“That hypocritical, double-crossing fucker,” Raesinia hissed. “After everything he said . . .” She trailed off, still feeling dazed. “What the hell do we do now?”

“Get back to Twin Turrets,” Marcus said. “Warn Janus.”

Part Three

The Directory For The National Defense

THE DIRECTORY FOR THE NATIONAL DEFENSE

Maurisk took up the bottle of flaghaelen with a shaking hand and tipped it over his glass. After a moment, a single amber drop ran down the side of the bottle, hung suspended on the rim for a moment, then splashed into the bottom of the glass. Maurisk stared at the bare smear of liquid, gritted his teeth, and shoved glass and bottle aside.

There was a soft knock at the door.

“What?” Maurisk snapped.

“Zacaros is here, sir,” said Kellerman, from outside.

“Finally. Bring him in.”

The commander of the Patriot Guard had evidently taken the time to put on his elaborate, immaculate uniform, or else he’d still been wearing it in the small hours of the morning. Maurisk wouldn’t have put a bet either way. But while his gold lace was carefully arranged, his hair was askew, inexpertly tugged across his balding pate, and sweat coated his jowly face.

“President,” he said, with a nod. Zacaros refused to offer salutes to civilians, which Maurisk thought was rich from a man who’d been a banker only months before. “I got here as soon as I was brought up-to-date on the situation.”

“Really?” Maurisk said. “Then perhaps you can enlighten me as to the situation.”

Maurisk had received a private briefing—practically a scolding—at the hands of Ionkovo. And may demons hurry up and devour that smug priest. But it wouldn’t do to let anyone know that, least of all Zacaros. The commander of the Patriot Guard was a stupid man, but an ambitious one.

“Warehouse 192 was attacked by an unknown force,” Zacaros said. “Our riverboat was burned, and the assailants forced their way into the building through a hidden door and did some small damage to the contents. A skirmish apparently followed, and . . .” Zacaros paused. “The results are not clear. A number of bodies were found badly burned, as though they’d been doused in oil. All six of our men who were present were killed.”

That would be the work of Ionkovo’s associate. The Penitent Damned called her Cinder. It was a pity about the men guarding the warehouse; he’d chosen them specifically for their loyalty. But Ionkovo had warned that anyone who saw his agents at work would be eliminated, and Maurisk had to approve. As the old saying went, “Three men can keep a secret only once two of them are at the bottom of the river.”

“And have we identified these ‘assailants’?”

“No. There was nothing remarkable on the unburned bodies. I believe they were hired thugs from Oldtown, and my men are making inquiries.”