Green Bridge, June 6th

Cyrus could see that there was more to the story that was happening around him. A great many events had transpired, to which he was not a witness. The questions whispered through his mind, out of any natural order. Some blade had pierced Merrily; whose blade? When? Something had mended the wound; what thing? How? Merrily had given Robert of Gorham’s rapier back to the man who was once Robert of Gorham—and called him ‘Father.’ Why? And something had killed Robert Franco—or whatever he called himself—who had seemed unkillable. Was it Merrily’s arrow shaft? Or the long, wicked knife of the man with the metal face? Whose blood was on his knife?

The answers were not his to see. He promised himself he would get some of them, at least, from Merrily, just as soon he could get an hour alone with her. But not now.

Now, Green Bridge was burning.

The flames were already high and hot in the neighborhood around the Cathedral of Saint Bob, roaring like monsters around Cyrus, Merrily, and Bishop Wildrick as they peered out of the broad oaken doors. Cyrus, who had never been near a great urban fire, was suddenly filled with panic—and in a flash understood the instinctive foundations that led to myths about dragons. The gouts and blasts of flame from the stricken houses leapt up into the sky as though some creature had breathed them out of the earth. Something drove him to understand why this could be, even as something else drove him to escape.

A crowd had gathered in the nave of the cathedral, drawn by the frantic pealing of the bells, high above them. They were men, women, children; dirty, scared, huddled together in the center of the dark space. Many were praying, prostrating themselves before the altar and its great, golden Unbroken Circle mounted high on the wall above. The light coming through the stained-glass windows was no longer a corpselike blue. It was hot, red, and full of deadly motion. Already the temperature inside the great stone building had risen.

“Bishop,” said Cyrus urgently, turning away from the doors, “we have to move these people out of here. It’s not safe in this building.”

Bishop Wildrick looked at him with some confusion. “The Cathedral of Saint Bob is stone, Professor,” he replied. “It will not burn. They will be safe here.”

“No, they will not be safe here,” answered Cyrus, loudly and sharply. “The walls may not burn, but the roof, the spire, and the interior wood will. I’ve read the account of the fire at Tarehoge Castle in Brasse, given by the single man who survived it. The floor will burn, and the doors, and the stairs. The lead tiles on the roof and the fittings for the windows will melt and drip down onto the people inside like a rain of fire. The air will be filled with smoke, and the lucky ones will choke to death before the flames reach them. If they stay here, these people will die—slowly, and in horrible agony and terror.”

The bishop’s face filled up with fear. “Where will we go?” he asked. “The city is burning.”

Cyrus thought for a moment.

“Farley Island,” he said. “It’s closer than the outer city walls, and the streets are broad. The fire is less likely to spread to the island, and if it does, the women and children can escape by boat.”

Bishop Wildrick quickly shuffled over to the large crowd and began shouting instructions. Cyrus turned to Merrily.

“He needs to reach William Hall,” he muttered. “Only Wildrick can stop Obilly’s execution now. Filtch may be dead, but the Crown will push on with the trial as long as Nicola Snugg demands it. But if Wildrick gives testimony to the Billies and is prepared to do so at the trial, the Queen will have no choice but to call it off.” He paused, thoughtfully. “I still don’t understand Snugg’s angle in this,” he ruminated. “Nicola Snugg doesn’t gain anything from the prosecution of Obilly Smallhat, but she’s set on it like paint on a canvas.”

Merrily looked at him steadily, drawing close. Her hair was a mess and her leather vest torn, but her eyes were bright and full of life again. She looked more alive than she had for the last year, in fact.

“She was one of us,” Merrily whispered. She nodded her eyes down, toward the catacombs.

Cyrus’s eyes widened, and he leaned his head forward incredulously.

“One of ‘us’? Who is ‘us’? You, and Hornhugger, and—and, I suppose, Maliss—and Nicola Snugg? Who else if ‘us’? And what did ‘us’ do?”

The flames roared outside. Embers and bits of ash were filtering down from the roof. Bishop Wildrick approached hastily with the crowd behind him. The bells had stopped ringing; brown-robed acolytes descending from the great tower had joined the throng.

“Now is not the time,” she hissed. “I have to go. I have to get to Jonathan!”

“Now is the time!” he retorted in anger. “I’m finished being put off answers! This cathedral can come crashing down on my head, but I need to know why Rolly died!”

The Bishop drew close.

“Will these people die as well for your curiosity, Professor Stoat?” asked the churchman.

“What are you talking about?” snapped Cyrus angrily.

“We need your help, Professor. I need your help. Both of you,” he added, turning his gaze to Merrily. “I know the way to Farley Island, and the congregation will follow me, but I am old, and the fire is hot. If I should fall, someone must lead them on to safety.”

Cyrus turned from Wildrick to Merrily, and then back. He could see the same torn frustration on Merrily’s face. He looked at the crowd of frightened people filling up the nave. He looked at the children. He looked up at the rain of ash drifting down from the ceiling.

“Follow me,” he said finally, gritting his teeth. She nodded her agreement.

✽✽✽

More people joined the crowd as they moved through the broad avenues. They shuffled forward quickly, keeping away from the edges of the street where the wooden houses were billowing smoke and flame. The heat was intense, and Cyrus wrapped his cloak around his head as a small protection.

