Gabriel flirted with various half-truths. Then he shook his head. “No. I mean, mayhap, if I survive, there will be some fiats from the throne. We need a set of concords. We know so much now; we need an agreement of all the races as to the defence of . . . everything. We need to build a structure of governance that will survive a thousand years and produce the soldiers and magisters to hold the gates without . . . becoming barbarians.”

“By Saint Michael the Commander of Paradise,” Du Corse said. “You are an idealist.”

“I am,” Gabriel said.

Du Corse nodded. “I’m in,” he said. “But then, you knew that.”

Gabriel chose not to answer. He needed Du Corse chained to him by chains of steel, but then, that was true of all the men and women he had to trust, and if Ash suborned just one . . .

He spent an hour he didn’t have instructing three very untrained Gallish mages, if mages they could even be called. None of them wanted to allow him access to their rudimentary memory palaces; in each case, Gabriel performed the kind of reconstructive work that Harmodius had invented when dealing with Mortirmir. He left them with simple structures that were solid, and he left them with the ability to build a competent shield. A golden shield. And he lectured a small legion of priests who were less than enthusiastic.

“Don’t try to face the Necromancer with an army,” he told Du Corse. “These three can buy you minutes. That’s all.”

Du Corse cursed. “Can you give me a magister?” He laughed nastily. “I told the king we needed mages.” He looked back. “I’m going to have trouble with the church. The rumour is that you are about to fight the Patriarch of Rhum.”

“I’m not going to face him in person. But he’ll cease to trouble us, one way or another. He’s in league with the Necromancer.” Gabriel considered what he knew from Kronmir and frowned. “Or at least, with someone.”

Du Corse pulled on his pointed beard. “Now, how do I know that?” he asked.

Gabriel thought of a number of responses. He shook his head. “You don’t. But I do. I’m sorry, messieurs, but we are at the point here where every throw of the dice must be as close to rigged as I can make it, and my empire is really a house of cards balanced by your trust in me, and nothing else.”

Du Corse smiled. It was a nasty smile. “I know,” he said.

His smile was feral, and yet, in response, Gabriel had to grin back.

“How does it come, Majesty, that with the fate of the world in the balance, the hands shaping the defence of humanity are such rogues?” He smiled. “I include myself.”