If there was anything less likely to produce results than asking pointed questions in Oldtown, Maurisk didn’t know it. Unless it’s relying on idiots to make decisions. Zacaros’ only usefulness was in the loyalty he inspired in his men and his willingness to obey orders.

“More important,” Maurisk said, “do we know what they took?”

“It’s not clear,” Zacaros said. “Nothing of military importance.”

“I’m not worried they stole a cannon. Was there anything there that could compromise us?”

“Possibly. Copies of some messages, perhaps—”

“Messages are to be destroyed once encoded!”

“The clerks may have been . . . lax. But it seems likely the attackers were surprised before they had time to investigate.”

“Likely.” Maurisk drummed his fingers on the desk. There was only one decision he could possibly make, one throw of the dice that might produce success, but still he hesitated. Damn, damn, damn. I need more time.

“I—” Zacaros began.

“Shut up. We’re moving up the timetable.”

The Patriot Guard commander blinked. “When?”

“Now. Tonight.”

“That’s not possible,” Zacaros said. “We need time to prepare—”

“You’ve had weeks. If you’re not ready now, you never will be. All the orders are already printed. You only need to hand them out. If the enemy—whoever they are—knows about the warehouse, they’ll know everything soon enough. This is the only chance we have to still achieve surprise.”

“But—”

“Don’t forget it’s your head in the noose, too.” Maurisk smiled nastily. “Or possibly the Spike. That bastard Durenne has always been fond of poetic irony.”

Zacaros swallowed, swiping his hand over his scalp and further disrupting his hair. After a moment, Maurisk saw his eyes harden in decision, and he straightened to his feet, coming to the best approximation of military attention his overweight frame could manage.

“As you say. I’ll make the arrangements at once.”

“I want regular reports.”

“Of course.” Zaracos nodded again. “If you’ll excuse me?”

He went to the door without waiting for an answer. Once he was gone, Kellerman looked in.

“Sir? Can I—”

“A drink.” Maurisk waved the empty bottle.

“I believe that was the last bottle of the flaghaelen, sir.”

“I don’t care what kind. Just get me a goddamned drink!”

“Yes, sir.”

Maurisk leaned back in his chair and settled in to wait.

*   *   *

Three hours. Three hours to go from despair to euphoria.

It had little to do with the indifferent white wine Kellerman had scrounged up. Maurisk had stared into his glass, imagining his orders fanning out across the darkened city, thinking of everything that could go wrong. Zacaros could betray him, or simply bungle the job. The Patriot Guard might balk, in spite of all their careful preparation. The Radicals might be more prepared than they seemed. The Beast of Judgment might appear in Farus’ Triumph to proclaim the End of Days. Waiting.

And now . . .