and Istafel continued. “Of course, I was just as appalled as you are, and I resolved to help the good farmer in any way I could. I persuaded Minister Kalla to remit him a year’s tribute and to reimburse him for any goods lost. And while Kalla and I were talking he said he’d heard my story before, all too many times, and together, out of curiosity, we looked at some records. Minister Kalla,” he said, offering the staff, “would you please read aloud the sum total of last year’s reimbursements?”

  The squinting Minister began reading a detailed list of goods and weights and quantities. Lilitu knew what Istafel was trying for. And he thought, because the Chosen were Circle loyalists, her political enemies, that she would let him. The High Magister yawned without opening her mouth. Anbu should be in her office by now with news of the conspiracy. The chamber was silent. Kalla had finally finished.

  “Friends,” Istafel said, having taken the staff, “is it just, that Shindar should pay such a vast sum for the crimes of barbarians? I propose a new law. From now on, habiru regiments must pay, upon their crimes being testified by witnesses, their own indemnities. This law will discourage wanton thieving, protect our allies, and show them—who think us either too weak or too treacherous to control our own habiru—that our protection, that our word, has meaning. Does anyone have an argument in opposition?”

  Lilitu repressed a sigh. She was weary. She could let the vote pass and invoke her Magisterial privilege of veto. Anbu must be waiting. But Istafel was one of her earliest supporters, and she believed that employing persuasion was always preferable to wielding brute force. The Hierophant-Magister stood. Istafel stopped stroking his beard and, unable to mask his surprise, handed her the staff.

  “How strange, to find myself defending the Chosen.” Lilitu said. “You know what I think of them. They are churls, swaggering brutes with barely a drop of noble blood between them. Social upstarts, grasping by theft for what the gods have not ordained them at birth. Istafel is correct in calling the Chosen brigands. But they’re our brigands. They raid the savage outlands. They watch the caravan paths. They safeguard travellers and deliver messages and sometimes they make mistakes. Of course, I too wish that Shindar’s wealth not be wasted reimbursing our allies, but what can we do? Shall each Chosen memorize our ever-growing list of friends? Maybe we could write him a list—and teach him how to read.”

  She paused to allow her sycophants a chuckle. “Istafel said that these raids injure our relations with our friends abroad. But tell me, do you credit a friend for simply not seizing what is yours? Of course you don’t. But how great a favor it is when a friend—a much stronger friend—having accidentally taken what is yours, gives it promptly back! I know that this policy may seem cruel, but the census proves that ownership of a horse in the Subar desert has increased out of all proportion to its meager wealth. A habiru will obtain one even if it means impoverishing his own family, just so he can join the Chosen and protect our interests abroad—at risk to his own life. Why? Because we feed him during one season of the year? No. Because of his license to raid. And if we enact this law, if we complicate raiding, if we make it unprofitable, we will lose him. And whether for us or against us, the habiru will raid.”

  Istafel’s friends muttered, unsure just how much this friendship obligated them to defy the Hierophant-Magister. When she looked he averted his gaze, stroking his beard as if engrossed by thought. Lilitu had beaten him, and now she had to help him save face. Striking the floor with her staff she silenced the muttering magi. “I have explained that despite Istafel’s noble intentions, this law would in time cause harm, but I admit that his proposal would be just, and I commend him for a most admirable effort in preserving our Father’s treasury, defending our reputation abroad, and pursuing the course of justice.” And returning the staff to the Moderator Lilitu began to clap. Bodyslaves were forbidden to enter the Circle, and there the Magi kept their sleeves untied. One by one, Istafel’s allies joined her. And one by one they stood. The old man, formerly hunched in thought, puffed out his chest. Nobody stopped clapping before the Hierophant did.

  Once the hall was silent, the Moderator cleared his throat. “Would anyone like to make a rebuttal before the vote is cast?”

  Istafel motioned for the palmwood. “I yield to the wisdom of her Eminence the Hierophant-Magister,” he said, “and formally retract my proposal.”

  The Moderator accepted the proffered staff and searched the audience. “Does anyone else have a proposition?” Magi adjusted their seats and smoothed out their robes. Someone coughed. “Then the Circle is hereby concluded.”

