The sun was already down when Santiago slipped out through the Porta Angelica. The Camerlengo crossed Piazza del Risorgimento and headed along Via Ottaviano toward the metro, where he’d catch the train home. He was tired, but his mind boiled with thoughts of the manuscript. He’d been studying Victor Walder’s case, trying to sketch out a search plan. Down in the subway, he resolved to give his brain a rest and unfolded the newspaper he’d brought from the office—until a snatch of speech reached him in a dialect seldom heard in Rome.

  Santiago pricked up his ears. Midgardian. He searched for the source and found it: a tall, gaunt elderly nun and a short, barrel-shaped one, talking in their tongue. He recognized the elder—a foundress of a charity mission in the slums—and she sounded distinctly displeased.

  “Tax us on all of that?” the venerable sister snapped. “It’s an abuse! We aid the needy—we don’t lodge the rich!”

  “Yes, Mother, I know, but in the end they treat us like a civil association… even if we’re not for profit,” the plump nun replied.

  “But this invoice is as if we were a Hilton!” the foundress grumbled, then sighed. “If only we could find a way to bring in more funds.”

  The round nun cleared her throat and glanced about.

  “You know, Mother… there might be a way,” she murmured, looking around once more.

  Santiago hid behind his newspaper. At the far end of the car a pair of teenagers sprawled in their seats. Other passengers swayed with the motion as the train screeched on the rails in high, sharp notes that made Santiago discreetly cover one ear.

  Once she’d checked the surroundings, the nun lowered her voice. “I’ve just learned the Prince of Carpatos is dead.”

  “Truly?” the foundress asked.

  “Yes… though it hasn’t been made official.”

  “Well, he was very old,” the foundress said. “What’s so unusual about that?”

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  “Put it this way—it would be any other headline, except it seems… he was murdered.”

  “That is news,” the foundress said.

  “And there’s more,” the nun went on. “He died without an heir, and now there’s a struggle for power. They don’t want the Emperor to claim the principality, as the Peace Treaty after the last war with the Helvetian League allows.”

  The foundress removed her glasses and polished them on the corner of her jacket. “That is serious. If the elven Emperor takes the Carpatian principality, Aternum will be turned upside down.”

  “I know, Mother. I’m told that because of this, a group has formed under one Ankel of Marahlagok, who refuses to hand the helm to the elven Emperor and favors an alliance with Hedonicia to safeguard the principality’s sovereignty.”

  “Ankel… That bastard is the very definition of corruption. Damn it,” the foundress hissed. “That’s practically a declaration of war. The Emperor won’t sit on his hands. God forbid it comes to that. Aternum hasn’t seen war in a hundred years, not since that horrific conflict—Hedonicia lost, the elves rose triumphant, and this damned empire has been swelling ever since.”

  The stout nun looked around again. “But Mother, if there were a war… do you know what that would mean?”

  “That we’d all be in the grinder, Sister Gelly,” the foundress said. “It would be more ruthless than the last—Hedonicia festers with hatred for the elves, and the elves have made a century’s worth of enemies with their conquests.”

  Sister Gelly—so the plump nun was called—pulled a face of understanding. “Well, yes, Mother. But strategically speaking… it would be an excellent chance to sell arms and raise funds for the mission.”

  The foundress pursed her lips, skeptical. “I don’t think that’s the wisest path. I know it’s an opportunity—but we’d profit on violence and death.”

  “We’ve done it before. We still have inventory under the mission—why not profit from the moment?” Sister Gelly said. “Those weapons would fetch a premium—nearly their price in Red Ore. And you know what Red Ore costs on this side.”

  “I know we need money, but I dislike that option,” the foundress said. “Besides, I want those weapons saved for a better occasion. And something worries me: if that Ankel has designs on the helm, his little throne may hit the market—and that means serious bids from parties on this side.”

  “Who, for example?” Gelly asked.

  The foundress glanced around. Santiago listened hard.

  “I can’t say,” the foundress murmured. “Someone like that has eyes and ears everywhere. From what I’ve been told by those in the know—a high and powerful lord of the North…”

  “What’s his motive?” Sister Gelly asked.

  Santiago sharpened his hearing so as not to miss a word. The train began to slow, then stopped. The doors slid open and the two women stepped out. Santiago watched them go, and when the train pulled away he stared at the lights whipping past the windows. An idea flashed through his mind like lightning. He decided to get off at the next station.