Phoran nervously caressed the stack of parchment on his bed. He had already carefully organized it, placing the one that would make his first bid for power fifteenth down. Far enough down that many of the Septs would have relaxed their guard, but not so far that they would have quit listening entirely.

A light tap at his door made him take three quick steps away from the bed. Then he realized that the bed was an odd place for formal documents, so he ran back, snatched them up, and placed them on his writing desk. He wouldn't want anyone to think that he'd spent all day and most of the night going through them. Most of the Septs would think that he was merely tormenting Douver, the council secretary: everyone knew that Phoran couldn't stand the worm.

The quiet tap sounded again. "Your Highness?" said the guard who stood his watch at the door to the Emperor's bedchamber. "My lord, Avar, Sept of Leheigh, begs entrance."

"Avar?" Phoran said distractedly. Now that he thought of it, the writing desk was an odd choice as well. He couldn't remember ever actually sitting at it - something Avar would have noticed.

"Yes, Your Highness."

"Yes, yes, let him in." It was too late to change anything anyway.

The door opened and Avar made his entrance. "Phoran," he said as soon as the door was closed behind him. "I've been looking for you since yesterday afternoon. Did you really take all the proposed laws and run off with them?"

Surprisingly, Phoran didn't have a prepared reply. He hadn't even thought about what Avar would say. Not that he didn't care - but it didn't seem as important anymore.

Avar misread his hesitation.

"Not that you didn't have every right to - but you might have warned someone you intended to take a closer look. It wasn't necessary to give poor Douver an anxiety attack."

Phoran found himself smiling. "Wasn't it? You'll have to forgive me if I've forgotten that I could have just called the things into my review. I suspect everyone else has forgotten as well."

A frown chased itself across Avar's perfect brow. "What are you up to, my friend?"

"Do you know anything about the Secret Path?" It was an impulsive question born of years of trust, blind trust he was no longer certain he felt. But even after the question left his lips, Phoran didn't regret it.

"The secret, secret club that everyone knows about?" asked Avar with a grin. "Where a bunch of young hotheads go to pretend they are villainous Travelers? My brother, Toarsen, and his tagalong, muscle-bound friend, Kissel, belong to it."

Phoran walked back to his bed and perched on the end, offering a nearby padded bench to Avar with his hand. "Tell me everything you know."

"Does this have something to do with taking the proposals?" asked Avar as he availed himself of the offered seat and leaned back against the wall.

"I don't know," said Phoran truthfully.

"Well then." Avar put his head back and relaxed. "They choose young men of noble blood when they're fifteen or sixteen and induct them in some sort of secret ceremony. They don't pick a lot of boys - no more than five or ten a year. I don't know what they do at the ceremony - but my brother carried bruises from it for a week or more. The people they choose are usually the ones who are... well, problems for their families."

He looked at Phoran a moment, then sighed. "I know they had something to do with that mess last year when some young thugs destroyed the weavers' market. I saw Toarsen coming home in the wee hours of the morning, dead drunk with a hatchet in his hand. I should have said something, but" - he shrugged ruefully - "he's my brother."

"Do you know any of the older members?" asked Phoran. "The Raptors?"

"Some," answered Avar with a quick grin. "The ones my brother gripes the most about. The council leader - the Sept of Gorrish is one of them and Telleridge is another. My father was - I think that's how my brother was selected."

Phoran closed his eyes and thought. "Didn't the Weavers' Guild file a complaint against Gorrish just before the market was destroyed? They dropped it because he was instrumental in getting funds to help them rebuild it."

"You're right," said Avar in an arrested voice. "I never thought to look for a deeper motive. I've always thought of the Secret Path as a game for boys who are at loose ends."

"I have heard that you cannot be an heir to a Sept and belong to the Path," said Phoran.

"Gorrish's father and three older brothers died in the plague that hit the Empire about twenty years ago," said Avar. "He's not the only younger son who has inherited." He smiled. "My own father was a second son."

Phoran had a terrible thought. Maybe it was because he'd just spent the night talking to a bard that he'd thought of the old story of the Shadowed. How the first magic the Shadowed had loosed was plague. Maybe it was all the talk of magic - or maybe it was his current affliction of Memory. "How many of those second and third sons, or cousins who inherited a Sept were members of the Path?" he asked.

