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Delari returned, still angry. "They knew nothing. Of
course. They were hirelings. Two belonged to the City Regiment, Colonel
Ghort. The deathmage and his brother were outsiders."
    Pinkus Ghort showed color in throat and cheeks, anger and
embarrassment alike. "Who paid them? Who recruited them? Would the two
who got away know anything more?"
    "Unlikely," Delari said. "But we do know where they're headed, now.
The Knight of Wands. An inn in a town named Alicea. The entire team was
supposed to reassemble there."
    Hecht and Ghort produced skeptical scowls. Both knew Alicea. They
had first met not far from Alicea. Hecht said, "The West Way runs
through the town. Crossing the trace running east from Sonsa. Pinkus,
if you sent Bo by sea he could be there waiting for them."
    "I changed my mind. They know Bo. They'd recognize anybody I trust."
    "You have to send somebody who'll recognize them."
    "I don't know. I'm thinking some of your Deve pals might be the
answer."
    Grumbling from Donel Madisetti reminded them that I hey were not
brainstorming in their quarters.
    Hecht's too-friendly association with the Devedian community did
cause stress with some Collegium members. "Won't work. They're only
trying to stay out of the way of a crusade themselves." Which was true,
well known, and no doubt would, someday, constitute sufficient excuse
itself for a Patriarch with Sublime's twist of mind to go after them.
    Devedians, and their less numerous and far stranger religious
ancestors the Dainshaukin, were loathed by Episcopal Chaldareans. The
more because western society could not function without them. Deves
provided an inordinate proportion of the lettered and artisan classes.
They kept the records and wrote the letters, made the paper those were
written on, and manufactured the pens that did the writing. Not all, of
course, but better than anyone else. And so they were hated.
    Hecht mused, "Then again, I know one who might. But we're here
because of Clearenza. Where do we stand?"
    He hoped there would be no punitive expedition. The Patriarchal
army was not up to it. As always, it was tied up in garrison wherever
Sublime feared rebellion or some encroachment by the Grail Emperor. It
was a purely defensive force and the Captain-General was not being
given the resources to change that. Not fast.
Principatè Doneto broke Hecht's heart. "I'm sure my cousin will insist
on something. As a demonstration."
    "It can't happen. Not now. He's too far in arrears to the troops."
    "He'll send the City Regiment, then."
    Ghort snorted.
    Hecht said, "The City Regiment isn't his to send. It was raised for
the Calziran Crusade. That's over. The men who financed it didn't get
any loot out of that. They won't take the same hook twice."
    Doneto replied, "I know. But I have to read my lines."
    Interesting. The Patriarch's number one supporter was not inspired
by his cousin's behavior.
    "Would it help if someone he trusted drove each point home?"
    "He pays no attention to what I say if it's something he doesn't
want to hear."
    "I was thinking more like his father or mother. Or somebody he
especially respected when he was a kid."
    "That hadn't occurred to me. I'll do what I can. But don't expect
much."
    Hecht nodded, disgruntled. This gathering, slapped together with
such suggested high drama, was typical. Every day he had to deal with
crises that existed only in the minds of the Patriarch and his
henchmen. And with their implacable blindness to the needs of the men
they expected to work their wills.
    One irony of the world round the Mother Sea was that only during
periods of peace and security was there economic activity sufficient
to generate the revenues princes needed to finance their wars. The
Church, in particular, needed money because the Patriarchy did not have
enough fiefdoms whose feudal obligations could be exploited. The Church
used mostly hired soldiers. But those mercenaries were seldom dedicated
or reliable. Or even very effective. As all the defeats