  Lilitu strode to the waiting palanquin and heard behind her a pair of sandals slapping the tile floor. “High Magister,” Istafel said, breathing heavily, “I have a private matter to discuss.”

  “In my office.” she said, and climbed through the drapes.

  Istafel stuck his head in. “May I ride along with you? Mine is down the hall.”

  She had wanted to use the secret tunnel that bypassed her waiting room, where yet another distraction could be lurking. “An unmarried woman, alone with a man?” she said. “It would hardly be appropriate.”

  Istafel laughed and saw that she was serious. “Of course, High Magister. In your office.”

  Lilitu was carried up the winding staircase alone. The litter turned away from the passage to her waiting room and went down a different hall and eased to a stop. She was taken gently down. Disembarking, she stood in an alcove constructed for no clear purpose. She whispered the secret phrase and the stone began to rumble. Bricks groaned and shifted as the wall receded into a narrow chasm. Stale air and darkness. Her light-globe was inside the palanquin, and she caught herself reaching through the drapes. She was not a child, frightened of the dark. “You are dismissed.” she said. “Return to your stations.” The stonethralls took the litter and the light-globe away from her, and Lilitu stepped into the chasm blind.

  Feeling her way through the tunnel, she reached the door that led into her office. She spoke the password and shut her eyelids, and they glowed as the wall opened into a well-lit room. “Anbu?” she said, forcing her eyes apart. He wasn’t there. On the corner of her desk stood a miniature gong and a tiny mallet hanging by a string. She struck the gong twice. The front door swung wide and her personal herald, a plump eunuch draped in velvet, shuffled in and bowed.

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  His words were clear and musical. “How may I serve you, High Magister?”

  “You may tell me whether anyone waits.”

  “Yes, High Magister. The Magus Aharra.” She’d not attended the Circle.

  Lilitu frowned. “Nobody else?”

  “Nobody.”

  Lilitu slumped into her chair. Where by the God-King’s name was Anbu? Bound to a post, probably, in some dank and windowless room, with a cowled torturer digging into him and whispering sweet lies and carving out his secrets. Her secrets. And that’s why Aharra was waiting—to negotiate the ransom.

  “Is Your Eminence expecting a visitor?”

  “No.” Lilitu said. “Bring me Aharra. But first—” she struck the gong once to summon her bodyslave. “Sleeves and tea.” Once her sleeves were tied and the tea was boiling she released the herald, who promptly returned with the heretic.

  “Sit down.” Lilitu said, nodding to the chair opposite her own. “Have some tea.”

  Aharra stood so close that her knees practically touched the desk. She motioned for her own bodyslave to tuck the chair as close as possible and sat. “High Magister.” Aharra said, staring brazenly through a diaphanous veil. “I have a dreadful suspicion. My household guard—a man under my patronage, a squadron leader of the Circle’s Chosen—has been killed.”

  The Hierophant permitted herself a frown. “Tell me what you know.”

  “My suspicions began yesterday, when he failed to attend the feast. I hoped he was merely ill, but a day has passed and I still haven’t seen him.”

  “And why do you think it’s murder?”

  “I don’t think Your Eminence I know! Early this morning, on a whim, I breakfasted with Trahiste—who has hated me ever since I rejected him–and I noticed his bodyguard wearing something new. No trifling bauble, but a torque of solid gold!”

  Lilitu motioned for her bodyslave to bring the saucer to her lips. Aharra was claiming that Trahiste had paid his bodyguard to provoke hers into a duel. Hiring a duelist was a popular form of assassination. The killing became socially acceptable, if not legal, and could be prosecuted only as manslaughter. The motive of a duel is not to kill one’s opponent, but merely to prove one’s honor. “And what do you want from me?”

  “Why, to arrest Trahiste’s man, of course! Interrogate him and he’ll confess. I’m sure!”

  Lilitu cooled her drink and ignored the staring. She could extract a false confession. Destroy any trace of her involvement with Shur-Balat. Trahiste would be outraged, but he was already a Circle loyalist and opposed to her on principle. She took a careful sip and smiled into her saucer. That’s why Aharra had chosen him. This was all a test. How would the Hierophant behave if she knew nothing of the woman’s affair? “I cannot detain a man for wearing a necklace.” she said. “First you must prove that this duel happened. The habiru should be gossiping, and it will soon become an open secret. Then you must prove that your man was killed. He could be hidden away somewhere, recovering from a wound. And finally you must prove that the torque was given in exchange for the duel’s provocation—and you must prove all of this, not to me, but to the Minister of the Watch, to whom you should have gone at once instead of wasting my time. And why do you stare like that? Strange girl.”