But he refused to run; running would panic the crowd behind him and cause a stampede. More would die that way than from the flames. Instead, he strode forward calmly, projecting an air of patient confidence that, he hoped, would spread. Bishop Wildrick did the same to his right, and Merrily to his left. The other brown-robed priests followed their lead.

The Bishop carried a book of scripture with him, and read from it loudly as they walked. His voice was hoarse, but strong.

“The word of the Lord!” shouted Wildrick after the first passage.

“Thanks be to God!” responded the priests scattered in the crowd. Wildrick carried on with the next reading, his voice growing stronger, and the responses grew stronger too as the priests settled into a familiar pattern. Eventually the crowd began to join in, and the walk became a mobile service of worship, set against the backdrop of the angry heat and flames of the city around them. People fleeing the burning districts continued to join them, following the crowd’s example and settling into a steady march.

Cyrus was reminded of another march from the cathedral, two years ago. It had not ended, then, the way anyone had imagined. They were walking on now from where they had stopped, that night.

Thethrong made steady progress through the streets, and came to a part of the city where the fire had not yet spread. Cyrus unwrapped his face and welcomed cooler air, though it was filled with smoke and ash. Beside him, lit by the full moon, Bishop Wildrick’s face appeared pale and haggard. But he continued bellowing out the reading, looking down into the book and only occasionally raising his eyes to the street.

Glancing into the shadows, Cyrus saw in the moonlight figures moving through the side streets. At first he thought they were more refugees from the city, come to join their crowd. But then he saw they had torches, and carried naked blades. They were thrusting the torches into wooden houses, thatch rooves, and any other flammable surface they could find. He saw bodies in the street, as well; common folk of the city, and even some Billies, felled not by heat or smoke, but by crushing and stabbing wounds.

Cyrus turned to Merrily. “Arsonists,” he observed. “There are arsonists and murderers loose in Green Bridge.”

She nodded, her face a mask of agony.

“Is this ‘us’?” he asked her pointedly.

“No!” she exclaimed, turning to face him in shock. “Father—sorry.” She shook her head, as if trying to clear away some daze of confusion. “Robert wanted to save these people, not burn them to death. I don’t know who’s doing this!”

The sharp reports of gunfire began to echo from the darkness around them. Snugg’s mercenaries were out there somewhere.

Ahead of them, a group of men were setting fire to a building at the side of the street. There were six of them, and they bore torches and an ugly collection of bludgeoning and cutting weapons. Their clothes were dark and utilitarian, and they wore half-masks that covered their lower faces. Each man had a red armband on his right arm. As the fire caught and began to spread through the unfortunate structure, Cyrus saw that a family was escaping through a window in the back of the house. It would be trivial for the six men to spot them and kill them.

Cyrus shouted loudly, drawing the attention of the arsonists. The men turned and saw Cyrus, Merrily, Bishop Wildrick, and the crowd behind them.

Their eyes lit with fire and blood, the arsonists drew weapons and came on at a run. The people stopped and shrank back, and Bishop Wildrick ceased reading from the scriptures. He and the other priests gathered at the front of the crowd, standing with their arms linked.

Cyrus drew his broadsword, planting his feet firmly. Behind him, Merrily instantly unslung her bow, drawing and loosing an arrow in one smooth motion. One of the masked arsonists dropped to his knees, her arrow sticking out of his belly.

And then the men were on them. What they lacked in skill, they made up for in numbers and enthusiasm. The attackers swung their maces and iron swords at him quickly and furiously, forcing him to parry with his own sword and cloak. Cyrus was already tired from his struggle with Robert Franco, and his arm felt like lead.

But then Merrily was with him, dancing back and forth along the flanks of the small mob, stabbing at their unarmored backs with Robert’s rapier. She felled one, then another. Cyrus desperately parried a blow from a mace aimed at his head, kicking at the stomach of another man to his right. Merrily’s attack had drawn one of the assailants away, leaving Cyrus with just two to contend with.

Time is difficult to track in a fight, but they flailed at him mercilessly, and for what felt like an eternity he fought defensively, deflecting their blows and absorbing them with his breastplate as best he could. He maneuvered backward along the street, creating space as a defensive barrier. The light from the burning house behind him reflected in the eyes of the two men. They were wild, angry, exuberant. They were young and strong and fast as well. But Cyrus’s arms ached, and his legs ached, and his back ached. I’m getting old, he thought incongruously.

A glancing blow from the mace crunched into his side, beyond the protection of the breastplate, and he staggered in the other direction, crying out in pain. The other attacker slapped away his broadsword, which clattered off the cobblestones. Behind him, a gout of fire erupted from the burning house, roasting his back and forcing him to dive in the other direction. The two men followed after him, just as uncomfortable from the heat as he was. Cyrus rolled on his back, and one of the men raised his thick, heavy mace to bring it down on Cyrus’s head.

And then the point of the steel rapier emerged from his chest. He crumpled to the ground as the rapier was swiftly withdrawn, then made another appearance in the chest of his companion.

Merrily came up from behind the dying men and gave Cyrus a hand getting to his feet.

“You’ve learned from a true master how to stab a man in the back,” he remarked.

“Would you rather I’d let them crush your skull in?” she asked sarcastically. Her face was spattered with blood, and the rapier was dripping with it. Behind them, Bishop Wildrick was approaching again, and the crowd behind them. The bishop was chanting something about God smiting the enemies of the chosen people.

“Is any of that yours?” Cyrus asked, indicating the blood on Merrily. She shook her head, deep concern and fear creeping back into her face. He could read the concern clearly enough.