"I don't know exactly - I was about four at the time, Phoran. The younger sons who inherited unexpectedly... oh, Seal Hold, Telleridge, Jenne, and a few others. You aren't going to tell me that the Secret Path is responsible for the plague, are you?" Avar shook his head. "A lot of people died, Phoran. Most of them weren't Septs with heirs who happened to be members of the Secret Club."

"Doubtless, you're right." Phoran smiled and changed the subject. "I am calling a Council Seating for tomorrow," he said.

"You are?" asked Avar, surprised into insult.

Phoran smiled at him grimly. "It may have become usual, since my uncle died, for Gorrish to call the Seat, but it is the imperial prerogative he uses. I am calling it, and I'd like you to deliver the messages. See if you can convince them that it's just a silly whim of mine - that I said something about being bored."

Avar stared at him for a long time, then nodded his head. "I'll do that. Tell me what time you'd like to meet."

The Memory came again that night. Phoran waited impatiently for it to finish. At last the cold tongue licked the puncture wounds clean and the Memory gave him the usual offer.

"Were you a Traveler held by the Secret Path?" Phoran asked.

"Yes," it said and was gone with its usual abruptness.

Pale and a little dizzy, the Emperor went to his closet and pulled on a robe. With only a little caution - because the Path's rooms were in an obscure corner of the palace - Phoran made it back to the bard's cell with little trouble. He found Tier's door unlocked, but when he went in, Tier lay unmoving on his bed and nothing Phoran could do would awaken him.

Phoran took up a seat on the end of the bed and stared at Tier's face - but other than being a little pale, he seemed healthy enough. At last Phoran arose unhappily and returned to his suite.

When Tier awoke, he knew they'd come for him again, though his last memory was of settling in to play a bit of music after leaving the party in the Eyrie. He moved and the lute tucked beside him dug into his ribs.

He sat up with sudden anxiety and inspected it for any damage it might have taken. He found something that could have been a new scratch on the finish, but nothing that would impair its use. He settled back against the wall with a sigh of relief. His head throbbed, his body ached, and his mouth was uncomfortably dry - but the lute could not heal itself.

He hugged the lute against his body.

What was it that they did to him?

Someone knocked on the door. Tier gathered himself together and stood up.

"It's dinnertime, sir," Myrceria explained after he'd opened the door to her. "I can have food brought to you, or you can eat in the Eyrie with the Passerines." She hesitated, then said, "You might have noticed that your movements have been restricted unless you have an escort. I was told to inform you that you now can move freely around most of the rooms used by the Passerines. If you'd like to wait and go alone, you may do that also. Food will be provided at any time upon your request."

He stood up slowly, but the movement seemed to help some of his aches and pains. "By all means," he said with as much charm as he could muster over his fading headache. "Let us go to the Eyrie."

The room was almost full to bursting. When Tier stepped inside, the dull roar quieted as the young men all watched him. Like a duck who had the ill luck to drop to earth in the midst of a pack of wolves, Tier thought with amusement.

Food of every description was spread out on the bar for the taking. Tier, following Myrceria's example, took a wooden platter and began filling it. When she led the way to an unoccupied table he followed her.

He ate without seeming to look up, but his peripheral vision was very good. He saw the boys' cautious approach.

The first to arrive and sit at Tier's table was a tall boy, too thin for his height. Before he opened his mouth, Tier knew a few things about him. The first was that he was a loner. The Passerines, he noticed, tended to travel in packs, and there was no one moving with this boy. The pads of his fingers were calloused from instrument strings and in one of those calloused hands was a large case.

He sat down beside Myrceria and put the case on their table in the place of the food dishes that an efficient servant had just whisked away.

"You said last night that a Bard could play any instrument," he said. "Try this one."

"What's your name?" asked Tier. He ignored the shuffle as a number of young men pulled up stools and benches to listen in on their conversation; instead, he kept his eyes on the case as he undid the various hooks that kept it closed.

"Collarn," said the boy. "I am an assistant at the Imperial College of Music. What do you think?"

The challenge in Collarn's voice was such that Tier wasn't surprised to discover that the case held an instrument he'd never seen before. He coaxed the thing out of its close-fitting case and scooted his stool back so that he could rest it on his lap for a closer look.

It looked somewhat like a lute, he decided, but it was squarer and deeper-bodied. There were tuning pegs, but the strings were hidden inside the body. Below the pegs it had two rows of buttons on the side.

On the side was a - "A handle?" Tier said, and turned it. At once an odd, penetrating, grinding sound issued from the bowels of the instrument. He grinned in delight.

