If the Subar desert was a sea of sand then Shindara was a lighthouse. A city full of them, ziggurats rising like gigantic stairways to Enlil’s kingdom in the Great Blue Sky. Geometric patterns of brightly colored paint zigzagged up their marble steps and running streams cascaded down them, flowing through terraced gardens trapped in everbloom and to the wide canals below. The waterways were choked with little rafts wobbling underneath the weight of their passengers, foreign dignitaries wearing everything from feathers and grasses to furs. Naked thralls shaded them with parasols and pushed their boats along with poles. The foreigners struggled to keep their balance while beholding the spectacle. Pretty slaves pranced down the street scattering handfuls of barley, and the flakes were stamped into the pavement by unshod hooves. Proud, high-stepping horses pulled the chariots of the Magisterial Guard. And gleaming in chest plates and war belts and helmets of bronze the habiru stood resplendent. They paraded in single file, and behind them strode a gargantuan beast. An elephant. Secured to its back, a massive pillow of purple cloth cushioned the newlywed Magi. Their traditional wedding garb, long gowns of shear, sun-bleached linen, were decorated with tiger-skin mantles and golden bangles and draping necklaces of lapis and turquoise beads. And the bride now wore a veil. The groom, an old man, waved to his foreign friends, and they hollered in a hundred alien tongues as the procession carried on. Then it turned into view of the walls and another cheer erupted—from a crowd of common folk, pilgrims and beggars and slaves. They had been allowed on this special occasion to ascend to the Upper District’s walls, at a respectful distance from the wedding party, and at the sight of the newlyweds they cheered and prayed and stretched their arms through the cordon of stonethralls. Life-like sculptures of men, they were engraved with the cuneiform script of the magi, who had posted them at the stairways of the wall to restrain the most enthusiastic commoners. Other stonethralls patrolled the spaces between, but no one had been willing to jump yet.

  A wild-eyed woman, having failed to barge past them, jostled her way back up the stairs. She was cradling a bundle, and she elbowed through the crowd and burst free at the wall’s ledge. And with a look at the height she leapt. Dropping down she hit the cobblestones standing and rolled her ankle and fell, raising the bundle safely high above. Then she sprang to her feet. Her scraped knees bled as she limped after the magi. She was a Subarite, and spoke in the native tongue. “A touch!” she cried, raising her bundle. “I beg of you! Cure my child!” And her arm was siezed by a stonethrall. It began to drag her away. The woman wailed, thrashing helplessly against its impossible strength, and then she tossed the bundle. It rose in the air and landed far short of the magi, and as it rolled along the pavement its swaddling unraveled. Rocking gently on a bed of rags was a mute gray child. Atop the elephant, the groom pretended not to notice, but his bride’s veiled face tracked the squirming lifeless thing. A stonethrall retrieved it gingerly, staring a moment too long before covering it with rags. The groom leaned to his bride and whispered something, and she tore her gaze away.

  The procession meandered to Revelation Court. It was canopied with colorful tarps, laid out with feasting tables, and cordoned by stonethralls in a hollow square. In the center was a massive circular table, at which the magi sat waiting for the bride and groom. It represented the equality of the God-King’s descendants, and no seat was better than another except a single one. Slightly elevated, it cushioned Shindara’s most powerful magus—powerful not because of any great talent with the Firstborn tongue, whether in chant or scripture, but because of her great office. As both High Magister of the Circle and Hierophant to the God-King Himself, her authority was nearly unsurpassed, in matters both spiritual and temporal. She was the Magus Lilitu of the House of Rising Stones.

  But she dressed modestly. Her robe’s linen was neither finely spun nor pure in hue, and she wore no jewels. Her lone adornment was a cloak of deep purple, dyed with the juice of a certain precious snail native to the coasts of Khabur. Worth a small fortune, the mantle was a sign of her office, and she was obliged to wear it whenever appearing in public. She wore her sleeves traditionally, vacant and tied together in an elaborate bow. Magi tended to constrict their arms to avoid being mistaken for people who actually needed to use them. Every magus had at least one bodyslave, a mute servant of flesh and blood more expensive to maintain than one of stone, more prestigious, and better suited for undirected service. A golem must be commanded, but a good bodyslave knows what his master wants before she does. Lilitu’s brought a silver cup to her lips. She took a swallow of the stringent medicine and watched the procession near.