“Where is Jonathan?” he asked.

“He’s at the Snugg factor house, I think,” she replied anxiously. “He was going to leave tomorrow for Hog Hurst. Snugg is doing something up there that he’s supposed to take care of. I don’t know the details. But he’s… somewhere… nearby,” she trailed off. There were tears in her eyes.

Cyrus looked out again at the dim shapes of men in the darkness, torching the city in the night. He listened to the sound of distant gunfire. He looked back at the frightened faces of the men, women, and children standing behind them.

“Go,” he said. “I’ll stay with these people until they reach Three Fish Bridge. Go to Jonathan. Save him, if you can.”

She embraced him quickly, and started to turn back toward the crowd behind them. The Snugg factor house was in the opposite direction from their travel.

“But Merrily,” he added, catching her with his voice. “This is important. Find me, when you are finished. I need to know the truth.”

She smiled, and nodded. Then she disappeared back into the crowd.

Cyrus turned and caught up with Wildrick. The bishop gave him a sidelong glance.

“She left?” he said.

Cyrus nodded. “She’s gone to her husband,” he answered.

Wildrick sighed. “As it should be,” he said. “We should all die with the people we love.” He picked up the book and again began to read loudly. They walked on.

The road opened ahead of them into the broad space of Queen Anne’s Square. Here, two years ago, the young Queen had made her first public appearance in Green Bridge, convincing Bishop Wildrick and a horde of armed, angry religious zealots to lay down their weapons. Here they were today; the same bishop, many of the same people who had walked behind him then. They were walking behind him again.

And there, ahead of them, was the Queen.

She stood at the head of the bridge, dressed in her ceremonial armor. She was on foot, now; no horse should be brought near this much fire. The new crown was set on her steel helm, and a drawn sword was in her hand. Around her were a scattering of Billies and Snugg mercenaries, standing guard at the head of the bridge. At the edges of the square lurked other men and women, wearing dark cloaks and hoods. Each of these carried a torch and a steel sword, and the glimmer of a pendant could be seen on their necks or chests. Their postures showed them to be, at least for the time being, the allies of those guarding the bridgehead.

“The Advocates of Ash have joined the party,” muttered Cyrus to Bishop Wildrick. The bishop nodded, looking uncomfortable but saying nothing.

There were bodies in the square. Some of them were Billies. Some wore the armor and badges of mercenaries. Here and there was a dark-cloaked Advocate. But many of them—half, he judged at a glance—wore simple, dark, functional clothing. Their lower faces were covered with half-masks, and they wore red armbands. Hand weapons of all sorts were scattered among the fallen, as well as the torches of the arsonists.

Cyrus and Bishop Wildrick picked their way through the corpses carefully, the crowd following behind them. Cyrus could feel the eyes of the mercenaries, Billies, and Advocates watching him as they approached the young Queen. She stood, straight and tall, before him. Cyrus knelt quickly, dropping to one knee in an action that still felt somehow alien with two legs. Bishop Wildrick knelt as well.

“Rise,” she said, taking his hand and pulling him up gently. “These people—are they seeking refuge?”

He nodded. “We’ve come from the Cathedral. We picked up quite a few along the way.” He paused, and looked at her gravely. “Your Majesty, Captain Vigg is dead. He was killed by the man who murdered Rolland Gorp. Vigg gave a statement to Bishop Wildrick before he died that exonerates Obilly Smallhat, and Wildrick is prepared to swear to it at trial if necessary. The murderer himself is dead as well.”

Queen Anne’s eyes, visible through the face of her steel helm, widened in surprise. She turned to face the bishop.

“Is this true?” she asked. Wildrick nodded in confirmation.

At the edge of the square, the desperate shouts of men rang out, and the clash of arms. They all looked quickly in that direction; a group of the Advocates at the edge of the square were skirmishing with attackers wearing red armbands. Billies and mercenaries ran over to assist.

“Get these people over the bridge,” commanded Queen Anne, nodding at Three Fish Bridge behind her.

“Ma’am,” Cyrus said softly, “there are saboteurs about. Some of them may have joined this crowd. Are you prepared to defend Farley Island?”

She nodded. “The island is safe. Many of the Billies are out on the shoreside, trying to rescue who they can and confront the arsonists. But there are Advocates and mercenaries on Farley Island. The island is small enough that we can put down a fire, or a fire-starter, before it gets out of hand.”

Bishop Wildrick gestured for the crowd to follow, and started over the bridge. The mercenaries and Billies parted to let them pass.

“Thank you, Majesty,” said Wildrick hoarsely to the queen as he passed. “The Ecclesia will not forget this. I will not forget.” Anne nodded in return, but said nothing.

The great throng passed by and moved out over the long bridge, to safety on the shores of the island. The men and women bowed and curtsied in gratitude and respect as they filed past the Queen. Many faces were wet with tears.

Before he followed them, Cyrus moved out into the square, picking his way carefully over the bodies. He was looking for something, and he soon found it: a black-clad man with a red armband, badly wounded but alive, and struggling to breathe. Blood covered his chest; it seemed to be coming from a wound just below his heart. Cyrus knelt and gently pulled down the half-mask. The dying man gasped in air and looked up gratefully.

“Water?” asked Cyrus. The man gave a weak nod. Cyrus pulled out his flask and tipped a bit of it into the man’s mouth. He swallowed, then coughed. Blood came flowing out of his mouth.