Tier tilted his head and closed his eyes, turning the handle again. "It's like a violin," he said. "Or pipes. What do you call it, Collarn of the College of Music?"

"It's a symphonia. There's a wheel-bow inside that turns with the handle."

Collarn had obviously come to flummox the Bard - probably for usurping his place as the Passerine's musical entertainment, but he shared Tier's love of music too deeply not to fall into a discussion with someone willing to explore the possibilities of his obscure instrument.

Tier hid his smile - he liked Collarn, and the boy obviously took himself too seriously to enjoy a laugh at his own expense. After trying several positions, Tier shifted the symphonia until he could turn the handle with his right hand and touch the buttons on the side with his left.

After a moment he managed a simple melody - but he heard the possibilities of much greater things. The instrument was louder than his lute, making it a good choice for performing outdoors or before a large audience. A pair of strings played the same note continuously like a bagpipe's drones, lending a sonorously eerie accompaniment to the rest of the notes that changed at the touch of his fingers on the buttons.

Tier stood up and handed the instrument to Collarn. "Would you play something for me?" he asked. "I'd like to hear it played by someone who knows what it can do."

The boy was talented - though his grandfather's old friend Ciro could have taught him something about softening the straight rhythm Collarn held to when the song wanted to fly.

Finished, the boy looked up, his face a little bright. "That's the only song I know on it. We have no music written directly for it. The masters at the college don't think much of the instrument - it's an odd thing someone brought to the college a dozen years ago."

"May I try it again?" asked Tier, and the boy handed the symphonia over.

"The piece you played" - Tier played a bit, deliberately more hesitant than Collarn had played so that he didn't rob the boy of his performance - "is something written for violin. It's a good choice, and plays to the instrument's strengths."

"I can do it better on a violin," said Collarn. "There's no dynamic range to the symphonia." He grinned and the sweetness of the unexpected expression reminded Tier of Jes. "It just doesn't do quiet."

"Bagpipes are like that," said Tier. "You might try piping music."

He fell silent and searched the instrument for range and effect. When he turned the handle at just the right speed and the instrument added a buzz to its already odd sound, Tier stopped and laughed outright.

"I can see why your college masters have a problem. It's just a bit brash, eh? A little boldness isn't necessarily a bad thing." He hummed a little tune under his breath. "Let me try this..."

He knew he had it right when the toes of the boys nearest him started moving. When Collarn took a small silver penny-whistle out of his pocket and added a few runs, it made Tier think of playing with the old men in the afternoons at the tavern in Redern. He played through the song twice - the second time his fingers found their own way as he looked around the room at all the young faces.

He'd come here this afternoon to gather information, and instead he'd gained a friend. Speculatively, Tier's eyes fell on a promising young man who was using the haft of his knife to tap out a rhythm on a tabletop.

Tier knew about recruiting young men.

Phoran was deliberately late going to the Council chambers. He wanted them to gossip, to fret. If Avar had done as he asked, they would be more annoyed than worried.

The Emperor stopped before the door, took a deep breath, and nodded to the chamberlain to announce him.

"Rise for the Emperor Phoran, may his reign never cease!"

If it doesn't ever begin, thought Phoran, can it ever cease?

Silence fell in the room and Phoran strode leisurely through the doorway, followed by the young page he'd chosen for his small size to make the stack of parchment the page carried look even larger than it was.

Phoran himself was in his most glittering, gaudy clothes - clothes that had caused his valet to mutter about street whores. Phoran had started out to wear a more conservative outfit - but he'd decided that would send the wrong message. He didn't want to announce, Look! I've changed for you. He wanted to force them to acknowledge him emperor on his own terms.

His hair was curled, and his face was powdered paler than any court dandy. A small blue star painted beside his eye matched the glittering blue and silver stars embroidered on purple velvet portions of his costume.

He didn't hurry, forcing himself to keep his appearance languid while the impatience of the Septs grew almost palpable. At last he reached the place reserved for the Emperor. A thin coat of dust covered the inlayed surface of his podium, where he gestured for the boy to set the parchment before waving him off in the general direction of Douver, the council secretary.

The page relayed the message he'd been given and the secretary looked up at Phoran incredulously. Phoran stared back, doing his best to look neither nervous nor smug as his page rejoined him.

Douver cleared his throat. "Septs of the Empire. I call a general roll so that His Glory the Emperor shall know who attends this meeting. Each Sept will call out as I read his name." He took up a paper and Phoran made a show of removing the top sheet of parchment, which was a copy of the clerk's.

