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Goryk to Obann. It was to be a diplomatic mission, holding out the hope of peace between Obann and the Thunder King. It had crossed Gallgoid’s mind to cause the secret message to be revealed throughout the city. The people might rise up against the traitors. Surely Goryk and the councilors knew that no one but the College of Presters could elect a First Prester! What was their game? The only way to find out, Gallgoid thought, was to wait for Goryk to come to the city, and see what happened next.
     
    “Haste is the luxury of fools,” he said to himself. “Let the people have more time to warm to Lord Orth as First Prester. They might not want a change.”
     
    What the people really wanted, he knew, was the Temple. They passed by the Temple’s ruins every day, but couldn’t imagine it would never rise again. Orth’s vision of a new Temple—one not made by hands, but consisting of nothing but the Holy Scriptures and prayer and faith—was not easily grasped. Such a Temple, the new First Prester taught, would be nothing like its three great predecessors. Unlike them, it could never be destroyed.
     
    “They will come to believe in it,” Preceptor Constan said, the last time Gallgoid asked him about it. “We must continue to teach them from the Scriptures. Their hearts will open to God’s word.”
     
    Meanwhile, thought Gallgoid, the Temple tax was greatly reduced throughout Obann—and that would count for something, too. He supposed he ought to be ashamed for looking at the matter from such a worldly point of view, but he couldn’t help himself.
     
    “Come to Obann, Goryk Gillow,” he whispered. “Come, make friends with the traitors on the council. You’ll be in worse danger than you dream.”
     

     
    Martis’ first concern was to find the place where they’d been attacked. He quickly realized that the only way he could do that was to get back on the river and try to spot it from a boat. He was sure he would recognize it when he saw it.
     
    Despite his aching head, he spent most of the morning seeking out the nearest settlement, a tiny hamlet tucked into a woodland about a mile from the river. The handful of people living there gave him a decidedly cool reception, until he invoked the baron’s name. Only then did they listen to what he had to say.
     
    “So someone kidnapped the baron’s adopted son, did they?” said the headman. “Well, that’s the kind of thing that happens, these days. The Heathen missed us when they passed through this country on their way to Obann City. But ever since, there’s been a lot of bad characters around. Sometimes we’re glad we have nothing worth stealing.”
     
    That was no understatement. The houses were little more than huts. Some of the people living there now used to live in towns that the Heathen hadn’t missed. But there was one man who had a boat, and when he understood that Martis wanted to go only a little way up the river, he agreed to take him. Early in the afternoon, Martis was on the river again.
     
    “I ain’t landing if those fellows are still there,” the boatman said.
     
    “I won’t ask you to,” said Martis.
     
    “Things have gotten a little better since the baron reorganized the militia. We never had a baron on the river, but already he’s better than the oligarchs. I hope he gets his son back.”
     
    The boatman knew the river as well as Herger knew it. Guided by Martis’ description of the spot where Herger had wanted to make camp, it wasn’t long before they found it.
     
    “That looks like a dead man lying there!” the boatman said.
     
    “It must be the man I stabbed when they attacked us. The others must have just left him lying there.”
     
    “It ain’t decent,” the boatman grumbled. As he paddled closer to the shore, their approach disturbed a pair of ravens feeding on the body. They flew up with caws of protest.
     
    “Mister, I don’t think we ought to come any closer.”
     
    “If the other men were still