  The heretic averted her gaze. “I meant no offense,” she said, “and I shall heed your advice.”

  “You’ve quite a few assertions to prove.” The Magister said. “You should begin immediately.”

  The adulteress departed and Lilitu looked at the secret door. Anbu should have returned by dawn. She sank into her seat. If Aharra had him she would’ve dropped a hint, some fact that only he should know. Unless he was holding out. He was strong and perhaps he had yet to be broken. The Hierophant perked up as her eunuch arrived. “You have another visitor.” he said. “The Magus Istafel.” A groan escaped her lips. She had forgotten Istafel. “Shall I announce him?”

  Lilitu rubbed her temples. She needed time to think. The bodyslave filled her saucer, and hot steam wafted up against her weary face. When she denied Istafel’s proposal she knew he’d request a private audience, and she knew just what he’d say. That the raid on his guest-friend had been no accident, but an intentional slight on his honor orchestrated by his rival Bastumi—and it very well could have been. Ever since last summer’s chariot games the pair had been squabbling brats, trying constantly to convince Mother to choose a favorite child. Yet they were loyal supporters both—and with a conspiracy looming, they should remain so. She needed to give Istafel a boon, after today’s embarrassment, but how could she help one rival without offending the other? Lilitu let the tightness seep from her lungs and inhaled the soothing steam. The aroma was native desert mint. Rising vapor smoothed the worries from her wrinkled brow. Her shoulders slumped, her face drooped, and her mind, confronted by a circular question, began to gently drift. Sleep crawled into the corners of her eyes. Their lids were heavy. She let them close, and across them saw images form and begin to run a race.

  Hooves stamp. Nostrils snort. Horses champ at their bits. Glossy flanks ripple as tails frighten flies. Skeletal chariots creak. A pair of muscle-bound stallions paw at the earth and toss their heads and neigh. A gong clangs and whips crack. Horses gallop in pairs. Spokes blur and wheels trace parallel lines on the track. Out from the rising dust the two stallions run, their eyes rolling, their mouths foaming, their driver wrestling the reins. And his horses suddenly swerve. They rear and bite and kick and, lurching away from each other, burst the chariot tree. The cab overturns in a tangle of broken tack and the stallions trail harness as they gallop after mares. The fallen driver is trampled screaming underfoot. Far ahead a pair of geldings pull a chariot through a taut and purple ribbon. The crowd swells. Thousands cheer. Istafel rushes to embrace his own driver and the two are born aloft. Their names shall be etched into the Stele of Champions, and Bastumi’s crimson face is wet with flowing tears. His wig trembles as he points at the driver and threatens the mocking crowd. Berates the Judge of the Games. Lugal the elder, gazing about with dull and witless eyes. Unaware of what has happened or where he is or when. And the Circle assembles, and every time Istafel tries to speak Bastumi fakes a cough. He sits in the Magister’s waiting room, week after week. Paces her office and raves. “Everybody knows he cheated! And Lugal? He’s senile, utterly incompetent—or else corrupt! I demand that he is replaced. I demand a thorough investigation!”

  Lilitu jolted upright. Warm tea was dripping from her nose. She had fallen in. She looked up at the patient herald. “I’m ready.”

  He went to bring Istafel. The old magus took his seat and motioned for his bodyslave to accept the steaming saucer. The Hierophant’s tea, which had already cooled, was brought to her lips. She drank deeply and her slave patted them dry. “I know why you’re here.” she said. “To declare that the raid on your guest-friend was done by Bastumi.”

  The old man smiled through his beard. “You are most wise, High Magister, and I eagerly await to hear how he’ll be punished.”

  “Tell me, though, why he would do something like this. Because he lost a race? Most teams lose—every year.”

  “It’s not merely that he lost.” Istafel said. “The delusional bastard has convinced himself I cheated!” And he took a bold sip.

  “You did.”