In the end, twenty-four Septs were absent. Phoran was careful to mark each of their names with a stylus while the council watched. Everyone in the room knew that at least eighteen of those named were in the palace.

"Thank you," said Phoran graciously, and without a speech or any further delay, he picked up the first of the proposed laws. "The matter of the trade agreement between the Septs of Isslaw and Blackwater is declared to be Imperial Law."

He set the first parchment to one side and picked up the next. By the tenth parchment the Septs began shifting uncomfortably in their seats - except for Avar, who sat in his chair with arms folded across his chest, and stared at Phoran thoughtfully as Phoran continued his show.

Phoran took the fifteenth parchment and read, "For his services to the Empire, the Sept of Jenne is to be awarded the land from Iscar Rock to the eastern field of Kersay Holm in a path no more than ten miles wide."

He looked up and found the Sept of Jenne in his usual place in the council. "So, what service did you perform for the Empire, Jenne?"

The man he'd addressed stood up. A contemporary of Phoran's father, he was in his late middle years, with iron-grey hair and a short beard. He bowed. "If it please Your Imperial Majesty, it was in the matter of the trouble the Weavers' Guild had last year. I found myself in the position of being able to perform some little service in the matter of raising funds for the displaced merchants."

"Ah," said Phoran. "We had wondered. In any case, this proposal is denied. You may reseat yourself, Jenne." He set it to his left, away from the neat stack of signed documents.

He'd picked up the next proposal when the paralysis wore off and the Sept of Gorrish jumped to his feet followed by a fair number of his followers.

"I protest!" he said, and that was the last thing that anyone heard clearly for several minutes as the Council of Septs roared its displeasure with the Emperor.

Phoran set the parchment he'd picked up back where he'd gotten it and waited for the uproar to die down with as cool a manner as he could force over his pounding heart. His instincts told him that if he were not able to take control of the Septs at this meeting, he never would.

He watched the flushed faces of the men who protested, seeing the hidden satisfaction on Telleridge's countenance at the strength of the Septs' outrage, though Telleridge said nothing. Avar caught Phoran's gaze and raised an eyebrow, then he made a subtle gesture toward himself as if to ask, "May I?"

Avar thought he could do something about this? Phoran raised his own eyebrows (he had never learned the trick of raising only one) and nodded his head.

Avar stood up, jumped the waist-high barrier and landed on the council floor, six feet or so below the seating area. His action caught the attention of the Septs, buying him a momentary lull in the noise.

"Gentlemen," he bellowed. "Any man who is still standing and talking after a count of five, I shall personally challenge to armed deadly combat. Even if I have to fight each of you. His Imperial Majesty will then have a much more pleasant time with your heirs. One. Two. Three."

Avar could do it, too; Phoran knew. Could defeat each and every one of the Septs. That they agreed with Phoran's assessment was demonstrated by the fact that they were seated and silent before Avar reached "four."

Avar scanned the seats to make certain they were occupied, then with that easy athleticism that Phoran envied so, he jumped up, caught the bottom railing and scaled the barrier to resume his own seat.

"We give thanks to the Sept of Leheigh for his service to the Empire," said Phoran with more aplomb than he felt. Avar's audacious and effective ploy to silence the Septs had left Phoran the opportunity for a bit of cleverness - or stupidity depending upon how it turned out.

Phoran turned his head to the council leader. "So, Ombre, Sept of Gorrish - you object to my rejection of this proposed law?" He picked up the offending document and appeared to look at it more closely.

"Permission to speak, please?" Gorrish ground out between clenched teeth.

"Oh, of course," said Phoran in surprised tones. "We are always glad to hear your concerns, Gorrish."

The council leader dropped his eyes and took a deep breath. "This is a matter that was already put forth and approved by the council."

"For me to consider putting into law," agreed Phoran lightly. "I decided that it was ill-considered." He reached for the next parchment again.

"Please, Your Majesty, hear me out," said Gorrish. "The particulars of the case were made known to the council at the time the lands were granted. There were no objections at all."

Phoran raised his eyebrows again in surprise. "What, none?" He looked around the room. "Avar?"

"Yes, Imperial Majesty?" Avar stood.

"Did you not just put your life at risk in Our Service?" questioned Phoran.

