They were standing in the shelter of an archway. The soldiers of Thanakar’s guard had waited patiently in the rain, but as the two men talked, ragged men with rifles had started gathering at the bottom of their street, carrying some flag, chanting some slogan. A second-lieutenant of the purge had waited patiently at Thanakar’s side, nursing a cigarette. Now he came up and saluted. “My lords,” he said, “we can’t stop here. It’s too dangerous. It’s the festival tonight, in honor of the new saint. Starting at midnight. We’ll have to be at Wanhope Prison before then, sir.”

“B-but we are on a holy errand,” said the curate. “In Lord Chrism’s name.”

“Tell it to them.” The lieutenant jerked his thumb back down the street. The crowd had gotten closer.

One of their banners unfurled next to a streetlight. “October 47th,” it read. “A Festival of Faith.” Red letters on a white ground, and underneath, a phoenix rising from a nest of flame. In front of the crowd, a man and woman danced drunkenly, waving a jug. When they saw the curate’s red robes, they gave a shout.

“That’s it,” said the lieutenant. “Come on.” He set off up the street in the opposite direction. The curate followed. Thanakar tried to lag behind, but the other guards grabbed him, forgetting their manners in their fright. Some shots whistled over their heads.

The lieutenant led them cleverly, and in a few minutes they had outdistanced all pursuit. They rested and went on, but the streets around Wanhope Prison had been barricaded. The rain had gotten heavier, and they stood in the mud watching the flow of people past the checkpoint.

“Can’t we go on?” asked Thanakar. “I’m looking forward to a nice dry cell.”

The curate ignored him. He crouched down on his haunches next to the lieutenant, peering at the soldiers at the barricade. “Can you see their markings?” he asked.

“Plain red, sir. They’re parsons sure enough.”

“Yes, but what congregation? Can you see?”

“No, sir. It’s all one to me. We’ll go on.”

The curate fingered his jaw. “Well,” he said. “I-it should be. Things are so complicated since the proclamation. It’s hard to know.” He looked up at the night sky, shrugged, and stood up. “We’ll risk it,”

he said. “There’s not much choice.” Behind them, another crowd was gathering, singing drunken songs.

The barricade was a haphazard structure of wooden sawhorses and cinderblocks flung across the street.

Wires were strung between the houses, and bare electric bulbs burned from the tops of poles. Soldiers and priests stood under a corrugated iron shelter and warmed themselves before a bonfire. All around, the rain crackled and spattered as it hit the flames, the sugar igniting, the water putting it out. This uncertain balance made the air glow around their heads, and as Thanakar and the rest filed past the sentry box, the doctor heard a roaring in his ears. The curate stood behind him, nervously shuffling, and when he was close enough to see the man in the box, he swore and clutched the doctor by his knotted wrists, trying to pull him back into the street. But there were too many people behind them, and as the curate struggled back, soldiers crossed through the sawhorses on either side of him and plucked him out of line. They were soldiers of the purge, but Thanakar noticed that each carried an additional insignia pinned under the silver dog’s head on his collar, a sprig of lily of the valley made of paper and green wire, the bishop’s own symbol. Their officer wore a chain of it around his neck. He was a monk in the military order of St. Lucan the Unmarred, and Thanakar recognized him—Malabar Starbridge, second cousin to Charity and the prince, and a former patient. He was a small unmutilated man in a red uniform.