“You were in Khandar with the mistress, weren’t you?” Auriana said.

“I was with the Colonials there, yes,” Marcus said carefully.

“She has told us about you. You fought to bring us our sacred texts.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Here,” Auriana said.

They were walking down a long gallery, with more archways on both sides. Auriana indicated one of the left, and Marcus peered inside. There was a closet-sized space beyond, empty except for a pair of candles and a massive steel tablet propped against the far wall.

Marcus’ breath caught in his throat. The last time he’d seen one of those tablets, they were hidden in a nightmare temple under a mountain in the Great Desol, two thousand miles away and a lifetime ago. The light playing over the deeply incised runes on their surfaces brought back memories of smoke and fire, of corpses with glowing green eyes lurching through the darkness to rend and tear, of magic that screeched like knives on glass and blasted solid stone to fragments. Of looking down the sights of musket at Jen, beautiful and terrible, wreathed in sorcerous power, and pulling the trigger.

Not that it was worth a damn. Musket balls had been no more effective than mosquito bites. They’d survived thanks to Ihernglass, who’d somehow acquired a power from these very tablets. They were the treasure Janus had gone to Khandar to find, his other secret weapon. The Thousand Names.

He’d known they were somewhere in the city, but he’d done his best to put them out of his mind. Demons and sorcery, he’d decided, were above his pay grade, no matter how high that pay grade ended up rising. Leave that sort of thing to Janus.

But Janus was in the League, and the Names were here in Vordan.

“I was there,” Marcus said. “But I’d rather not talk about it.”

“As you will,” Auriana said. “Come with me. The mistress is waiting.”

At the far end of the gallery was another archway, blocked off with a curtain. Auriana pushed through, and Marcus followed her into a somewhat larger room. Here someone had made an effort to make the raw stone chamber more comfortable—lamps shed a bright, warm light, and overlapping carpets underfoot cut the chill. A half dozen sleeping pallets clustered against one wall, and a pair of portable writing desks of the sort Marcus had used in his army tent sat against the other. Small cushions were scattered everywhere, mounding up in the corners. In the center of the room a young woman sat, eyes closed, hands folded in front of her, breathing slowly and deliberately.

“Mistress,” Auriana said diffidently. “Colonel d’Ivoire is here.”