To Phoran's delight, Avar looked at the Septs around him and shook his head slightly. "I suppose someone might have gotten in a lucky blow, Your Majesty, but I did not feel imperiled."

"Nonetheless," said Phoran, "there was risk and you did not hesitate to serve me. Is this not a greater deed than raising funds to help a few merchants? A matter, I understand, of some two hundred and thirty-five gold pieces?"

The air went still as the more observant Septs began to realize that Phoran knew more about the affair than he'd appeared to at first.

"Perhaps, Your Majesty," agreed Avar with seeming reluctance.

"Avar, Sept of Leheigh, please enlighten those here with the amount that you spent on that magnificent mare you purchased yesterday."

Avar cleared his throat. "Ah, two hundred and forty gold pieces, Your Majesty."

"We believe that the life of a Sept is of more value than a horse," said Phoran firmly. "Therefore Avar, Sept of Leheigh, I put it before the council that I intend to gift you with a piece of land from Tisl to Riesling of a width not more than three miles - "

"But - " Servish, the hotheaded young Sept of Allyn, surged to his feet. Servish, though, was loyal to a fault and he caught his tongue and began to sink down.

"But what, Allyn?" invited Phoran gently. He had picked Servish especially for this role.

Servish swallowed and straightened up. "I am, always, your loyal servant, Majesty."

Phoran nodded. "Please," he said. "What was it you were going to say?"

Servish flushed and took a deep breath. "The land you spoke of is within my Sept, Majesty."

Phoran smiled at him and then looked at Avar, who had remained standing. "Avar, I am afraid that I cannot grant you lands that belong to a loyal Sept. It would not be right."

"No," agreed Avar.

"What say you, my lords?" Phoran looked to the Septs. "Those who would grant me or any other such powers, stand and say, 'Aye' now." The room was silent.

"Nor, Gorrish, can I take lands away from any loyal Sept just to grant them to someone who performed some small service to the Empire. The Sept of Gerant has never shown me anything but loyalty. It would be a poor emperor who took lands away from Septs who have committed no offense. You may all take your seats."

He could feel it happen, Phoran thought. He could feel the reins of the Empire slip into his hands. He kept his face clear of triumph and picked up another piece of parchment.

"In the matter of the border dispute..." And the Septs all sat silently in their seats as Phoran read through every last one of the documents.

"What is your purpose?" Phoran asked, his hands only a little shaky as he pulled down his sleeve. The triumph of this afternoon was such that even the Memory's bite wasn't enough to sour his mood. If he could control the Septs, then surely he could rid himself of this curse.

"To destroy the Masters of the Secret Path," it said.

"Ah," said Phoran.

He'd known the answer, but he hadn't thought of a better question. He had to steady himself when he stood up. "I'm going to see if our friend in the Path's dungeons is any better. You may join me if you'd like."

Truthfully, he was tempted just to go to bed. He had been tired before the Memory showed up, and losing more blood hadn't helped any. But the memory of Tier's unnaturally deep sleep had been with him all day. The Memory, for whatever reason, followed him to Tier's cell.

There was music coming from the Bard's cell, but the door was too thick to hear more than that. Drawing his short sword, Phoran tapped lightly on the door.

"Come in." Impossible to mistake that voice: it was Tier.

Phoran sheathed his sword and opened the door. The Bard was sitting on his bed with a lute in his hands. He was pale and looked nearly as tired as Phoran felt, but when Tier saw that it was Phoran, he set the instrument aside and got quickly to his feet. "My emperor."

"Just Phoran," Phoran advised him and shuffled over to plop down on the end of the bed. He scooted back until his back was braced against the wall and motioned for Tier to do likewise. "I'm glad to see you in a better state than last night."

"You came last night as well?" Tier sat down and pulled the lute back into his lap as if it were a baby. He glanced over at the Memory, which had taken up the same place it had on the first night.

"I couldn't wake you," Phoran yawned. He'd forgotten that he hadn't gotten much sleep the night before. At least he had a better excuse for being tired. "I waited for a few hours, but decided that I'd give you a night to recover from - ?"

"Something the wizards have cooked up," said Tier unhappily. "I'm not certain what." He shook his head and gave Phoran a small smile. "Nothing anyone can do about it right now. I do have some information for you. You asked about Avar, the Sept of Leheigh. I heard his name mentioned, mostly because his brother, Toarsen, is a Passerine, but if he's a member, the Passerines don't know about it."

Phoran heaved a sigh of relief. He'd been almost certain after the council incident, but it was good to be sure.

