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Head covered again, she hurried back along the darkling alley to the private door. As she fished the heavy key from her pocket, she realized that she might be doing so for the last time. The moment Piero died, the last trace of her shadowy authority vanished. She would not even have the right to live in the palace. For generations, Piero’s ancestors had succeeded one another on the throne, so the problem had never arisen before, but now his line was ended. Even Chies, whose claim had been a polite fiction, was no longer available to serve as a puppet for the elders, had they ever managed to accept that solution. A dynasty was falling.

She had just reached the stairs when she heard someone calling for her to hurry.

It was not quite over. For a short while she sat holding his hand. His death throes were barely visible, just a few bubbling gasps, but at least she was there when the royal physician proclaimed that they had ended. Her eyes stubbornly refused to shed tears. The Piero she had known and loved had passed through the veil a long time ago. She shooed away the remaining Mercies, declining their offers of comfort. Yes, she would allow a couple of them to remain in the palace and would call on them if she needed them, and yes they could give solace to any of the servants who wanted it.

When she was alone with him, she knelt by the bed and repeated the prayer for the dead as a personal farewell. Its ancient sonorities comforted her. Then she stepped outside to where the senior palace officials had gathered. She told them to begin doing all the innumerable things that must be done, everything they had been planning for so long. Piero’s body must be washed and taken to lie in state in the Hall of Pillars. Notifying Huntleader Purque was already on the list. But the first and most important message must be advance warning to the justiciar. Only when Speaker Quarina had formally declared the reign of Piero VI ended could the real wheels began to turn.

It was a relief. His sufferings were over; Oliva’s burdens were lifted. She had no one left to worry about except herself. Even Chies had gone, and what happened to the city did not concern her now. She would almost welcome Bloodlord Stralg roaring in on her. Then she could ask him what he had done with her other children, and he could claw her eyes out for impudence.

She bathed and dressed in the black of mourning. She prayed briefly in the palace chapel before going to inspect the Hall of Pillars. The catafalque stood in the center, a lonely block of carved and gilded wood. The throne was draped in black silk and everything else had been removed. Beyond the giant columns the gods wept, rain pattering on leaves and puddles. Tomorrow the citizens could come and pay their respects, filing in at one end of the long hall and out at the other. How many would come? For years Piero had been despised as a loser who had given away his birthright, but lately she had sensed the mood changing as the war growled ever closer, as city after city was wasted, as tides of refugees flowed over the land. The people were being reminded just what they had been spared sixteen years ago, and if they had wits at all they must mourn the loss of the faithful doge who had stood between them and the evil, sacrificing his own children.

Around the bier stood twelve great silver candlesticks, each one as high as a man and holding a tall black candle, which the chamberlain’s men were just lighting. Piero had never been big, but he had seemed big when Oliva married him; now he was tiny. Only his head was visible; the rest of him lay hidden under a shroud of golden cloth pulled up to his chin. His hair and beard had turned completely white during his sickness. He wore the ducal coronet, and the jeweled sword of state lay at his side. As the candle flames brightened, the catafalque began to glitter in sad majesty.

The chamberlain solidified out of the darkness.

Oliva handed him the ducal seal and spoke the words she had been told tradition required: “Deliver this to the justiciar, Speaker Quarina, and inform her that the gods have placed the city in her hands.” The man bowed and disappeared as gently as he had come.

Bats wheeled high overhead. The rain grew louder beyond the pillars. Servants bowed and departed, leaving Oliva alone with memories. It was over. She had completed her duties. Soon Speaker Quarina would take charge. No doubt she was already rounding up a seer and her scribes and anyone else she needed for the formalities… And then what? The Winner? Those last words from Piero seemed more and more like a sending from the gods. He had shown no signs of awareness for a thirty before or after that moment, but Celebre had been his life, and why should They not let him name his successor? Except, he hadn’t. It still made no sense. Why not a name?

Something moved in the north doorway — thump, thump- and Oliva turned to glare at the big man limping toward her. Purque leaned heavily on the spear he used as a staff, the impacts of its butt syncopating with the lighter tap of his ivory stump. His striped smock was soaked, his white hair all rattails. At least he had had the decency to leave his escort outside, but she still half-turned from him to show that his intrusion was an insult to the dead.

He halted at the far side of the bier, studied the corpse for a moment, then looked across at her. “He was one of the bravest men I ever met, my lady.”

She thought he was mocking and snapped, “What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said. He did not just go into danger himself, he took you and his children as well, because he had to. Most rulers would have long since fled. I have never seen such dedication. It was duty beyond the limits of courage!”

“You were there?” She felt her face flame scarlet. To mention that day of her shame was unspeakably cruel. She had not thought Purque was that sort of Werist. Bah! All Werists were scum, animals, dregs.

“I was the Fist’s driver that day. I know what happened after, too. I helped guard your prison. You were not without courage yourself, my lady.”

She turned her back on him. Chies was what had happened. Now even Chies had gone.

They were alone in the great chamber, and yet Purque dropped his voice. “What you asked me earlier… I have had no official word, but my scouts report a column of chariots approaching the Meadow Gate.”

“Stralg?” she whispered.

“It could be, my lady. The force is about the right size to be his bodyguard. It may bypass the city, of course. He never forewarns of his coming.”

She nodded her thanks, her skin crawling at the thought of seeing the monster again. He had visited Celebre twice since his conquest, but the last time had been almost ten years ago. Both times he had publicly mocked her, reminiscing about her days of slavery. Surely she need not endure that again, and on the very day of Piero’s death? Intolerable! As soon as these last formalities were completed, she would flee to the Refuge of Nula. Even the Fist’s seers would not find her there.

More movement and voices, this time at the south door. The chief herald led in a parade: the justiciar, the high priest, a blindfolded Witness, two scribes with their satchels, the chamberlain… and Berlice Spirno-Cavotti! What right had that awful woman to be here so soon? Certainly the elders would assemble to pay their respects before anyone else did, but why should that sour-faced woman have precedence over all the rest of them? And she had even had the gall to bring an attendant with her, a girl in servants’ dress carrying what looked like a bundle of laundry.

The priest went to the bier and covered his eyes to pray.

Speaker Quarina frowned at the Werist, then extended the frown to include Oliva. “Stand back, please.”

Oliva took a few paces backward. So did Purque- thump, thump — deliberately ignoring the hint that he should withdraw completely.

The justiciar bit her lip, but did not comment. She began the ritual. “Witness, who is that?”

The seer was male, surprisingly-a youngish man wearing a simple black robe and a white blindfold. When he spoke the formal reply, his voice was high-pitched and quavered with emotion that Oliva had never heard from a Witness before.