  Istafel spluttered. “A funny joke, Your Eminence.” And his bodyslave leaned in with a cloth and shied away at his glare.

  “You paid his groom to smear the stallions’ nostrils with the urine of a mare in heat.” the Magister said. “That’s why they were so aggressive. That is why they bolted.” Istafel cooled his saucer and hid behind the steam. “Given our longstanding friendship,” Lilitu said, “I did not inform the Judge of the Games. After all it’s his responsibility to enforce the rules of the track, and his alone. And speaking of Lugal. His health is failing. The summer games draw near and I doubt he’ll be able to perform the duties of his post. I have determined to offer them to you.”

  Istafel waved at the steam. “You honor me,” he said, gazing into his cup, “and I beg you not to be annoyed. For I must decline.”

  The Hierophant looked at him.

  “As Judge of the Games, I would not be allowed to compete.”

  “Exactly.” Lilitu said. “Have you seen Bastumi’s new horses? Imported from Thrane. Reared on bluegrass and trained by Kikkule himself.” A famous charioteer. “If you could beat the older team only by cheating, how do you expect to beat the new one fairly? You don’t. But consider this a warning. I indulged you once. I will not do so again.” And she stared into his eyes. “Just think. Instead of losing to him, you can avoid the race honorably and claim that he would not have won if you were allowed to compete. He’ll be furious.”

  The old man slurped. A pale and wrinkled hand crept out from his collar. “Bastumi would be furious.” he said, stroking his wet beard. “Perhaps, on second thought, I might be able to do Your Eminence a favor.”

  Lilitu smiled. “And in return,” she said, “I’ll do everything possible to put a stop to those pesky raids.” The old man, convinced that she had finally taken his side, practically skipped out of the room. She summoned the herald. “Is there anyone else?”

  “No, High Magister.”

  “Then I wish to speak with Bastumi.” she said. “Wake me when he arrives.” The herald bowed his way out of her office and Lilitu curled up in her chair. The bodyslave draped a blanket over her shoulders. Then he tucked a pillow beneath her head and before long she drowsed, dreaming nightmares of torture and confession.

  A cowled figure was hammering nails through Anbu’s palm when the Hierophant awoke. The hammer was knocking at her door. Her secret door. He knew the password into the tunnel but not the one to her office.

  “High Magister!” a voice shouted, but on Lilitu’s side it was barely a mumble. “High Magister it’s me.”

  The voice was his. She opened her mouth to speak the password and paused. What if he were compromised? He was loyal, but he had attachments, and anyone with attachments could be compromised. He could be leading the way for an assassin. She went to the office’s front door and, ready to slam it on Anbu and anyone else, spoke the secret word. The wall groaned, letting in the scent of sweat and copper. Blood oozed from a cut in Anbu’s scalp and caked one side of his head. He closed the door and leaned.

  Lilitu rushed to him. “You’re wounded! Shall I summon the hematurge?” And she took his hands in hers. They were whole.

  “It’s nothing. I cracked my head on a window.”

  If her enemies got to him, they’d have to dig deep. She grabbed his tunic and pulled it over his head.

  “Your Eminence!”

  She tugged it free and, tossing it aside, began to frisk his chest. “Do you have any other injuries?” she asked, prodding his abdomen lower.

  He caught her hand and released it. “Only my pride.”

  “Thank the gods!” Lilitu said. He spoke the truth. “Tell me, what in Shindar’s name happened?” Suddenly Anbu glanced over her and turned his bloody side away.

  “Ah.” the herald said, standing by the entrance. His eyes played on the man’s muscular torso. “Apologies, High Magister.” And bowing deeply he backed out of the room.

  “By the gods!” Lilitu said. She opened the secret door. “I’m sorry. This shouldn’t take long.” And throwing the tunic after him she slammed the door shut. Alone, she had her bodyslave tie her sleeves and ring the gong twice. The eunuch entered. “I presume that Bastumi is here?” she asked. The herald’s only expression was a curt nod. “I’m ready to see him.”

  Bastumi arrived adjusting a luxurious auburn wig, which he had adopted since going bald at thirty. His face was haggard. He’d rushed in straight from bed. “Your Eminence wished to speak with me?”