"There are a number of Septs who are Raptors," said Tier and rattled off a list of thirty or forty.

Phoran would have been more impressed if the list hadn't frightened him so badly. "Could you go through them again, please?" he said tightly.

Tier complied, listing the same people in the same order.

"Did you hear any other names?" asked Phoran, almost afraid to ask. "Not of the Passerines, but the wizards."

"The Masters, the wizards, except for Telleridge, keep their identities hidden," said Tier. "I do have the names of more Raptors."

Phoran listened to a recital that consisted of people ranging from Douver, the council secretary, to the captain of the palace guard, including any number of influential tradesmen and scholars.

"You have a remarkable memory," said Phoran neutrally. "You heard all of those in the past two days?"

"Mostly today," agreed Tier. He gave Phoran a small smile. "Bards have to have a good memory, and the Passerines weren't at all unhappy to discuss the glories of membership in the Secret Path."

Phoran believed him, and wished unhappily that he did not. "What if," he said slowly, "what if I told you that the Path recruits the restless younger sons and cousins among the nobles of the Empire at the age of fifteen - the kinds of boys who are an embarrassment to their families. Remember, the one rule the Path has when the young men join is that they cannot be direct heirs of any Sept."

"I have noticed that there are a lot of Septs among the Raptors," agreed Tier, clearly seeing what was bothering Phoran. "But since I haven't heard of a wave of assassinations of Septs and their heirs, I assumed there was an explanation - the last war or that plague."

"You told the Memory the story of the Shadowed," said Phoran.

Tier wasn't stupid; he understood where Phoran was going. "You think that one of the Masters of the Path created that plague?" he asked. Unlike Avar, Tier had no incredulity in his voice; he was considering Phoran's theory.

Thus encouraged, Phoran continued. "The plague twenty years ago was very convenient for a number of Raptors. Tomorrow I'll bring paper and ink so you can write down the list of Septs for me again. Then I'll do a little research, but I know that Telleridge, Gorrish, Jenne, the old Sept of Leheigh, and a dozen others you named inherited then. Some of them were six or seven people away from inheritance."

Phoran glanced at Tier.

"Go on," the Bard said.

"My father died in the plague. His brother, my uncle, was named regent. When I was twelve he was poisoned by his mistress, and the council, under Gorrish, took over an informal regency. The Sept of Leheigh's son, Avar, took me under his wing." Phoran smiled without humor. "He's mellowed out a lot in the past few years, but when I met him he was a lot less respectable than his reputation would have shown him."

Phoran had done a lot of thinking since his conversation with Avar before the council meeting. "He was a boy, and his own father had encouraged him to be wild. It wouldn't have struck him odd that the old Sept would encourage him to take a twelve-year-old places that were at best unsavory and at worst outright dangerous - I don't think that he'd have sought out my company without his father forcing him to do so." It hurt to admit that, but he knew it was true.

"You have gained a reputation of being volatile and unreliable," said Tier slowly. "Even we in the hinterlands of Redern have heard so much."

"Not to say that I wasn't a willing participant," Phoran said staunchly, though he wanted Tier to like him and it was difficult to admit responsibility. "But if my uncle had lived I would never have been allowed the excesses I have visited."

"And you would have come to power by now," said Tier. "You are what, twenty-four? The Septs would have been under you directly for five years."

"Am I seeing shadows that don't exist?" Phoran asked.

"I don't know," said Tier. "But if you are, then so am I. I've been looking upon them as my problem, or even a Traveler problem. But so many Septs would make any group powerful, and powerful groups seek more power. I don't know that wizards can create convenient plagues, but it is odd that so many of the Path survived to inherit."

"I sent a letter to your wife," said Phoran hesitantly.

Tier's head jerked up, but Phoran couldn't read his expression.

"I told her that you were here in the palace," Phoran continued quickly. "I told her you were alive, but that it would be dangerous to come. I told her that she could send word to me or you through the messenger - he was one of my uncle's men, retired this past decade. My uncle was a canny man; I doubt that any of his would be suborned to the Path."

Tier laughed abruptly. "Told her it was dangerous, did you?"

Phoran nodded. "I thought it best."

"We can plan on her showing up a week after she receives the letter, then," he said. "And we'll be the better for it. I'm not a Traveler - but my wife is, and, if you gave her enough information, she'll bring the whole of the Travelers with her when she comes." He laughed again. "Thank you."