“What’s your name?” Cyrus inquired.

“Francis Fipkin,” answered the man.

“Why are you and your friends burning the city, Mr. Fipkin?”

“We are burning… the old order,” he managed, his breathing shallow. “The People”—he said it with a capital P—“have been oppressed for millennia. They do not know what freedom is, so they resist it.” He coughed again and drew a breath. His voice steadied, and he seemed to put all his remaining energy into his words. “The Republic is freedom. It is the end of the old order of kings and merchants, and the beginning of a paradise of the People. It is the death of mystics and money, and the birth of equality and equity.”

“And you’re burning Green Bridge to deliver us all to paradise, are you?” inquired Cyrus sadly.

Fipkin smiled. “The old order must end before a new one can begin,” he answered.

“Are those your words?” asked Cyrus.

“No,” answered the man, shaking his head weakly. His voice was fading, and his eyelids were drifting closed. “I am nobody. Those are… words from a better man than… me.”

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“What better man?”

The eyelids closed, and Mr. Fipkin took a small, shuddering gasp.

“Hobb…” breathed out the revolutionary; and then he stopped.

Cyrus laid the man’s head down and rose to his feet.

He looked across the square, choked with dead and dying. Before him, Green Bridge was burning. Around him, the Advocates and Billies and mercenaries were struggling desperately with men in masks and red armbands. There was a smell of smoke and blood and gunpowder. He looked at Queen Anne, wearing her gleaming steel armor that shone with the reflection of pale, white moonlight. He raised his eyes to the full moon above.

There were no answers there. He shook his head and turned to follow the refugees over the bridge to safety.

✽✽✽

The fire burned itself out overnight, helped along by a rain that swept in from the west in the small hours. When morning came, a great haze of smoke and steam rose over the city, obscuring any view of the mainland. Farley Island, along with Triad University and the small cluster of government buildings, had been spared. But as the steam and smoke finally cleared in the late morning, and the rain clouds broke apart, it could be seen that fully three quarters of the landward districts of Green Bridge had been reduced to ash and charred wood. The great stone walls of the city encircled a ruin, lit incongruously by a warm, cheerful June sun.

The survivors crossed back to the mainland and began to pick through the sodden ashes of their lives.

Cyrus went immediately to the trade quarter, bringing Vicod Rayth with him. They found it a complete loss. The great warehouses of the majors had been reduced to charred rubble, including the new Snugg buildings that had housed their mysteries. But there was no trace of the wagon caravan, or Veridia and Marius. Veridia’s apartment was gone, and so was she. He visited the old warehouse near the walls, curious about the fate of the goblins she had sheltered there; but there was no trace of them either.

Eventually Cyrus just sat down in the ash-covered remains of a street, crossed his legs, and looked around in astonishment.

“Yesterday this was a city,” he said to Vicod, “and today it’s another planet. I’ve slipped out of the reality I knew and into one where nothing makes any sense.”

“We all have,” replied his friend. “Be thankful you have a home to go back to on the island. The people who survived, and who lived on this street, have nothing. What will become of them? Their belongings, probably their money, maybe some of their family—all gone. How does one start again with nothing? In Carelon, they would sell themselves into slavery in Ville Maer and give the money to their children. But you have no such market here in Uelland.”

“I don’t know how they’ll do it,” replied Cyrus, shaking his head. “But people find a way, when you let them. There are many strange creatures in this world, Vicod—goblins, fey, snarfs, snorls, those fish-men in the Gulf of Carelon, probably many more. They all have their strengths, and their deficits. But we humans make a specialty of resilience and cunning. If a man needs a thing, count on him to find a way, and doubly so a woman. And if there’s a profit to be made, count on either of them to find a way even faster. We’re a self-interested lot, and not overly burdened with rules. Call it greedy if you wish; I call it motivated.”

He stood up. “These people will find a way,” he concluded. “That is, if the Republic doesn’t come and hold a sword to their throats and tell them it’s not allowed.”

Then he gazed up at the tall stone walls nearby, and the small scattering of armed mercenaries patrolling the parapets.

“And that seems increasingly likely,” he added.

He began to walk back in the direction of the river, and Vicod walked beside him.

“My visiting post here at Triad has come to an end, you know,” remarked the Carolese professor. “I’m due to return to Patronage for the fall term.”

Cyrus looked at him in surprise. “Really? I suppose it has, and you are. You’ve become an institution at Peacock Hall, Vicod; I can’t imagine it without you anymore.”

Vicod smiled at him. “I would miss you too, Cyrus,” he answered.

They walked in silence for a time, looking at the ash and rubble. Already, small tents had begun to spring up, and people were clearing away spots in the ash. Food vendors from Farley Island had made their way into the squares, and there were long lines at their carts. He saw coins changing hands, or notes of small debts being written out. Groups of people were sharing the hot soup and bread that they had bought.

“Would you consider finding a reason to stay?” asked Cyrus as they drew nearer to the river. “History is happening right here, Vicod. This is what we spend all our lives searching for in Applied History—a moment when History needs some Application to make it come out right, and also for someone to write it all down as it’s happening so our grandsons and granddaughters can learn from our mistakes. Go back to your first principles; isn’t here where you ought to be?”

Vicod looked at him gravely.

“Queen Anne already asked me that,” he said gently.

Cyrus looked down, deflated. Queen Anne was a more persuasive asker than Cyrus Stoat.

