“No,” Valyn replied, shaking his head. The shaman clearly had a tenuous grasp of imperial justice. “Adare didn’t burn anyone. Even traitors live under the rule of law in Annur. If Uinian was executed, he was convicted by a jury of the Seven.”

The shaman shrugged. “The priest is dead. Burned alive.”

“And you know this how?”

“I have watchers in your city.”

Valyn paused. It was unlike the Urghul to use spies. As far as the Kettral knew, the nomads were too disorganized, too indifferent to strategy and politics to manage much more than the occasional raiding party. Long Fist, however, was unexpected. He had managed to unify the Urghul, which meant he saw further or deeper than his fellow chiefs. Perhaps here, too, he was pressing the boundaries of tradition and custom. In any case, Valyn hadn’t heard a word regarding the situation in Annur, not since quitting the Islands. Even the shaman’s garbled intelligence was better than nothing.

“Where is Adare now?”

“Gone,” Long Fist said. “Disappeared.”

“Starting to see the pattern?” Balendin growled. “You don’t have to take my word for it. Il Tornja killed your father, then your sister. He ordered me to kill you, and he sent Ut and Adiv to take care of Kaden.”

“If il Tornja’s behind all this,” Valyn asked, trying to work it through, “why hasn’t he claimed the throne for himself yet? Why hasn’t he named himself Emperor?”

“Because he’s not fucking stupid.” The leach was cradling his maimed hand in his good one, but blood dripped from between his fingers. Valyn could smell it the same way that he could smell the leach’s mounting fear.

“Emperor,” Long Fist said quietly, exhaling the syllables in a slow wash of smoke. “It is, as you say, a name. A word. Nothing more. On the steppe we do not worship names, but your people are different. Perhaps il Tornja hides behind another word—regent—until his foes forget their opposition. On the steppe”—he made a curt, slashing motion with his hand—“it would not work, but among a soft folk obsessed with words, choosing the right word is nearly as important as doing the right thing.”

The shaman turned his attention back to Balendin, sucking slowly through the stem of his pipe as he watched the leach, then breathing out a slow cloud of smoke.

“And what,” he asked finally, “does Ran il Tornja want with my people? Why does he order these attacks against us?”

“I’m not his ’Kent-kissing confidant,” Balendin hissed, “but it seems pretty obvious.”

“Make it clear to me.”

“Legitimacy.”

Valyn stared at the leach, the pieces falling into place. Sanlitun’s political foes had often termed his policy with the Urghul appeasement. Since il Tornja’s elevation to kenarang, however, Annur had begun to take a harder position, fortifying the northern border, building new forts, even allowing strategic incursions over the White River.