"I wrote to Gerant as well," Phoran said. "Directly after the council meeting. I thought he ought to know what the council had almost done." He hesitated. "It was a long letter. I told him of the situation I've made for myself, then asked him to come here and help clear out the Path. I told him that I had it on good authority that he was an honest man."

Tier laughed. "He'll want to thank me for that - but he'll come, right enough. He's almost too old for fighting - fifty or thereabouts by now - but he had several sons, good men all." He began to play a quiet melody as he talked. "If the Path is as bad as we think, then it will be good to have Gerant at your back. The wizards won't scare him off either; one of his daughters-in-law is a wizard, and he employed a few more when I knew him. I take it that you saved his land?"

Phoran launched into the story of his triumph. Tier was a good listener. He laughed in the right places - grinned, when Phoran told him about the way Avar had silenced the court.

"I can see why you like him. Phoran," said Tier, "would you take some advice from an old soldier?"

"Try me," Phoran replied.

"There are a lot of the Passerines here who might turn out to be good men if they had some goal, some task to work at. No one is more loyal than someone who feels good about himself and his accomplishments - someone who has a stake in the stability of your throne. Find them jobs to do."

Phoran laughed. "If anyone should have hope that reformation is possible, it should be me. Get me a list of names and I'll come up with something."

"Military would work for most of them," said Tier. "Bloodless dueling seems to be a pastime around here - and there are a number of fine swordsmen in the bunch."

Phoran shook his head. "I don't know where I'd put them. The city guards are political appointments through the merchant guilds. The palace guards are mostly inherited positions - and one of the Raptors is the captain of the guards. Neither troop is one a nobleman would willingly join."

"You're a Sept yourself, aren't you?" asked Tier.

"Yes, Sept of Taela and of Hawkshold - but Hawkshold is a meaningless title. It's been part of Taela for several hundred years. My lands are cared for by the palace guard, the city guard, and, if those won't do, I can call upon the Septs to create an imperial army."

"If the council leader were to countermand one of your orders to the palace guard, who would they obey?" asked Tier.

Phoran didn't answer, because the answer was obvious.

"Gerant's men will obey him, and he'll obey you," said Tier, his question answered by Phoran's silence. "But his Sept is in a border area. He cannot stay in Taela for long without risking disaster to his own lands."

"You're saying that if I make up a troop of the Passerines they will obey me rather than the Raptors?"

Tier smiled a little grimly. "The Raptors provide the Passerines with drink, sex, and a place to lurk about and pretend to be dangerous. They are sent out periodically to destroy a tavern or rape and pillage or maim. There are sixty of them and I've seen five or six already that I wouldn't want at my back - but there are some good men. If you make them feel like men, not boys, they will follow you to hell and back."

Phoran was flattered, but he knew what he was. "They won't follow me, Tier. A drunkard and a stupid fop."

"You may be right," agreed Tier readily. "But that's not who you are, Phoran. It is what you once allowed yourself to become. But you do not smell of alcohol tonight, and there's not a stupid man alive who ever got the best of the Council of Septs. Be honest with them, Phoran; they know what you have done. Lead and they will follow, my emperor. Just as Gerant and I follow."

Phoran swallowed hard. "Get me a list of the men you think could work."

"I'll do that," agreed Tier. "Let me have some more time with them first, maybe a couple of weeks. Then I'll have a better idea who is suitable and who is not." He hummed a haunting descant to go with the song he played, and then suddenly he smiled. "I have one for you already. There's a young man named Collarn. Do you know him?"

Phoran shook his head.

"He is a musician, but one with more technical ability than talent. What he is good with are instruments and their care. And the stranger the instrument, the better he likes it." Tier silenced his strings. "Am I mistaken in assuming that this labyrinth of yours might have a musical instrument or two?"

Phoran laughed and held up a hand. "I'll find out."

After a moment, Tier said, "If the Raptors are playing games with the merchant guilds as you think, you might go to them if you need more support. It seems to me that a group who's being blackmailed, like the Weavers' Guild is, wouldn't be unhappy at removing their blackmailer's ability to hurt them."

Phoran smiled back, "Likely not."

He closed his eyes and listened to the music, wondering when he'd ever been this content before. This was the feeling he'd been looking for since his uncle died. He had a larger purpose, if he could hold on to the gains he'd made today. But there was more, too: for the first time in his life he felt like an adult. He smiled to himself - Tier was right, it was a powerful feeling.