“My companion and I will shortly venture into deepest Darkness on behalf of blessed Armes and his church,” Harathes elaborated, sticking his chest out. “I was hoping that, while our mistress seeks a blessing from the Potentate, we might also receive the benediction of the church. Is there any chance you could send one of these for a priest—a senior priest?”

Her hard expression might have softened a little. “I understand,” she told him. “I am myself the head of the Ordo Scriptian, as the Potentate’s secretary always is. I suspect I will be quite senior enough for you.” There was a hint of a smile there, although Harathes suspected it was about as much smile as she ever allowed herself. She had a formidable presence to her.

Some words about whether a merely clerical priest would suffice or whether he wanted one of the warrior orders bubbled about in his head, but his common sense jumped them and kicked them down again, because plainly this woman was very important indeed. Of course those who served the Potentate were themselves senior in the church. It made perfect sense to Harathes that one way of showing importance was to have other important people performing menial or tedious tasks for you. Perhaps that said more than all the gilded archways in the world.

“Cyrene,” he called. The archer looked over from the window, glanced to see if Dion had made a reappearance, and then stared at him blankly.

“We are to be blessed,” Harathes told her. “We need all the help we can get, after all, given where we’re going.” And what we’re having to do, to get there, he added silently.

She looked briefly surprised, but then nodded. “That’s good thinking,” she agreed. He knew she was no congregation regular, but they, all of them, for their own reasons, were doing Armes’s will and were reliant on his protection. Dion’s radiant power had saved them more than once, and where they were going it would be the only light in a very dark place. Having the approval of the church personally vouchsafed to them by a powerful priest would be an added measure of protection.

“So,” Cyrene said, striding over, “how does this work?”

“Well… ,” the secretary started, but Harathes coughed to draw her attention, and put in, “Actually, given the unprecedented nature of our mission, I was hoping for something specifically tailored for us.”

“Hm.” The old woman did not seem approving, but at the same time was not discounting the possibility. “Do you want me to send someone to the archives to find an appropriate form, or…?”