‘Just do as you’re told, Parok,’ Milanis snapped. ‘Don’t bore me with all these tedious protests and racial slurs. Don’t make any blunders here, old boy. His Majesty’s report to the ambassador has already been written. All he requires is an excuse to send it across town.’

A servant entered with a flagon and a tray of wineglasses, and Ulath took advantage of the open door to slip from the room. It was going to take a while to round up Tynian and Bhlokw, and then they were going to have to compose a fairly extensive message to Aphrael.

After he had slipped out of the house, however, Sir Ulath very briefly indulged himself. He leapt high into the air with a triumphant bellow, smacking his hands together with glee. Then he composed himself and went looking for his friends.

The black-armored Sir Heldin returned to rejoin Patriarch Bergsten at the head of the column.

‘Any luck?’ Bergsten asked him.

Heldin shook his head. ‘Sir Tynian was very thorough,’ he rumbled in his deep basso. ‘He winnowed through the ranks of the Pandion Order like a man panning for gold. I think he took just about everybody who can even pronounce the Styric language.’

‘You know the spells.’

‘Yes, but Aphrael can’t hear me. My voice is pitched too low for her ears.’

‘That raises some very interesting theological points,’ Bergsten mused.

‘Could we ponder them some other time, your Grace? Right now we have to get word of what happened in Zemoch to Sparhawk and Vanion. The war could be over by the time Ambassador Fontan’s messengers reach them.’

‘Talk with the other orders, Heldin,’ Bergsten suggested.

‘I don’t think it would work, your Grace. Each order works through the personal God of the Styric who taught them the secrets. We have to get word to Aphrael. She’s the one who’s perched on Sparhawk’s shoulder.’

‘Heldin, you spent too much time practicing with your weapons during your novitiate. Theology does have a purpose, you know.’

‘Yes, your Grace,’ Heldin sighed, rolling his eyes upward and bracing himself for a sermon.

‘Don’t do that,’ Bergsten told him. ‘I’m not talking about Elene theology. I’m talking about the misguided beliefs of the Styrics. How many Styric Gods are there?’

‘A thousand, your Grace,’ Heldin replied promptly. ‘Sephrenia always made some issue of that.’

‘Do these thousand Younger Gods exist independently of each other?’

‘As I understand it, they’re all related – sort of like a family.’

‘Amazing. You did listen when Sephrenia was talking to you. You Pandions all worship Aphrael, right?’

‘ “Worship” might be too strong a term, your Grace.’

‘I’ve heard stories about Aphrael, Heldin,’ Bergsten smiled. ‘She has a private agenda. She’s trying to steal the whole of human-kind. Now then, I’m a member of the Genidian Order.’ He paused. ‘I was,’ he corrected himself. ‘We make our appeals to Hanka; the Cyrinics work through Romalic; and the Alciones deal with Setras. Do you imagine that in their misty heaven somewhere above the clouds these Styric Gods might now and then talk with each other?’

‘Please don’t beat me over the head, Bergsten. I overlooked something, that’s all. I’m not stupid.’

‘Never said you were, old boy.’ Bergsten smiled. ‘You just needed spiritual guidance, that’s all. That’s the purpose of our Holy Mother. Come to me with your spiritual problems, my son. I will gently guide you – and if guidance doesn’t work, I’ll take my axe and drive you.’

‘I see that your Grace adheres to the notion of the Church Muscular,’ Heldin said sourly.

‘That’s my spiritual problem, my son, not yours. Now go find an Alcione. Legend has it that Aphrael and Setras are particularly close. I think we can count on Setras to pass things along to his thieving little cousin.’

‘Your Grace!’ Heldin protested.

‘The Church has had her eye on Aphrael for centuries, Heldin. We know all about your precious little Child Goddess and her tricks. Don’t let her kiss you, my friend. If you do, she’ll pinch your soul while you’re not looking.’

There were a dozen wobbly ox-carts this time, all heavily laden with beer barrels, and Senga had recruited several dozen of Narstil’s shabby outlaws to assist him in guarding and dispensing his product. Kalten had rather smoothly insinuated Caalador and Bevier into the company.

‘I still think you’re making a mistake, Senga,’ Kalten told his good-natured employer as their rickety cart jolted along the rough jungle path toward Natayos. ‘You’ve got a complete lock on the market. Why lower your prices?’

‘Because I’ll make more money if I do.’

That doesn’t make sense.’

‘Look, Col,’ Senga explained patiently, ‘when I came here before, I only had one cart-load of beer. I could get any price I asked, because my beer was so scarce.’

‘I guess that makes sense.’

‘I’ve got an almost unlimited supply now, though, so I’m making my profit on volume instead of price.’

‘That’s what doesn’t make sense.’

‘Let me put it this way. Which would you rather do – steal ten crowns from one man or a penny from each of ten thousand men?’

Kalten did some quick counting on his fingers. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Now I see what you’re driving at. Very shrewd, Senga.’

Senga puffed himself up a little. ‘It never hurts to think long-range, Col. My real concern is the fact that it’s not really all that hard to make beer. If some clever fellow’s got a recipe, he could set up his own brewery right here. I don’t want to get involved in a price war just when things are starting to go well for me.’

They had left Narstil’s camp at daybreak, and so it was mid-morning when they reached Natayos. They passed unchallenged through the gates, rumbled by the house with barred windows, and set up shop again in the same square as before. As Senga’s closest associate, Kalten had been promoted to the position of Chief of Security. The reputation for unpleasantness he had established early on in Narstil’s camp ensured that none of the outlaws would question his orders, and the presence of Bevier, patch-eyed, lochaber-armed, and obviously homicidal, added to his authority.

‘We ain’t likely t’ accomplish too much here, Col,’ Caalador muttered to Kalten as the two of them stood guard near one of the busy beer-carts. ‘Ol’ Senga’s so worried ‘bout some feller slippin’ by ‘thout payin’ that me’n you is tied down tighter’n a couple o’ dawgs on short leashes.’