“Well then,” he managed, choking down a lump in his throat. “We should have a going-away party at the Pinny Purse. When—”

“I said yes,” interrupted Vicod, a tiny smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

Cyrus looked up sharply at him, a scowl banishing the tears that had started to form in the corners of his eyes.

“You’re a cheap dramatist, you know that, Rayth?”

Vicod shrugged nonchalantly. “We all have our hobbies,” he answered. “But in truth, I will be leaving for a time. The Queen has appointed me as a special envoy to the mercenary guilds. I’m to go out and find fresh soldiers in Carelon and Brasse, then bring them back here to relieve Green Bridge.”

“‘Relieve’… Vicod, I’m not sure if you’re aware, but when you’re talking about military conflicts, ‘relieve’ is what you do when you bring an army to lift a siege on a friendly city or fortress.”

His friend nodded gravely. “Indeed. And I must depart immediately. Keep this in confidence, Cyrus: The Republican Guard is marching north from Roosterfoot. They will be at our walls in a week, or perhaps less. I must be gone before the city is placed under siege.”

They reached the landward side of Three Fish Bridge.

“We’d better have that going-away party at the Purse after all,” Cyrus declared. “Meet me there at sundown. Right now, I’m going to go and get a goblin out of jail.”

✽✽✽

The release of Obilly Smallhat was accomplished with very little fuss. Queen Anne had left instructions that he be turned over to Cyrus’s care, and the Billies seemed eager to be rid of their long-term guest. Cyrus was led promptly to his cell, and Obilly packed up his few possessions, saying little. It was not customary for goblins to embrace each other, but Obilly did shake Cyrus’s hand gratefully in the human fashion.

“Thank you, Cyrus,” he said. “I was right to trust you in the Gray Kingdom.”

“What will you do now?” asked Cyrus.

“I am going back to my home,” replied Obilly. “I have heard that King Simon has not been found. They will need people who can think clearly and make good decisions. And… I think it is not wise for goblins to live in Green Bridge. Not yet. We tried, but neither of our peoples are ready for that. It is better that we live apart, and trade, and learn from each other. That is why I think the most good I can do is in the Gray Kingdom.”

Cyrus nodded. “I’ll miss you, Obilly,” he said. “I hope you will write to me. And… I would like to come and visit the Gray Kingdom, and teach some classes. Alice Miller is lucky to have such good students in her care.”

“I hope there is a Gray Kingdom for you to visit, Cyrus,” answered Obilly. “I will go and find out, and try to help keep it from falling apart.”

He began to walk down the hallway, away from Cyrus.

Cyrus thought of something, and called after him. “If you find out what happened to King Simon,” he said, “write to me. I should like to know. He was a friend.”

Another piece of the story that I’m missing, thought Cyrus to himself. He added it to the lengthening list.

“All mysteries will be revealed in the end.” The words were spoken by a man’s voice coming from down the hallway. Cyrus looked in that direction; it came from the cell that housed Gregory. He walked to stand before the barred door.

Gregory looked the same. He wore the long brown robes of the Ecclesia, but without the Unbroken Circle pendant. His cross-and-circle was missing; the Billies must have taken it. But he otherwise looked healthy. He even still carried a bit of extra bulk on his large frame. The cell was empty save for a bed, but surprisingly clean.

“Greetings, Professor,” said the churchman calmly.

“Greetings, Traitor,” said Cyrus. Then he paused and took a deep breath. “Sorry. That was unkind. Hello, Gregory.”

Gregory smiled at him. “It’s alright, Professor. I’ve been called far worse lately; and I am a traitor. I pleaded guilty to the charge last week.”

Cyrus shook his head. “I will never understand the motivations of religious conviction,” he remarked with exasperation.

“You might surprise yourself one day,” answered Gregory, with a twinkle in his eye. “Or perhaps not. Faith is a choice, after all. But it is a choice that can be made for a variety of reasons, some better than others.”

“When will the… judgment… be carried out?” Cyrus asked.

“My execution? Four days, I’m told. On the eleventh. In light of my confession and apology, the Queen agreed to forego the usual drawing and quartering. I’m to be beheaded.”

“That’s merciful of her,” remarked Cyrus. “They had the Second Prophet up on a cross for six hours, if you believe the scriptures. Have you finished your writings?”

“No,” replied Gregory. “I haven’t been allowed writing materials. But I’ve had a great many conversations with my friends, and they tell me they’ve written them down on their own.”

“Good lord, what a mess that will be,” said Cyrus. “Three different accounts of your story, written by three different people? If your religion takes off, the little differences will get blown up into massive theological debates, and people will end up killing each other over them. It could only be worse if you’d somehow gotten four of them to write it down separately, a generation later, based on accounts from people who were there for different parts of the events.”

“Yes,” agreed Gregory with a smile. “You’ve read the Second Testament, I see.”

Cyrus shrugged. “I’m a historian. Studying the madness of the past is part of my job. It’s how we fix our mistakes.”

“Perhaps Cyrus Stoat will be my fourth chronicler, then,” said Gregory cheerfully. Then his face grew serious. “Before you leave me, Professor, let me ask something of you. My friend, Miss Borson, is very fond of you. I hope you will find it in you to forgive her deception in bringing you to me at Weisseberg. She did what she thought was best, in the hope that it would be better for you in the end. Forgive her, Cyrus. The only grace we have is the grace we give each other.”

Cyrus stared at him, and was silent for a time.