  Lilitu nodded at the chair and he sat, crossing his legs and retracting his arms from his dangling sleeves. His bodyslave began to tie them. “I’ve been considering what you said about last summer’s chariot race. That Istafel won unfairly, somehow. I believe you.”

  “Finally! I knew you’d see reason eventu—” And he saw her eyes narrow. “—because one as wise and as just as Your Eminence would never suffer a cheat. And I swear by the gods, Istafel is the worst kind of cheat!”

  “But can you prove it?” she asked. “Neither can I. And worse, he’s determined to compete again, and only the gods know what tricks he has prepared. Who’s to say he doesn’t cheat you? Rob you of victory a second time?”

  Bastumi’s countenance fell.

  “But I’ve discovered a way,” she continued, “without any proof, to take him out from the competition.”

  The old man blinked the sleep from his eyes and leaned in closer. “How?”

  “By making him Judge of the Games.”

  “Surely you joke, Your Eminence! Shall a cheater be rewarded? Shall a cheater enforce the rules?”

  “You said it yourself. Lugal is too old. His mind has gone. He couldn’t even make the wedding, not to speak of a crowded chariot race. And who better for Judge of the Games than one with a criminal mind—one who can see the stratagems of cheaters like himself?”

  Bastumi had the bodyslave wipe his face with a damp cloth. “Am I dreaming?”

  “And Judge of the Games is no reward.” Lilitu said. “How could such an insignificant post ever compare to the glory of a Championship—to one’s name immortalized upon the sacred Stele? With Istafel out, the honor goes rightfully to you.”

  Gaping at her, he uncrossed his legs and crossed them. His mouth tried several times to form words. Then it closed. Bloomed slowly into a child’s grin. “Brilliant!” he said. “But how could you possibly convince him to accept?”

  “I’ve done my part already, and now you must do yours. When the rumor of his appointment circulates you must feign outrage, and resist the proposal with everything.”

  Bastumi chortled. “I think I can manage that.”

  “Good. Is there anything else I may do for you?”

  “No, High Magister.” he said. “You’ve done everything and more!” And standing up and bowing low he turned to take his leave.

  “One more thing.” Lilitu said. He paused. “The raids on Istafel’s associates need to stop.”

  Bastumi made his expression bewildered. “Your Eminence, I have nothing whatever to do with those.”

  The Hierophant-Magister looked at him.

  “But I am acquainted with the habiru who led the raid. I shall warn him to be, from now on, a tad more careful.”

  Lilitu smiled. “That is all I ask.” And once the old man had taken his leave, she sent for the garb of a Pramnian merchant, and then for the hematurge.

  Dugme was a strong-boned woman with bushy hair and melancholy eyes. She too had suffered from the blood weakness, had been excluded from chanting the Firstborn tongue. But some god must have answered her prayers. One day, as she chiseled commands into a light-globe, she slipped and cut her finger. She had it bandaged and, in expectation of a long recovery, took to bed. At dawn the bandage was changed and she found that the cut had vanished. In disbelief she went to a mirror—and found that she could carry it with ease. Her limbs pulsed with new strength. Her blood had thickened. Though she knew not how or why, her incurable ailment had been somehow cured–and not only hers but also that of her son. She responded to this welcome mystery by abandoning, in middle age, her career as a scribe. She joined the Healing House and, despite her unusually late start, became known as the Gray Hair Prodigy. Famed for her seemingly endless stamina. Her specialty was the very disease that marred the first half of her life. She swiftly outgrew her mentor and joined the Hierophant’s retinue.

  Upon hearing the gong’s fourth ring the Gray Hair Prodigy rushed to Lilitu’s office and found a Pramnian merchant. Her bodyslave was pressing the side of his scalp against a blood-stained cloth. “Thank Enlil you’re here.” said the Hierophant. “This gentleman tripped on his cloak and struck his head, right on the edge of my desk.”

  “The wound is clean?” Dugme asked. She budged the nodding mute aside and began to sing a melody, filling the room with a voice as clear and true and inescapable as a god’s. She did not ask or beg or seek to persuade. She commanded. And the blood obeyed, oozing more and more slowly from the merchant’s scalp. Then her melody died and the Hierophant’s office seemed as empty as a tomb. The cut had crusted over as though a week had passed.