  Approaching along the Upper District’s central thoroughfare, it reached the cordon of stonethralls and began to circuit Revelation Court. Lilitu’s own regiment passed, and then the elephant carrying the bride and groom. The Magister acknowledged each with a glance. She was really waiting for the rear guard, the Circle’s Chosen Habiru. And for one in particular. He was a squadron leader, and she saw his chariot and his charioteer and repressed a brimming smile. She smiled because the man himself was missing, and she repressed it because her face was open to the world. Having never married she wore no veil, and even the slightest change in her expression was carefully observed. She resisted looking at Aharra and focused on the parade.

  It had eased to a stop, and lined up along the court’s front-facing edge. The elephant’s howdah made it kneel, and servants set to work building a staircase of mounting blocks so the newlyweds could descend with grace. A breeze tousled Lilitu’s short gray hair, and a whirlwind of intermingling odors—fragrant oil and horse urine and foreign musk—caused her nose to wrinkle. Her bodyslave wafted the stench away with a scented fan and she took the chance to hide. Between the fan’s strokes she glimpsed Aharra. The woman’s veil did nothing to mask her concern. She craned her neck in search of her missing lover. Little did she know that he was in the House of Shindar—waiting for Lilitu. She gauged the length of the temple’s shadow. Much of the day had been wasted. After a morning of preparation, Lilitu had officiated the wedding, propitiated Inanna the Homesteader, and conducted the sacrifice. Now all that was left was the libation, the ritual spilling of wine. Then the feast could commence and Lilitu could politely excuse herself and attend to more important matters.

  Magi rose to their sandaled feet. The staircase of mounting-blocks had been finished, and the bride and groom were descending. Lilitu stood and, clutching the Rod of Command hidden beneath her robe, addressed the stonethralls. “Make way for Nemmen and Belita.” she said, with a voice rather low for a woman’s. A synchronized stomp shook the earth as the cordon parted for the famous pair. They had won their fame during the long struggle of their courtship. Belita—besides being young, beautiful, and free of the ailments that so frequently beset the magi—had been the only woman of the tribe without a husband. She had many suitors, and for years she played them against one another, convincing each that she was his—but for the wishes of her father. Like many, he had invested in the caravans with too great a portion of his wealth, and when the Gray Wolf rebels raided them his household had been ruined. Belita assured each suitor that yes, he owned her heart—and would own it forever—but her father’s heart was concerned less with love than finance. So for years the men competed, bestowing ever-larger gifts and promising ever-larger dowries, until many suitors had gone bankrupt, others had given up, and a clear winner arose.

  Nemmen of the House of Changing Windows was the ideal suitor, rich and charming and desperate. His late wife had died childless and he was getting old—so old that he had been raised alongside Lilitu. She watched him and his bride strut in their shear gowns and tiger skins and jewelry and willed the smirk creeping across her face to become a benevolent smile. Years ago, in an effort to stop the magi from impoverishing themselves in their endless rivalries and quicksilver fashions, she had passed a series of sumptuary laws, which penalized ostentatious displays of wealth. And on Nemmen’s wedding day he and his bride were breaking every single one. They reached Lilitu and bowed deeply. Nemmen winked. His face was clean-shaven and handsome, for his age, and his eyelids were painted with malachite. “I beg your forgiveness, High Magister.” he said. “We’ve paid all the fines.” Breaking the laws openly and paying the fees upfront had become just another form of display.

  Lilitu let herself smile. “From you I expected nothing less.” And she noticed Belita’s downcast eyes shining through her veil like emeralds. “You have chosen your husband wisely, my child, and your veil is most becoming. But it utterly fails to conceal your beauty.” Belita’s bow deepened, and the Hierophant motioned to the seats of honor to the right of her own. Behind the cushioned chairs, the bodyslaves stood waiting to tuck their masters in. The magi took their seats, and the Guards and the Chosen, having dismounted and handed their reins to squires, conveyed the foreign dignitaries. Marveling at the men of stone, the dazzled diplomats nearly had to be dragged into the court. Once all were through Lilitu stood. “Stonethralls, resume formations.” And the ground trembled as they instantly obeyed.

  “High Magister.” Nemmen said. “Our thanks for lending the God-King’s golems, and His habiru. A most generous wedding gift.”

  “I really shouldn’t have.” she said, glancing at the other magi. “They’ll never forgive you.”

