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just like the trial of ropes—a tradition.
    “Since you scored the highest in the Gauntlet and are in good standing, I can’t very well dismiss your ascension. My authority would be questioned by the European contingency. They wanted to restructure and I had them fat, happy and quiet with Margrave’s trade deal. But the Columbians don’t trust me to continue. They trusted the man you killed. And now that’s over.
    “So it stands at this: I don’t want anybody questioning my policy, Quintana. Cole Szerszen finds you worthy of bishophood and though Cole might sometimes be a little too dreamy and farsighted about the Church of Midnight, I tend to trust him. Tend to .”
    “What—” Paul began but the Archbishop raised a glove. He opened his cigarette case and took out one thinly rolled cigarette. Paul knew he wouldn’t win this, so he waded through those muddy eyes. “What now?”
    “What now indeed!” Sandeus slapped the table and Paul jumped. Raymond stirred and a pained expression crossed his sweating, sleeping face. The cigarette came zigzagging over the table. A book of matches hissed over after them.
    “I have asthma,” said Paul.
    “You want the title, don’t you?”
    Pursing his lips, Paul took the cigarette.
    The Archbishop continued, “When smoked the marrow seeds rolled into the tobacco will spread evenly through your lungs. I pray your garden will blossom with balance.”
    “Seeds?”
    “Collected in the Old Domain and brought to us through the gateway last year, their effect is similar to peyote and gypsum weed, but a more aggressive hallucinogen. And, of course, more special. Think of this as dropping a foot into the Old Domain. You’ll never be the same after. It’s an honor to imbibe these seeds, Quintana.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    Sandeus impatiently rubbed his chin. “Only Bishops who sit at the left and right of the Archbishop may reap the seeds’ power. But why sit here and explain when the answer’s in your hand. Smoke .”
    Paul took his eyes away from the savage male-female glare and stuck the cigarette in his mouth—he tore off a match, snapped it against the book and lit the end, took a deep draw. The sharp heat made him cough like a circus seal. It took him a while to recover. The Archbishop said nothing. Soon Paul realized there wasn’t any substance to the peppery smoke, certainly not a tobacco flavor, and he realized that his tongue had stopped perceiving flavor altogether and once he realized that, he also realized his body exploded with realizations—realizing the reality of realizing—was instantly insane? He became a mash of disturbed parts, which throbbed between numbness and pleasure, strobe lights in his nerve centers.
    “How much do I—?”
    “All of it.” Sandeus’s voice crawled through Paul’s episodic fits. “Until you hit the cotton filter. Don’t you dare stop.”
    Paul’s smile went rubbery and refused to quit his face. He took another drag. One of the sentinels stepped forward and put a stone ashtray on the table. “So kind,” he told the big man in black armor, who sank back into the darkness. Not long ago this man had almost choked him to death with a hemp rope, but now, brotherhood.
    Eyes bugging, Paul took another strong, cartoonish pull on the cigarette. This was a profound experience. Enjoyable too.
    Something rattled in the wall again.
    Paul’s nose dripped snot, but when he touched the skin he found it dry as coal. As he tapped off wreaths of ash into the ashtray, he made a promise to get a hold of himself, if possible.
    “So pretty boy, do you still want to know what’s next?”
    Reality crashed. Real things had been at stake, career things, life and death things, and Paul’d completely forgotten. He was panting, “What Archbishop... what is next?”
    A long fillet knife with an ebony grip slid across the table. The knife circuited for a moment before stopping. The Archbishop’s eyes settled on Ray. “Cut this man’s