  “My thanks, Your Eminence.” Anbu said to her, in a heavy Pramnian accent. “I am forever in your debt.”

  “Shall I continue?”

  Lilitu shook her head. “I’d rather conserve your strength.” Chanting the Firstborn tongue saps the singer’s life-force, of which the gods are blessed with an infinite supply. Most young women, wary of impeding their fertility, elect to scribe the sacred words rather than to join the Healing House or the Weather Chanter’s Guild. And wordlessly the hematurge departed. “I must find a way to reward her.” Lilitu said. Dugme refused any form of payment, in recognition of the vengeance wrought upon the killers of her son. The Inquisitor’s cup was filled.

  “Thank you, High Magister.”

  “Now tell me what took you so long.” she said. “Did you find Banapaal? Did you identify the Mossy Tortoise?”

  Anbu stared at his wine. “I went to the after-party, as you commanded, and posed as a platter boy. To watch Banapaal.”

  “Did he speak with Aharra?”

  “Not a word.” But they were known to be good friends, so why the mutual avoidance? She must have recruited him into the conspiracy, and now, to evade suspicion, they did not speak in public. “The revel went on and on,” Anbu said, “into the early morning, and people began to leave. Eventually so did Banapaal. Nemmen tried to persuade him to stay but he insisted, complaining of a headache. I followed him to a tavern, the Musk Rat. He whispered something to the innkeep, who seemed surprised and went up to a room on the second story. There he spoke to someone. Upon his return, he let Banapaal in.”

  “Ah.” Lilitu said. “There were already two people in that room.”

  Anbu looked up from his saucer. “How so?”

  “The innkeep was surprised. He wouldn’t be if Banapaal was only the second person to speak the password. After all it’s the tavern’s business to facilitate,” she said, “casual couplings. But a third guest? That might warrant some care. That’s why he double-checked. If there were already more than two, he wouldn’t have.”

  “You are most wise, High Magister.”

  “Did you rent the room adjacent?” Lilitu asked. He could’ve listened through the wall.

  “I tried, Your Eminence, but the innkeep claimed that every suite was booked—though the tavern was empty. Except for us and a table of hooded men. And these, watching me question him, began to mutter. I thought it best to leave. In the darkness I waited, that I might follow a conspirator home, but the hooded men were first. Holding candles. They scoured the street and searched from shadow to shadow, and I had no choice but to stand still and pray—till a man went too near and saw me. I fled, and they chased me up and down the Lower District until finally I lost them. Leapt through an open window. That’s how I cracked my head. I found myself in a disused warehouse and crawled into a barrel. Three men went into the building and stayed there searching for me. I had to wait until their lights went out.” And the Inquisitor bowed his head in shame. “I’ve failed you, and now the conspirators know that they’re being watched. They’ll be even more careful.”

  Lilitu raised his chin. “You’ve barely slept for two days—and you had no time to prepare, no time to plan anything or gather any help. If someone is to blame it is I, for endangering so needlessly my most capable and trustworthy friend.”

  “What about the father of Aharra’s child? I should have considered his hair.”

  “He would not have done it if I’d consoled him, promised to spare his daughter from a life of poverty. It vexed me, though, to reward a heretic. From now on I won’t be so stubborn—and I’ll have someone watch our prisoners overnight. Now enough blame. Let’s discuss what we’ve learned.”

  “You are too kind, Your Eminence.”

  Lilitu counted on fingers of stone. “Aharra, her husband, her friend Banapaal—and the second person waiting in that room. When you left the party, did her husband remain?”

  “He did.”

  “Then the second person could be the Mossy Tortoise. That makes the conspiracy four or five strong—assuming they’re all magi.”

  “Five votes are no real threat.”

  Lilitu frowned. “Assuming there are no others. But they did not all meet together, and that means there could be more. If only we knew who the ring-leader is!”

  “High Magister,” Anbu said, “at the party, I watched for those who left before Banapaal. The unknown conspirator must be among them.

  “You memorized their names?”

  “Of the magi, at least.”

  “Anbu,” she said, opening her chest of silver bars and removing one for his service and another for his wound, “you judge yourself too harshly.” And she forced the bars into his fleeing hands. “Now write me a list. I want everyone on it carefully observed.”