  Nemmen giggled. “I know! Isn’t it marvelous? Just look at Lem.” The other failed suitors had managed to muster smiles—though bland ones, unreflected by their eyes. But not Lem. A flush crept from the base of his thick neck to the crown of his bald pate, and his jowls quivered around his tiny pouting lips. Nemmen leaned closer. “Like an angry little baby!” And Lilitu chuckled into her fan. Nemmen sighed and leaned back in his chair. “What a perfect day. The only thing missing is Shindar Himself. If only He had accepted my offer.”

  “You cannot buy the God-King.” Lilitu said, as foreign dignitaries bearing exotic gifts crowded around the groom. “Though apparently you can sell Him.”

  Nemmen clutched his heart as though mortally wounded. “Your Eminence!” he said. “You can hardly fault me for doing too good a job.” Lilitu had appointed him Minister of Hospitality herself. “Now if you’ll excuse me, duty calls.” And with a glance he summoned his interpreters.

  Lilitu watched the habiru settle. The Circle’s Chosen shook dirt from their plaits and tunics and glared at the Magisterial Guards. She had made them the procession’s vanguard, leaving the Chosen to collect their dust in the rear. Dipping kerchiefs into fingerbowls, they scrubbed at their proud faces. Shur-Balat’s driver looked at the unoccupied chair to his left. He worried about his missing comrade—and so did Aharra. Barely responding to her husband’s idle chatter, she turned repeatedly to search the empty seat as though she had simply been mistaken, as though with another look he would suddenly appear. Lilitu gestured for the servant in charge of the ceremony. “It is time to pour the libation.”

  “High Magister,” he said, with a glance at the crowd of barbarians, “some guests have yet to take their seats.”

  The Hierophant-Magister looked at him.

  “At once, Your Eminence.” the servant said, pivoting to the cupbearers. “Pour the libation!” And like hummingbirds flitting from bud to bud, pretty boys scurried from cup to cup pouring careful measures of sweet Pramnian wine. Cooks stoked the bonfire and turned the spits, and the scent of roasting meat swept over Lilitu. She had not eaten since the previous morning. By the time the cup bearers finished, Nemmen’s foreigners had finally taken their seats. A Lushite prince took his libation in hand and nearly quaffed it before an attentive slave intervened. Lilitu stood and raised her cup. The chatter halted.

  “Ancestors awake!” she said. “Awaken, descendants of Shindar! Oh, mute ones, slake your thirst and remember your names! Dispel your sorrows and celebrate with us this happy day! Drink!” And she tilted her cup to let the precious wine seep into the Undergloom. Then she scattered a pinch of wheat-grain. Once the other guests did likewise, the cups were filled again, more generously. It was time to toast the newly-weds. “Now that I have spoken to the dead, I shall speak to the living. Belita and Nemmen. Hierophant-Magister Lilitu of the House of Rising Stones smiles upon this union. The Circle of Magi smiles upon this union. Shindar Himself smiles upon this union! May your joint houses prosper! May your children be healthy and numerous! May your lives be long and fortunate and pleasing to the God-King!” And Lilitu waited for the swelling chorus to ebb. Then she raised her cup and inhaled the mellow vapor. But instead of drinking she merely purpled her lips. Dugme the hematurge had always recommended against the drinking of wine, for those with Lilitu’s condition. Wine thins the blood. The guests, having guzzled their own drinks, wiped their chins and sat. Cups were refreshed, spits of meat were pulled off the flame, and platters heaping with baked porcupines and spiced eels and ostrich eggs and all kinds of local fare were set before the guests. Bodyslaves sliced food into bite-sized morsels, and conversations cheerfully resumed.

  “High Magister.” Nemmen said, motioning to a Lushite dignitary. “Let me introduce you to Maharajat. He was sent on behalf of Queen Tawannana, his mother.”

  Lilitu addressed him. “It is a pleasure to meet you, prince Maharajat, and to hear words from the queen. On behalf of my tribe, I thank you for undergoing such a long and perilous journey, and I thank the queen for her many gifts—the most precious of them being the presence of her beloved son.”

