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Dedication

To Bujold, Heinlein, Chalker, Norton, Pratchett, Cherryh, and Dick, for showing me this world existed.

CHAPTER

One

Draped in beggar’s rags and leaning on a cane, Jean-Claude lurked at the entry to Three Brick Alley, awaiting his quarry. Loose strips of transparent linen covered his eyes, and his face itched under layers of the best stage makeup alchemy could provide. He’d been here through the tolling of an hour, precious time slipping through his fingers. Apprehending a shape-shifting spy was not something one could jot down on an agenda, but he had only one day left to manage it.

Passersby went about their business, steering well clear of the blind and stinking beggar. Jean-Claude trusted that his young co-conspirator, lurking in an even narrower alley across the way, had not become distracted. She had proven herself a professional despite her tender age.

The chatter on the street rippled, like a herd of cows muttering to one another at the scent of predators nearby, a swift rumble of noise and then watchful silence.

From up the street came a surly mob of Last Men, a particularly desperate breed of doomsday cultists. Young, lean, and angry, they wore long feast-day robes, but went with hoods thrown back to display shaved heads tattooed with row upon row of saintly icons, each one defiled. Their leader had a disfigured omnioculus—the Builder’ eye, blind and bleeding—emblazoned on his forehead.

Jean-Claude stumbled from the alley wheezing, “Alms for the blind.” He held out a tin cup and blundered headlong into the nearest tough. The cultist fell, Jean-Claude collapsed backward on purpose, and “accidentally” barked the leader’s shin with his cane.

“Filthy whoreson!” the leader growled. “Break his legs.”

His bodyguards stepped in to give Jean-Claude a kicking.

“Builder bless,” Jean-Claude said, holding up his hands defensively and rocking wildly. “Builder bless. I mean no harm.”

“The Builder’s dead, vermin.” The mob piled on Jean-Claude, punching and kicking, blows that would leave bruises but no worse thanks to his failing to be a easy target. Jean-Claude wailed quite piteously.

“Stop!” came a high, shrill voice. “Please stop! Don’t hurt my papa!” A young girl, somewhere between eleven and thirteen squeezed through the press of men, fell to her knees, and covered Jean-Claude with her body.