Esmenet had concluded as much almost the instant she had stepped into the blood-spattered antechamber earlier that night. She was going to be blamed for this. First the rumours of the White-Luck Warrior, then the Yatwerian Matriarch herself assassinated while a guest of the Empress. The bumbling preposterousness of it mattered not at all. For the masses, the outrageousness of the act would simply indicate her fear, and her fear would suggest that she believed the rumours, which in turn would mean the Aspect-Emperor had to be a demon …

This had all the makings of a disaster.

“We must make sure no word of this gets out,” she heard herself saying.

Each of the men save the Shriah averted their gaze.

She nodded, tried to press her snort of disgust into a long exhalation. “I suppose that’s too late …”

“The Imperial Precincts,” Phinersa said apologetically, “are simply too large, your Glory.”

“Then we must go on the offensive!” Imhailas exclaimed. Until this moment, the handsome Exalt-Captain had done his best to slip between the cracks of her Imperial notice, his eyes wired open by the certainty that he would be held accountable. The security of the Imperial Precincts was his sole responsibility.

“That is true in any event,” Maithanet said gravely. “But we have another possibility to consider …”

Esmenet found herself studying Sharacinth’s ash-grey bodyguard, quite numb to what she was seeing. The smell of corruption was already wafting through the hall, like sediment kicked up in water. How absurd was it for them to have this discussion—this council of war—here in the presence of the very circumstantial debris they hoped to bury? People were dead, whole lives had been extinguished, and yet here they stood, plotting …

But then, she realized, the living had to forever look past the dead—on the pain of joining them.

“We must ensure this crime is decried for what it is,” she said. “Few will believe us, but still, it’s imperative that an Inquiry be called, and that someone renowned for his integrity be made Exalt-Inquisitor.”

“One of the Patriarchs of the other Cults,” Maithanet said, studying the carpets meditatively. “Perhaps Yagthrûta …” He raised his eyes to her own. “The man is every bit as rabid as his Patron God when it comes to matters of ritual legality.”

Esmenet found herself nodding in approval. Yagthrûta was the Momian Patriarch, famed not only because he was the first Thunyeri to reach such an exalted rank, but because of his reputed piety and candour. Apparently, he had journeyed across the Meneanor from Tenryer to Sumna in naught but a skiff—a supreme gesture of faith if there ever was one. Best of all, his barbaric origins insulated him against the taint of the Shrial or Imperial Apparati.

“Excellent,” she said. “In the meantime, it is absolutely crucial we find this Psatma Nannaferi …”