  Lusheya was a distant land, and no single interpreter knew Subarite and Lushite both, so several of them gathered, relaying the Hierophant-Magister’s words across dialects in a chain that ran down to the prince. Upon hearing it, he instantly rattled off a response that never seemed to end. Finally it did. Lilitu waited for the message to travel back up the chain. “Your Largeness,” the final interpreter said, struggling with the language and his predecessors’ accumulated mistakes, “I thank your hospitality. If I ask a favor. My mother the queen is illness. Your tribe is like gods, and blessed by gods. If one of your tribe go and make a healing to mother, you are greatly honors, and mother make a big pile on your foot.”

  Having heard countless requests like this one, Lilitu understood the gist. If the magi healed the prince’s mother, she would send the Hierophant a king’s ransom in tribute. She gave her stock response. “Your invitation alone honors us, and we dearly wish to visit your queen, but the Edicts of Shindar forbid us to travel. If your mother makes the journey here, we will do all we can to help her.”

  Interpreters relayed the message, and the prince’s smile wilted. “She is unwell for journeys.”

  Knives scraped against silver plates and bodyslaves fed their masters. Lilitu took a spoonful of barley meal, approved by the hematurge, while Nemmen chewed a pork rind. He winced and shot a glare at his slave, who sprinkled powdered lotus into his golden cup. “It was Queen Tawananna who gave the elephant.” he said, sucking his injured molar. “It eats a donkey’s burden of grain every day, so transporting the beast took careful planning. She had to load a mule-train—a long one, since the animals need fodder of their own—and when each donkey’s load was gone, it was slaughtered and eaten, or given to the locals. By the end of the trip only a few remained. The whole thing must have cost a fortune!”

  Belita’s bodyslave offered her a morsel and reached to brush her veil aside. She turned her head away. “My dove,” Nemmen said, “is the feast not to your liking?”

  She released a petulant sigh. “No. It’s the elephant.”

  “Did the beast frighten you?” Nemmen asked. His bride shook her head. “Then by the gods, tell me what’s the matter!”

  “It’s such a shame.” Belita said. “The poor thing walked all this way across the Subar only for my wedding. Only for its death.”

  Nemmen frowned. “But consider how well the sacrifice will please Orlan. I’d bet the Hunter has never before pursued a quarry like this!”

  “But you’re not sacrificing it to please the god.” Belita said. “You’re sacrificing it because it’s too expensive to keep.”

  The clutter of silverware stopped. The chattering voices hushed, and started up again as magi whispered into each other’s ears. During her wedding—the most opulent one since that of Shindar and the sorceress Hattushra—Belita had cast doubt upon her husband’s wealth.

  Rage flashed across his countenance. “My dove,” he said, adopting a patronizing air, “elephants are simply not well suited to the desert. They’re wetland creatures.” And he turned toward the Lushite prince. “Right?” The smiling foreigner bobbed his head. “They’re wetland creatures. But if you insist I’ll keep it. The thing will be your pet.”

  Belita’s sullen demeanor changed. “Oh, dear husband! You do spoil me.”

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  Magi congratulated Belita on her new pet and arranged to be taken on rides. Lilitu watched the shadows lengthen. Warded away a proffered spoonful. She had had enough. She’d fulfilled her duties as both Magister and Hierophant. But what of her duties as friend? Nemmen laughed among his sycophants, barbarians and magi alike. They gossip like midwives. If she left early they might think he’d lost her favor. It could mar his special night. Even his legacy.

  “Lilitu.” A voice whispered. It was Nemmen, leaning in close. “Your Eminence. Please feel free to excuse yourself. I will not take offense.” She put on a bewildered expression and he laughed. “You’re practically crawling out of your skin. Go. I know you’ve work to do.”

  She did. “They’ll talk.”

  “Bah!” Nemmen said. “Let them. Just give me a proper farewell.”

  Lilitu stood to draw the banqueters’ attention. “Regrettably,” she said, “my duties to the God-King call me away, and I must bid you all good night. Congratulations again on such a marvelous pairing. Nemmen, you’ve won a wife not only beautiful and pure of heart, but deep in thinking as well.” It was true. By publically connecting the elephant’s life to her husband’s reputation, she had forced him to preserve them both.

  Nemmen put on a pout. “If Shindar calls Your Eminence,” he said, playing to the crowd, “then I suppose nothing I can say will restrain you. Should I even bother inviting you to the after party? There will be fire eaters, you know. And exotic dancers.”

  His table mates chuckled, so absurd was the notion of the Hierophant attending a lascivious debauch. She smiled and bowed farewell. “The God-King never sleeps.”