“It sounds like you’ve finally come up with a Commandment, Gregory. Well done. My accusation in Weisseberg, that your religion is without principles, is answered.”

“That is not a commandment; it’s an observation. Ash has only one Commandment.”

“What is that?” asked Cyrus.

Gregory drew near the bars and looked at him gravely.

“If it harms none, do as you will.”

✽✽✽

In the days that followed, Cyrus spent much of his time alone. He read his students’ exams and graded them. He forced himself to read Maliss’s and Hornhugger’s exams, and he graded them just the same as the others. They were excellent. He sent them by post to their families.

He spent many hours looking at Rolly’s Hexastrid, and poured his thoughts out to it. It was a good listener. He decided that it was now his own Hexastrid. He moved it to the window ledge, where it could get more sun.

Merrily was absent. He had no word from her, and in his walks around the ruins of Green Bridge he did not see any sign of her. In a city of shattered lives, she was one more gone. As her sponsor, it was Cyrus’s duty to expel Merrily from Triad University for truancy. He ignored his duty.

Gmork returned to him, to his great relief. The little goblin was dirty and hungry when he showed up, and had no good explanation for his long absence, but Cyrus didn’t care. He resisted the urge to hug the little grayskin, and instead brought him two whole pies from Bastings Hall.

✽✽✽

The next day, the eleventh of June, was the execution of Gregory, Traitor of the North. But before the execution, Cyrus Stoat had two visitors.

The first was a six-inch tall woman. She was a Northern Lesser Snarf, in fact. Her hawk landed on the open window in his office, next to the Hexastrid, drawing Cyrus’s attention with a fierce screech. He turned around in the chair and, seeing the tiny saddle and reins on the bird, stood up politely and knelt down to address its rider at eye-level.

The rider was wearing brown mouse-leathers and a tiny cap and goggles. Her features were chiseled and thin, but similar in proportion to a human. A six-inch lance, bright and sharp, rested in a cup at the side of the saddle.

“Greetings, madame,” said Cyrus.

“Greetins’, Cyrus Stoat,” said the little person. “Ye’r Stoat, ain’t ye? The big-folk gave a good account o’ this buildin’ and where yer officer were, but it’s haird ta’ tell from th’outside which room is which.”

“Yes,” he confirmed, “I am Cyrus Stoat. Can I get your mount some water? I’m afraid I don’t have any rodents handy.”

“Aye, t’would be most gracious o’ ye. Don’t much care ta’ dip down t’tha river ‘round ‘ere, as most o’ ye’ big-folk ain’t used to seein’ us.”

Cyrus filled a saucer with water from a jug he kept on hand for tea, and set it down by the hawk. Its rider slipped off its back and turned to face Cyrus.

“I’m Dilly,” she said. “I come ‘ere wi’ messages from my folk. They’re known ta’ ye, I think?”

Cyrus nodded. “Indeed. I met several of your leaders, and I would call Daven and Devi friends. They were both brave and kind to me and my companions. I was very sorry to hear of Devi’s death. But Daven did well to reach an agreement with Rufus Snugg on the use of the valley.” He didn’t mention it, but that agreement had been very profitable for Cyrus Stoat as well.

“Aye,” replied Dilly. “T’was an awful loss when Devi went down. But I dinna fly all the way down ‘ere ta’ speak o’ the dead. Me main purpose is ta’ see Queen Anne wi’ messages from Daven, an’ I’ll do tha’ soon enough. But ‘e asked me ta’ come see Cyrus Stoat as well, an’ give ‘im a message.”

“Very well. What message does Daven Dingeholt have for me?”

“T’ain’t from Daven directly. ‘Tis from yer friend, Professor Weaselbeer-Yourfork. Quite a mouthful, that ‘un; I’ll ne’er unnerstan’ why ye humans pick th’ names ye do. Anyways, the Prof, she says this: Thar’s enemies comin’ to Devi Valley. Big ‘uns; bigger’n Rufus Snugg an’ his crew kin handle. ‘T’ain’t likely ta’ end well for the ‘umans, she says, an’ if ye’ve got any desire ta take a last look at the tunnels an’ ol’ whatnots tha’ th’ Snugg fellas have found in thar, then now is th’ time. She ain’t finished diggin’ out all them ol’ books, not by a long stretch.”

“What kind of enemies?” asked Cyrus, looking at her sharply.

The snarf’s face was grave. “Yer Prof friend, she ain’t wrong. I’ve seen ‘em, on scoutin’. Big, giant man-folk things. Bigger’n the biggest o’ you big folk. An… somethin’ else.” Her tiny voice grew softer. “A flyin’ thing, we’ve seen. We snarfs don’t ‘ave a word fer it, but I’ve ‘eard the Snugg fellas callin’ it a ‘dragon.’”

“And you’ve seen this… dragon?” he asked incredulously.

“Aye. Didn’t get close, but I’ve seen it. Great big lizard, flyin’, long tail. Whatever ye calls it, it’s trouble fer th’ Snugg folk.”

“What about your people?” he asked. “Will they flee?”

She looked down.

“There’s some of us as already ‘as. Made fer Refuge. Don’t know fer sure what the Council will do, but if we was bettin’, I’d put two mice on we’ll end up join’n ‘em right quick.”

Cyrus sat back on his feet.

“Thank ye Dill—er, thank you, Dilly,” he said. “I’m grateful for the messages. I won’t keep you from the rest of your duties.”

The snarf woman nodded, and hopped back on the hawk.

