It was an illusion still; the houses were too wet to burn except where the fire had first started. That day the bishop’s council had imposed a curfew, and every shrine had announced the news that the church would confiscate the families of rioters, looters, drunks, or absentees. Nevertheless, east, west, and south the highways were choked with runaways, running nowhere and taking their families with them. In most cases they went prematurely, fire and flood still miles from their houses. But their minds were prey to rumors from their great-grandfather’s time, and his great-grandfather’s, and every spring since the birth of Angkhdt. Every spring, fire and water had destroyed the city. Panic was in the smoky air. Strange sights and miracles were reported. As the purge hurried Thanakar along the street, he saw an adventist preacher in the middle of a seething crowd, announcing some new and catastrophic portent of the second coming. Beside him stood a flagellant, naked to the waist, whipping himself till the blood ran down his shoulders. The torches shone on his dull, stupid face. All around, factions of heretics struggled in the mud: rebel angels, adventists, deserters, sodomites, spies. Beating great drums, dupes and agents of King Argon Starbridge marched under an effigy of the dog-headed prince. That at least would bring out the purge, thought Thanakar, but there was not even a policeman watching. His own guards hid their badges in their cloaks and kept to the shadows and the smaller alleyways.

“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.”