Gabriel pulled at his beard. “This is incredibly fascinating,” he said. “But of no use whatsoever. “Gate one, Quazitsh. Gate two, unknown. Gate three, something we probably don’t want to find, since it was where our host wants to send us. Gate four, a world wasted by the Odine. Gate five, destroyed.” He shrugged. “I’m going to assume that Al Rashidi’s source only thought of this as having four gates. And that he counted from left to right.”

“Widdershins?” Sauce asked.

“Ifriquy’an,” Pavalo put in. “Yes.”

Gabriel nodded, and then inserted his key and turned it once.

The gate grew, if anything, darker.

“Ready?” he yelled, and a trumpet sounded: the two-minute warning. A falconet was brought up, the company closed ranks; women finished a sausage and dropped the rest into a purse; men thumbed the edge of a handy dagger and adjusted a sword belt. Arrows went to bows.

Morgon Mortirmir raised a shield of pure golden ops. “You expect the gate to be contested?”

“I expect every gate to be contested,” Gabriel said.

Mortirmir nodded.

Gabriel flexed his left hand. This world, despite its snow, was rich in potentia.

He turned the key, a soft click.

The gate opened.

A powerful, warm smell of seawater permeated the cave.

A narrow path of sand extended off into the light of four great moons. Black water lapped the ridge of sand from both sides. Traces of embankment and road could just be made out.

“Nowhere for an ambush to wait for us,” said Tancreda.

“Under the water?” spat Sauce. “By the Virgin. All our armour will rust. Alright, my children, on me. Let’s go!”

Sauce led her banda out into the darkness. They went forward at a trot, the horses a little spooked by the water but clearly delighted by the warmth.

“What are we doing with the Quazitsh?” Michael asked.

“We’re taking them with us,” Gabriel said.

Maria bowed. “The priestess wants to take . . . me. To her home. To negotiate.”

Gabriel nodded. He was watching the green banda press forward.

“I’ll think about it,” he said. “Atcourt!”

Ser Francis appeared at his side.

“We can’t afford to wait. I’m going with Sauce. Six lances, your choice, now.” He waved at Woodstock. “Ataelus. Oh God, he’s dead.”

Gabriel stood there a long moment, considering how many people were dead, and how he missed a horse, and then he shook it off. “Get me . . . a good horse.”

Woodstock brought him a big bay stallion, who was instantly interested in one of the sultan’s mares. But he was a genial fellow for a warhorse, and Gabriel mounted. Then he reconsidered, dismounted, and sent for Ariosto.

“Never mind, Francis,” he said. “I’m tired.”

He walked through the gate. Mortirmir and Tancreda were already there.

“It’s remarkable,” Mortirmir said.

“Aethereal?” Gabriel asked.

“Capable. Not robust,” Morgon said. “We are really very lucky at home.”