“Good flyin’, Cyrus Stoat,” she said. “Yer a friend of our folk, whate’er we may think o’ the Snugg fellas. If I were ye, I’d stay well away from the valley.” And with that she shook the reins, and the hawk flew away from his window.

Cyrus sat at his desk and thought that over for some time. But then the bells began to toll in the small tower above Bastings Hall, and it was time to go to the execution of Gregory, Traitor of the North.

✽✽✽

Cyrus stood still among the raucous crowd. He was alone; Vicod had professed no interest in an execution, and Cyrus didn’t want Gmork to see it. The whole business had less humanity than he’d expect from humans.

There was an angry buzzing around him as the people stood in the square beneath the June sun. Cyrus had read some accounts of executions that portrayed the event in a festive light—food sellers and musicians and jugglers, people laughing and joking as if they were going to watch some exotic play. The reality was far different. The people who had come here today were ready to see a man’s head parted from his body; to hear the two dull thuds of the sword and the skull. They had worked themselves around to seeing moral sense in the severing of arteries and bones, and the extinguishment of a thinking mind. People in this state are not joyful. They have cobbled together an idol of righteousness out of whatever anger they can find at hand. It must be this way, or the event is an atrocity.

The buzz turned to shouts near the doors of William Hall. Cyrus could not see Gregory now, but he could see the motion of the people around him. The ripple spread slowly as its target moved away from the Billies’ home, and then Cyrus saw the little procession.

Four Billies stood around the condemned man, more for his protection than to propel him forward. Gregory walked quietly, his hands bound before him. Already, by the time Cyrus saw him, he was bleeding from the head; he had been hit by rocks thrown from the crowd. Refuse and filth were being flung at him as well, by enterprising citizens who had brought buckets of rotten food and excrement for this purpose. His brown robe was stained and filthy, and his beard dripped with some unpleasant substance.

“Traitor!” they screamed. “Shame! Filth!” And there were many more words far less flattering. The priests among the crowd screamed louder than any. On the platform at the edge of the square, Bishop Wildrick stood to the right of Queen Anne. He did not shout or scream, but his posture was stern, righteous.

As Gregory passed by Cyrus, he turned his head, and their eyes met. Gregory’s face showed fear, confusion, resignation; his body swayed with the impacts of missiles from the crowd. And yet—in his eyes there was peace. Recognizing Cyrus, Gregory smiled gratefully.

“Run,” he said. The word was plainly audible above the cacophony.

And then his steps took him on—on and toward the large platform at the edge of the square.

Cyrus looked down. He felt ashamed. He felt his right leg again, squeezing it to see if it was real. It was—solid, intractable, undeniable. Run? What did that mean? Cyrus looked around. There was nothing to run from. He stood still.

Gregory reached the platform and began to ascend the steps. A large man with a hood and a great cleaver waited for him at the top. There was a little wooden block there, with a hole cut out for his neck.

Cyrus couldn’t watch. He looked away.

“Gregory!” came a clear, ringing woman’s voice. It was Queen Anne’s voice. “You have admitted, before a court of law and a judge of my bench, to the crime of treason!” The angry susurrus of the crowd was rapidly extinguished as every ear strained to hear the Queen.

Cyrus was looking into the crowd, away from the platform. And then he saw her.

Merrily.

“You gave aid and comfort to an enemy who sent armed soldiers to wrest the sovereignty of Uelland from its rightful monarch!” continued the queen.

Merrily was standing in a group of unremarkable, angry people. She was wearing her black leather vest, and her bow was over her shoulder. She was looking around, as if searching for something. Cyrus began moving toward her through the hushed crowd. His way was tangled with onlookers who glared at him. He pushed through, ignoring their resentful looks.

“You gave information to the White Knights that led to the death of men and women and children of this Kingdom in the village of Hog Hurst!”

Run. The word rang in his ears. He began pushing through the crowd more aggressively. And then he was standing in front of her.

“Merrily!” he exclaimed, ignoring the Queen’s litany behind him. Her eyes locked on to his. They were puffy and red, and her hair was disheveled. There were streaks of tears on her face.

“Cyrus,” she breathed in recognition. Her shoulders collapsed a bit, laying down some burden that he couldn’t see.

“Cyrus,” said another man near her. He turned. The man was dirty, unshaven, and had a haunted look on his face. The eyes were a bright, shocking blue. A young boy of perhaps twelve years stood next to him. Cyrus looked closer at the dirty man.

“Frederick?” he asked in surprise. “Frederick née Halfhouse?”

“Just Frederick,” said the man. “It’s just Frederick now. It’s good to see you, Cyrus.” His face was drawn and haggard; there was pain and weight behind those blue eyes.

“What are you doing here?” demanded Cyrus. “You were in Uellodon with my—with—” he struggled with the words. “—with Wigglus,” he concluded lamely.

“I know he is your son, Cyrus,” said Frederick. “He knew too, at the end. Mari wrote to him.”

Cyrus stared at him.

“What do you mean? ‘At the end?’”

“He is dead, Cyrus,” answered Frederick. “Wigglus is dead. He died when the judges and lawyers marched to Palace Naridium. He gave his life so that I could escape with Leeland.” Fresh tears stained the dirt and grime on Frederick’s face.

Cyrus struggled, and failed, to absorb this. It was too much. Wigglus wasn’t dead; this could not, could not, could not possibly be real. Frederick née Halfhouse was not standing here in Green Bridge telling him that his son was dead.