  Lilitu went to a waiting palanquin, where her bodyslave rushed ahead to part the curtain and followed her inside. They sat on a pair of plump cushions. “Up.” Lilitu said, gripping the Rod of Command, and the litter’s pole-bearers, stonethralls both, lifted it with ease. “Take me to my apartments in the temple of Shindar.” As Hierophant, she had been granted several floors of his enormous tower for her own personal use. She had converted one suite of rooms into dungeons, and in one of those dungeons waited Shur-Balat.

  The stonethralls carried the litter with such good balance that it seemed to float. Then they set her gently down by a great stone slab of a door. It was covered in a wedge-like script. She leaned out of the palanquin and whispered the password, and the door groaned as it split apart.

  She was carried up to her chambers and there she descended. Inside of the waiting room, and slouching on one of its purposefully uncomfortable chairs, was Anbu, the Hierophant’s Inquisitor and her most reliable friend. Her most competent spy. He must have been favored by Ogri the Many-skin, for he had been blessed with an unremarkable face, a voice like a mimic bird's, and a body of average height and build. A man easily transformed by his clothes. And now he sat in the garb of a merchant, drowsing with his chin tucked into his chest. Lilitu let a sandal slap the tile and he jumped to his feet. “High Magister.” he said, bowing low. “My apologies.”

  Lilitu led him to her office. “See that little chest on my table? Open it.” Anbu obeyed her. The little chest, which she kept unlocked on principle, contained a stack of Oscan trading rods, each measured out to precisely a half-mina’s weight in silver, and used by merchants to purchase goods in bulk without wasting time on scales. “Take one.” Lilitu said. “It’s yours.”

  “High Magister!” he said, “I am unworthy.”

  “Shur-Balat wasn’t at the wedding.”

  “True, Your Eminence.”

  “Then you are most worthy. Tell me how you did it.”

  “Our spy at the Singing Timbrel overheard him drinking there with his friends. And complaining. He wanted to have his hair done for the feast, but many others had just recently arrived with the same idea. Booked up all the city’s barbers. So I rented a house and furnished it like a barber’s. Then I changed into a modest cloak, that I sprinkled with hair, and went to the Timbrel. Shur-Balat noticed. Asked if I was a barber. I admitted that I was, and he demanded that I help him. He wanted his hair unraveled, and washed and combed and trimmed and oiled, and plaited back up in the newest fashion. I told him that it was a lengthy procedure, and that while I had the skill to do it, I had not the time. My customers already had me working well past dark, by candle light. He offered a generous fee and convinced me to open my schedule. I told him where I lived, and that he should be go there in the dead of night and wait. Maybe, if my other appointments didn’t take too long, I could find the time for him. Then I hired a man with a fresh haircut to play the part of my most recent client and together we waited. And in the dead of night Shur-Balat arrived, just as planned. Alone. His friends loiter around during his every waking moment, but now they were in bed getting their beauty sleep. So that was it. I sat him in a chair, wrapped him in a blanket, and choked the man to sleep.”

  “Anbu,” Lilitu said, “I want you to take another bar.” And before he could refuse, she added. “To cover your expenses. After all, you had to rent the spy and the house.”

  “You are too generous. Would you like to visit the prisoner now, or sleep first and see him in the morning?”

  “Now.” she said, and addressed her bodyslave. “You stay here.” Mute and illiterate, he was no threat to Lilitu as a spy, but he didn’t need to see this. She summoned her stonethralls and Anbu retrieved his tools, a bloodstained leather satchel and a mask, painted with the rosy-cheeked grin of a drunken reveler—a common character trope of Shindaran theatre. And so equipped, they went to Shur-Balat’s cell.

  “I should remind Your Eminence,” Anbu said, “that the insider who spilled Shur-Balat’s secret is a slave.” A slave’s word meant little as testimony. Lilitu needed to make the habiru confess.

  “Well let’s thank the gods he doesn’t know that.” she said, and whispered the door’s password. Anbu put his mask on and, as usual, waited outside to be summoned.

  The dungeon was a windowless room of stone, empty save for a chair and a side table and a naked prisoner. He was pacing to keep warm, but as the Hierophant-Magister arrived he stopped to cover his manhood. “High Magister.” he said, bowing deep. But his right hand drifted unconsciously to his hip, to the belt-knife that was not there. Like the others of his regiment he hated her. By trying to stop them—men paid to kill the Circle’s enemies in battle—from killing each other in duels, she had offended their manhood, apparently. But whatever emotions Shur-Balat might have felt at being kidnapped and stripped naked and thrown into a cell he suppressed. “I know not,” he said, “why I am here, or what I have done to offend you, but I will do everything in my power to make amends—if need be—and to help Your Eminence in any way I can. I am entirely at your service.”

