“Of course you didn’t, Vash. You are my trusted servant.” The autarch smiled suddenly, a flash of white as bereft of kindness as the bite-grimace of a canal shark. “You worry too much, old fellow. My gaze is everywhere. I am aware of how loyal my subjects are, and especially of what my closest servants do and think.”

Vash swayed a little—too little to notice, he prayed—and wished he could sit down. The autarch was hinting at something again, surely. Was it the remark the new Leopard captain Marukh had made? But Vash had not agreed with him—in fact, surely he had upbraided the man! But it was also true that he had not gone straight to the autarch to report the man’s treasonous impertinence.

If I denounced every man who chafes under our new autarch’s rule, he thought desperately, the autarch’s strangler would die of overwork and the Orchard Palace would be empty of anything except ghosts by year’s end.

He bowed his head, waiting to find out if he would live another hour.

The autarch lifted his hands before his eyes, frowned again as he examined his finger-stalls. “I am wondering if I should wear the ones made in the shape of a falcon’s talons,” he said. “In honor of the upcoming fall of Hierosol. What do you think, Vash?”

The paramount minister let out a silent sigh of relief. Another hour, at least. “I think it would be a suitable honor to your ancestors, especially…” He paused, determined not to say anything troublesome, but could see no problem. “…Especially your great ancestor Xarpedon, who carried the Falcon all across Xand.”

“Ah, Xarpedon. The greatest of us all—until now.” He looked up as a servant stepped silently through the curtained doorway and stood, head lowered, waiting to be recognized. “Yes?”

“Favored Bazilis is here, Golden One.”

“Good! You may step aside, Vash.”

The paramount minister moved through the ring of attendants toward the cabin wall, and wound up standing next to the golden litter of the scotarch, a gilded conveyance only slightly smaller than the autarch’s own. Crippled Prusus peered out of the litter’s window like an anxious hermit crab. Vash nodded to him—a formality only, since everyone knew the scotarch was simpleminded and did not notice such things.

Leaning back against his throne, Sulepis waved for the eunuch to be sent in. Bazilis entered a moment later, grave and immense in his robes; it took him some time and a great deal of rustling of fabric to abase himself at the autarch’s feet.

“O Master of the Great Tent, blessed of Nushash…” he began, but was silenced by the stamp of Sulepis’ sandaled foot.

“Shut your mouth. Where is he? Where is the prisoner?”

“Out…outside, Golden One. I thought you would wish to hear of my…”

The autarch kicked out. The eunuch whimpered and fell back. He crouched and looked up at his master in fear, his hand rising to his face where blood already welled from his lip. “Get him,” the autarch said. “I am waiting for him, you fool, not you.”