He fixed his attention on an utterly irrelevant detail.

“King Leeland? You escaped Uellodon with the King of Uelland?”

Frederick shook his head. “No. Not King Leeland. Prince Leeland.” He nodded at the boy next to him.

Cyrus looked down. He scrutinized the boy’s face. He was tow-headed, and rather plain.

“I would like to go to my mother,” said the boy.

Leeland’s mother was standing on a platform at the other end of the square, preparing to oversee the execution of the man who had given Cyrus back his leg.

“I’m going to check out now,” said Cyrus confidently. “This is too much. It’s too much for one man to carry. Well—anyway, it’s too much for me. I shall be in my room, gibbering madly to a potted plant. Berble-berble-berble. Gibbering. Goodbye…”

Merrily slapped him, hard. The people in the crowd looked at them in irritation, but neither Merrily nor Cyrus paid any attention.

“Shut up, Stoat,” she said. Her voice was soft, but sharp.

“Who do you think—”

“Shut up and listen. Somewhere under that ridiculous breastplate is the old Cyrus Stoat, who always knew what to do. He always had the right answer. I looked up to that man, because he was smart and wise and cunning and better prepared than anyone else, and never let the world turn him around, and never tried to kiss me. He’s still in there. This cripple you’ve become is someone else, but you need to find the real Cyrus Stoat. Right now. I need him. I need him, Stoat.” She shook him by the collar.

Cyrus wobbled his head in confusion. He looked at Merrily. Deep in those emerald green eyes was something… something Gray…

He turned to Frederick.

“Take the Crown Prince to his mother,” he instructed. “After the execution. Be quiet. Don’t make a scene. Hobb probably has people here. Go to the Billies in William Hall, and tell them that Cyrus Stoat was right about Obilly Smallhat and they’d better listen to you too.”

Frederick, looking at him in astonishment, nodded mutely.

He turned back to Merrily. “Will you help me?” he asked. She smiled in response.

“Daisy is in the stables at Bastings. Go and get him saddled. Get yourself a horse. The Billies should have one or two hanging about. They’ll take orders from you, apparently. Tell them to put it on the account of the College of Applied History; the Dean can take it up with Queen Anne when he finds out about it.”

He thought for a moment longer.

“Get a donkey as well,” he added. “I’ll meet you at the east gate.”

“Where are you going?” she asked. There was a fire lit in her eyes; it was the old Merrily.

“I’m going to get my manservant,” he answered. “Er. Goblin-servant.”

“Where are we going?”

“We’re going to Devi Valley. And when we get there, we’re going to save the lives of my son, and his mother, and anyone else who gets in my way.”

He looked back at the platform. The Queen was plodding bravely through her recitation of Gregory’s crimes.

Run, his voice said. Run. Run. Run.

Cyrus ran.

✽✽✽

The next day found them riding into the sunrise, already far from Green Bridge. Whatever had become of Gregory, Cyrus was not a witness. He rode on the black charger Daisy; Merrily on her bay palfrey, Winston; Gmork on a stubby little donkey. Their saddlebags bulged with supplies for the long road to the valley.

Despite the pain and sorrow, they chatted gaily and smiled. It was right to be on the road again. When there were tears, the tears came and flowed freely, and then they laughed again.

Daisy was restive beneath Cyrus’s thighs. He snorted and pranced back and forth in the dawn’s light.

“Easy, boy,” said his rider, soothing the old horse with a gentle pat on the neck. “Easy now. It’s a long way to Devi Valley. There will be rough ground once we leave the farms in the north. Save your strength. Anyway, you old crowbait, we both know you can’t run.”

Daisy reared suddenly, and Cyrus clung to the saddle. He seized the reins and yanked hard. Gmork and Merrily looked at him in astonishment.

“Daisy!” yelled Cyrus. “Whoa!”

But the old warhorse had had enough of limping. He seized the bit in his teeth, stretched out his muscles, and ran.

For eight years, Daisy had not run. He had walked lazily, walked deliberately, walked while ponied to a wagon, walked with terrible violence through fields of carnage—but he had walked. Now he ran. His legs stretched, and his heart thumped, and the flaw in his hip—that had ended his career in the Heavy Horse, and had made him a friend of Cyrus Stoat—was gone. Ever since a strange man had come to his stable last night and laid hands on him, it had been knitting together again. He had felt it. And now it was healed.

Daisy ran.

Cyrus had learned to be astonished at the insanity of the world, and so he simply held on. Behind him, Merrily and Gmork spurred on their mounts, following after him. Cyrus would let them catch him in time. But for now—they ran, he and Daisy.

The three riders–man, woman, goblin—galloped their mounts into the sunrise, rolling swiftly over the long miles to the valley.

✽✽✽

They camped that night. Even a miraculously-healed horse cannot run all day and night, after all. As Gmork prepared a simple stew, and the stars winked down at them in the endless expanse of the night, Cyrus looked shrewdly across the fire at Merrily.

“There’s a great deal you haven’t told me, Merrily Hunter,” he observed. Daisy munched noisily at his oats behind them, and the fire popped.

She nodded. “There’s a great deal you haven’t told me, Cyrus Stoat,” she replied.

“You first,” he said. “Why did you call Robert Franco ‘father’? Where did you disappear to this winter? And how did you end up at Gregory’s execution with Frederick and the crown prince of Uelland?”

“Well,” she said.