  Lilitu was tall for a woman, and stood upon the thickly-soled sandals traditional to magi, but still the barefoot man was taller. She circled, looking him up and down. His waist was narrow and his shoulders broad. His plaited hair ran down a muscular back and ended just above the buttocks, beneath which were a pair of powerful thighs. A jaw like a clay brick grounded a dark and weathered face, by now slightly stubbled, since he had missed the chance to shave. Smooth cheeks were the new fashion among habiru, who had embraced their diminutive nick-name. Horseboys. But Shur-Balat was no boy. He was a man, a captain of sixteen chariots, and a proven killer.

  “I can see why she chose you.” Lilitu said. “A strong jaw. Soulful eyes. Thick and lustrous hair. Just like your daughter.”

  “Your Eminence,” he said, wincing as though embarrassed on Lilitu’s behalf. “I have no child—of which I am aware. Are you certain you have the right man? I understand that, to the magi, habiru sometimes look alike. My name is Shur-Balat.”

  Lilitu laughed. “It’s an open secret by now. Poor Aharra, childless at the age of thirty-seven, suddenly conceives a daughter. A daughter that just happens to resemble her household guard. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”

  Shur-Balat furrowed his brow. “Forgive me, High Magister. I fail to grasp your meaning.”

  “Don’t play dumb.” Lilitu said. “I have this on good authority, and I could prosecute Aharra without you. But if my witnesses speak in trial they’ll reveal themselves as spies. It would be much better from your own mouth. I’m not after you. I’m after the mother, the heretic who broke her vows to the God-King. ‘I shall not adulterate the blood of the tribe.’ You’re no magus, Shur-Balat. You’ve made no such vow. Cooperate and I will give you clemency.”

  “Again Your Eminence I apologize,” he said, “For I know not of what you speak.”

  Lilitu sighed. “Inquisitor.” And the handsome face showed a hint of worry. The Hierophant’s Inquisitor was a legend, Shindara’s most dreaded boogeyman, more fearsome than a ghola. When working in his official capacity he was always masked, for he was expected to make enemies of magi. Powerful enemies, and so for fear of reprisal he had to stay anonymous. Nobody but Lilitu knew his face, and that made him all the more terrifying. He could be anyone. Shur-Balat glanced to the doorway. Anbu’s grinning mask peeked though. He took a long step and, with the exaggerated movements and gratuitous flourishes of a self-indulgent actor, minced his way inside. He went to the table and carefully set his satchel down. Then he flipped it suddenly open—like a huckster presenting his wares. They were bronze tools, prongs and shears and tweezers and wires, and blades with glinting hooks. There was even a little hammer and a chisel.

  “High Magister.” Shur-Balat said. “I swear by Enlil I am not the father of Aharra’s child, but I do have the patronage of her house. She and her husband will hear of this!”

  The Hierophant looked to Anbu, who was grinding a whetstone along a razor’s gleaming edge. “Will they hear of this?” she asked. The mask slowly wagged. Lilitu addressed her captive. “Sit down.”

  “I swear to you, Your Eminence—by the gods—there’s been a terrible mistake!”

  “Sit down.” Lilitu said. “Or my thralls will sit you down. And be silent.”

  The words died on Shur-Balat’s lips. He sat down. Beside him, Anbu began to rasp the razor back and forth across a leather strop. Like a barber. Lilitu paced the room. “When I was a novice, studying my forms in the tablet house, our schoolmasters had us copy famous texts, stories we’d been told a hundred times. Since we already knew them by heart, we could easily spot where we had strayed in writing. My favorite story was the one of the Apprentice and the Horse Talker. I will tell it to you now.”

  “There once was a young novice. Having finished with the tablet house, he was expected to study under the patronage of a master. There were more magi then, and many masters, each with their own specialties and their own secrets. Which master was the apprentice to seek? He had shown little interest in scripture or rain-song or hematurgy, or any other academic subject—and even less aptitude. His only lasting interest was the racing of chariots. And of that wasteful and impractical pursuit, there was only one master.

