Both men were Bellegerin riflemen. They hardly knew Captain Flisk and Forguile. But General Klamath and the First Captain had trained them well. They obeyed at once.

Ennis Forguile touched the cut over his ear; scowled at the smear of blood on his hand. It was an argument for which he had no answer. Muttering protests like groans, he let his guardians draw him away from the cliff and the black ships, the virulent sorcery, and the distant fleet.

Briefly, Flisk watched his friend go. For a few moments, he studied the black ships until he was sure that their violence was still concentrated on the bay’s obstructions. Then he returned to the camp to muster cannoneers for the medium guns.

Despite the loss of the long guns—despite the deaths of men and Magisters—he had one reason for gratitude. He still had enough experienced gunners to work all sixteen cannon—and enough riflemen to watch over them. He would not be forced to send boys down the terrace to die.

As for the Magisters, he had no intention of risking them again. When the ships came within reach of the medium cannon, they would be too close. Even a sorceress like Magister Brighten would not have time to sense a strike of lightning and counter it. The gunners would be completely exposed.

Chewing on his doubts, Flisk tried to believe that he would not lose them all. The enemy had never been fired on from the middle terraces. The ships might be unaware of those cannon. If so, the medium guns with their heavier balls would have a chance to wreak havoc before the Great God’s sorcerers could react. And ships near enough to be hit by sixty pounds of shot or chain might be within range of theurgy from the cliff’s rim. Then the bay’s lightning-wielders would be able to counterattack.

Heren Flisk clung to those possibilities. Without them, he could not commit cannoneers and soldiers to the third and fourth terraces. He did not have it in him to send men to certain death.

SEVEN

TRUTH BY ANOTHER NAME

Mattwil and Cloras were resting in one of the bunkhouses when they heard the call for riflemen to help search for Father Skurn.

Their refuge stood at the eastern edge of the encampment. So far from the cliff and the bay, it was little used. It and others had been added to accommodate everyone whom King Bifalt would commit to the defense of the bay. But those forces had not arrived yet. The Open Hand was too distant.

However, Mattwil had not chosen this shelter for its privacy. He had led Cloras there to avoid the coming battle. He had vowed that he would not fight. He meant to keep his word.