“Where are you taking me?” asked Thanakar. They had paused to let a mob of heretics go by, rough men in from some farm, aimless and determined, carrying pikes and sickles and a symbol Thanakar didn’t recognize, sheaves of cut grass hanging from the ends of poles. The curate knew it. He cowered in the shadows, making the sign of the unclean. “My God,” he moaned. “How many of them are there?

There’s not wood enough in all the world to burn them all. This month the Inquisition sat in shifts, even more since Lord Chrism made his proclamation. G-God help me. He’ll never, ever catch them all. Every one he traps has made a dozen converts.” The curate was a small man with a drunkard’s bloated face, a drunkard’s sniveling. “God help us all,” he said softly.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Wanhope Prison. I’m sorry, Captain. B-believe me. The case has been decided.”

“What about the other defendant?”

“The lady?”

“Yes.”

“Th-that was a mistake,” said the curate. “A cruel mistake. Since Chrism’s proclamation there have been more, I-I admit it. These are sinful times. I don’t judge you. With evil spread to such high places, how can ordinary men keep clean?”

“Is she still alive?”

The curate bit his lip. “N-no,” he said. “It was to be expected. She came from a proud family. Sister to a martyred saint.”

“A saint?”

“That’s what men say.”

“Rejoice at every death,” suggested the Starbridge catechism. Thanakar turned his face away. He too was from a proud family. “Were they burned?” he asked. The mob had passed, the street was quiet.

“Yes. N-no. I’ve said enough,” stammered the curate. “A man must be careful, since Lord Chrism . . .”

“Damn you, what proclamation?”

The curate opened his mouth, astonished. “Y-you haven’t heard?”

“I’ve been with the army.”

“Even so.” He seemed uncertain, then he spoke. “The bishop’s secretary . . . was . . . used to be . . .

Chrism Demiurge. Lord Chrism, now. He’s taken a new title, while confirmation is still coming from the emperor. The bishop’s been deposed.”

“What?”

“She’s to be burned, they say. Witchcraft.” The curate bent close. “They say she has a p-penis growing between her breasts. A man’s p-penis. Here.” He touched Thanakar’s chest. He was an alcoholic. He wore too much perfume not to be covering up some other odor. Thanakar turned away, nauseated. “He calls himself Lord Chrism,” said the curate, bringing his face still closer. “He’s searching for a wide appeal. Some of the adventists are already calling him a g-god.”

Thanakar laughed. “That’s heresy,” he said.

“He’s not responsible for what they say. In a weaker man, yes, I suppose it might be heresy. But he is a strong man. He has the council behind him.” He looked away. “It makes no difference. He was always the power in this city. It’s just a matter of a name.”

“And an execution.”

“Yes. P-poor child. A p-penis.”