  “He was a famous charioteer, and it was said that he had won his many victories by his ability to speak with horses. But he was also a famous misanthrope. Just as much as he loved horses he hated men. He had resolved never to take an apprentice. Of course, the young magi approached him regardless. ‘I want to learn how to speak with horses, and I won’t stop bothering you until you teach me.’ he said. ‘I won’t be so easy to scare off. I am not like the others.’

  “But the master only laughed. ‘You sound exactly like them. You claim willingness to do anything, to earn my trust. To learn my secrets. But I know what you really mean. You will indeed do anything—so long as it’s something that you want to do. So long as it’s easy. How arrogant you are, to think I want some idiot child drooling at my feet! Leave me now, and don’t come back or you’ll earn yourself a whipping!’ But the young magus stayed at the master’s doorstep. Weathered his abuse. Took his beatings. And on the seventh day the master spoke. ‘I don’t know why you bother waiting here.’ he said. ‘You have as much chance of becoming my apprentice as you have of beating me in a race.’

  “‘Then race me,’ the young magus said, ‘and if I win, accept me as your student.’

  “‘The sheer arrogance of youth!’ the master exclaimed, ‘Very well. My horses need the exercise, and you need a lesson in humility.’ And so they raced, and though the young magi drove well, with clever horses and a well-made chariot, the old master could not lose. He spoke with the Firstborn tongue, the naming tongue, inspiring his team and discouraging its rival. And just as planned, his horses won by the breadth of a single pace. The youth’s chariot slowed to a halt.

  “‘I nearly had you!’ he said, ‘Let us go once more.’

  “But the master only laughed. ‘How can you expect to be my student when you’ve shown you cannot learn? We can race as often as you like. The result will be the same.’ So they raced and they raced and the master always won. The young magus spent his family’s fortune on the lightest chariot, the fastest team. But the master always won. So the youth resolved to become as light as possible himself. He fasted for three weeks, shaved all the hair on his body, and rode his chariot naked. And still the master won. ‘You fool.’ he said. ‘With a word I can put your horses to sleep or run my own to death. Haven’t you learned by now that you’ll always lose?’

  “The young magus departed. Months passed. The master was convinced he’d gotten rid of the annoying pest for good. But then one morning, when the master arrived at his private track, the young magus was there. The master, shaking his head and wondering what silly new contrivance the youngster had conjured, accepted another race. Once again they lined up their chariots. Once again the young magus disrobed. But when the master saw him he cast aside his whip. ‘By the gods!’ he said, ‘You fool! What have you done?’

  “The young magus shrugged his scarred shoulder. ‘If I tie the reins around my waist,’ he said, ‘I need only one hand for the whip.’ To make himself even lighter he had his left arm amputated. ‘Now shall we race?’

  “The old man stared at the disfigured youth for a long, long time. Then finally he spoke. ‘We shall race, young master. But I have one condition. If I prevail, you must accept me as your apprentice.’”

  Lilitu stood over the seated habiru. “The End.” And the razor rasped one final time against the leather strop. “Do you understand why I told you this story?” she asked. “Stonethralls, hold Shur-Balat in place.” They clamped his limbs to the chair. Anbu had finished honing his blade. He took a copper wire and knelt to wind it around the habiru’s manhood.

  “Your Eminence!” he said, “I swear to you, you’ve been misinformed! I’ve been slandered! Many in Aharra’s household staff are jealous of me, and—” He hushed at the chill kiss of bronze. Anbu, having wound the wire tight, held the blade against the Chosen’s root.

  Lilitu sighed. “You don’t understand. When the old Hierophant passed away, and it came time for the Choosing, each of the wealthiest houses competed for the office. To show the God-King their devotion, they made grand sacrifices, filling his temple with treasures and livestock and slaves. I was from a humble house. I had no great hoard, no family herd, no spare slave. But I did have my favorite story.” And she shrugged off her robe’s gaping collar. It slipped free of her left shoulder, revealing a small white breast and an arm of pale stone. Cuneiform words spiraled around it, and the hand of frigid alabaster reached out and grasped Shur-Balat’s chin. Forced him to look her in the eye. “To get what I want,” Lilitu said, “I did this to myself. What do you think I’ll do to you?”

