Twist grunted. From the rare words he’d spoken so far, Wren had gathered he favored simply attacking Vhalnich to end the danger quickly. Twist always preferred the direct approach to any problem.

“So we kill Ihernglass,” Wren said. “Then retrieve the Thousand Names?”

The Liar nodded.

“Well enough.” Wren got to his feet. “We’ll have to send word to Elysium.”

“There is a conduit in Desland. Well hidden. The Vordanai will not have found him,” the Liar said. “Are you finished, Twist?”

Twist grunted again, tamping down the earth with the back of his shovel. This far from the city, out in the woods, the old man’s body would never be found. Wren closed his eyes and sent up a silent prayer; even heretics were human, after all. He did not bother with a matching prayer for himself or his companions. They had all chosen damnation the moment they spoke the name of a demon, and weighed against that monstrous sin, any other crime against God was paltry by comparison. All that remained was to make certain their lives in this world served His interests sufficiently to counterbalance the loss of their souls.

A Demon Lord. Wren was human enough to feel a bit of curiosity, even anticipation, at the prospect. No matter how powerful Ihernglass’ demon was, it was unlikely to threaten three trained Penitents, but the thought made Wren’s pulse quicken a bit nonetheless. I hope he can at least put up a fight.

*   *   *

THE DIRECTORY OF NATIONAL DEFENSE

Johann Maurisk, President of the Directory of National Defense, stared at the crystal decanter on his desk. It was one-third full of a thick, golden liquid, Hamveltai flaghaelen brandy, whose price had risen from merely expensive to unobtainable now that the war had begun. When he’d started his day, that decanter was full, as it was every morning in accordance with his strict instructions. He’d had one glass, a couple of fingers, no more, and yet here it was, nearly empty.

Someone was stealing it. Someone on the Hotel Ancerre’s staff, most likely. The manager bowed and scraped obsequiously, but Maurisk had always found his protestations of loyalty suspect. Clearly, he was harboring a nest of traitors, right here in the headquarters of the Directory. The thought made Maurisk’s head swim. Traitors everywhere.

He reached for the decanter and splashed a little more brandy into his glass, then settled back in his chair with a grin. Well, we know how to deal with traitors. Sarton’s Spike was operating with metronomic efficiency. One or two more traitors wouldn’t tax it.

“Sir?” Kellerman said, standing by the door. “They’re ready.”

“Send them in,” Maurisk said. “Let’s get this over with.”