“That all . . . inbound traffic . . .” Maria turned and asked a question in Qwethnethog.

“All inbound traffic enters through that gate, and all outbound goes through this one,” Tancreda said triumphantly. “Listen; it’s not luck these gates are so close . . .”

Gabriel had passed through irritation and annoyance to amusement, but now his attention was fixed. “Brilliant,” he said to Tancreda.

Mortirmir looked at his wife with something very like adoration. “I didn’t think of that,” he said.

“I did,” Tancreda snapped. “So any army coming through—”

“Comes in behind us,” Gabriel said.

The Quazitsh were all talking, their lightly taloned hands flashing at increasing speeds.

“Gate of Dragons?” Sauce spat.

“Once, long ago, dragons came through this gate. They say it should not be possible. But it happened. They fought a great battle with Odine. No one here remembers it.” Maria shrugged. “He says it was a Qwethnethog legend; that the Quazitsh took this place from the Qwethnethog so long ago that the weather has changed. He’s telling me some legend. I cannot understand one word in three.”

Gabriel’s mind raced. But after a moment, he shrugged. “We know nothing,” he said. “We have a plan, and we will stay with it. Ask him why one of the jewels is broken.”

Animated conversation.

“He is trying to tell me another legend. Sire, this is like someone asking me to explain the Bible.” She looked frustrated.

“Try,” Gabriel said.

“He describes the leftmost setting as the least of places, a tiny outpost of his people. Not worth our time.” She was keeping her face serene, but he caught her meaning.

“His home perhaps?” Gabriel asked.

“He is very anxious to dissuade us from going there,” she said.

Gabriel nodded, looking at the three creatures and trying to read them.

“The next is a barren world, wasted by the wars,” Maria said.

“A whole world, wasted?” Sauce asked.

There was animated chatter from the smallest Quazitsh, the one covered in white tattoos or perhaps paint, narrow, angular strokes that looked to Gabriel like writing.

“They ask: How can we not know that most of the spheres are destroyed or ravaged by war?” Maria kept her tone neutral.

“By the blood of Christ,” Sauce muttered.

“And the next?” Gabriel was adamant.

“A very rich place, held sometimes by the . . . now he wants to tell me it is undefended, almost easy to take and hold, with thousands of slaves. Or millions. I’m sorry, Sire; the words are the same.” Maria didn’t take her eyes off the three.

“Millions of slaves, and easy to take . . .” Gabriel smiled. “I’m sure they are telling the truth.”

“I am not,” said the translator.

“We have some notes, too, my lord,” said Lucca, who was standing by.

“And this place?” Gabriel asked, pointing to the red jewel closest to the black hole.

Agitation, obvious hesitation, and then an outburst.