  Proud eyes welled. Eyelids fluttered. Tears rolled down his cheeks. His breath came in ragged gasps and snorts and his pupils wavered, like those of a great bull trussed upon the altar. Finally, his body began to quake. “It’s true.” he whispered, and a great heaving sob wracked his powerful frame.

  Lilitu leaned in close. “What’s true?”

  “Their daughter is mine!” he blubbered. “I had no choice! How could I refuse? Their favor is all that I have!” His face was wet with tears and mucus. A moan escaped his lips. “The child. The child is innocent I beg you. Your Eminence, have mercy on the child!”

  The Hierophant glanced at Anbu, who unwound the copper string. “You said they. That means her husband knows.”

  “Knows? Your Eminence it was his idea! But please, promise you’ll spare the girl.”

  “She has not been initiated.” Lilitu said. “Yet. Thank the gods. If I hadn’t found out now I would have later, and the girl’s fate would be sealed. As it is, she will live in exile. As will you, if you confess before the Circle.”

  Shur-Balat fought to master himself. “And Aharra. You’ll strip her too?”

  “Of course. The child’s mother can hardly claim ignorance. I’ll strip her and her husband both.”

  “But you’ll make the girl an orphan.”

  Lilitu cocked her head. “What do you mean? She’ll have her father.”

  Shur-Balat looked down at his trembling knees. “A father without friend or patron. A father whose most famous act is one of treachery. We’ll be destitute.”

  “And what of the treasures they must have given you? In return for your,” Lilitu said, “your services.”

  The habiru shook his head. “Gone, Your Eminence. All spent. Please. With only my weapons and my horse, how could I provide for a daughter?”

  “Countless fathers have made do with less.” Lilitu said. “Exchange the horse for a flock of goats and find some place to graze them.”

  Between sobs a mirthless chuckle rose. “Pasture does not simply sit unclaimed. And even if we found some scanty ground too poor for anyone else, we’d live at the mercy of every roving warband. The girl would be forced into depravity!” And at the thought of it, he burst into fresh spasms.

  Lilitu frowned. “Well you should have considered that.” And the habiru’s only response was his sloppy sniveling.

  Slowly, his shallow breathing deepened. He blinked away his tears and looked up at the Hierophant, and his bloodshot eyes blazed with hope. “They conspire, Aharra and her husband. And they’re not alone. They conspire against you with other magi!”

  Lilitu tugged her robe back over her shoulder. “Name them.”

  “They cowl their faces, Your Eminence. I merely watch the door. But I could be your spy! Their leader is called the Mossy Tortoise. I could learn their names, listen to their meetings. Just promise to spare my daughter a life of poverty!”

  “No.”

  Shur-Balat looked at her. “But Your Eminence, don’t you care? There’s a conspiracy against you!”

  Lilitu approached the hearthstone. “There always is.” And besides, once they were living on bread and water in the Tower of Exile, the heretics would trade their friends for a few good meals. Lilitu muttered the hearthstone’s incantation and felt the air warm. Her guest’s overnight stay should be comfortable. He must look healthy for the trial. “You will soon have food and drink, and a chamber pot.” she said. “Sleep well. In the morning, we shall rehearse your testimony.” And followed by the Inquisitor and the stonethralls, she left Shur-Balat alone.

  Back in her office the Hierophant-Magister paced. Her mind was like a pent-up thoroughbred rounding the circuit with no rider or chariot or purpose but the sheer indulgence of its passion. Names of suspected conspirators mingled with imagined scenes of the coming trial. Who was the Mossy Tortoise? “Your Eminence.” Anbu said. “Would you like some tea?” Her bodyslave presented a tray with saucer and pot.

  Lilitu ceased her pacing. “No. It would only keep me awake. The best thing to do right now is sleep.” But she knew herself. For now, sleep was impossible. “First I shall arrange some flowers.” Once she had soothed her mind, she could catch a few hours’ rest and still be up by dawn.

  “Please, High Magister.” Anbu said. “Take care. I’ll summon the hematurge just in case.” Arranging flowers involved working with sharp tools, and for the Hierophant the slightest prick could be a disaster.

  Lilitu nodded. “Stonethralls, obey the Inquisitor in my absence.” And leaving her servants behind she walked to her flower room. There she meditated, choosing and cutting flowers, and slowed her racing thoughts. But her plans for sleep were ruined. When Anbu went to bring leftovers from the wedding feast to the Chosen’s cell, he found that Shur-Balat, with no weapon but his hair, had ended his own life.