A hundred and fifty revellers in the inn died instantly.
A dozen houses caught fire. Wilful Murder scrabbled to his feet and ran for the fire company.
Two alleys away, Kronmir leaned against a building and watched the red firelight in the sky.
His mind rattled on with the problem for less than three heartbeats before he drew the obvious conclusion. He tore the amulet from his neck . . . and paused.
And then ran for the Academy. If the thing went off in the alleys then a thousand people would die.
Kronmir ran all the way to the main entrance to the Academy, where the iron maw of Cerberus was a black hole in the night. He sprinted up to the three-headed dog and cast the thing, chain and all, into the open mouth of the nearest head.
The dog gave a cough, like a sick child.
Kronmir stood by it and panted, his elbows folded against his chest. Revellers passed him on either side – across the street, a man stopped and pointed at the red sky. Other people paused, and in the distance he could hear a hymn being sung.
People in the Great Square were still dancing.
He ran the whole strand of logic through in his head – once again. Just to be sure of his chain of causality.
His assassin had been surrounded.
The inn had exploded.
Aeskepiles had expressed surprise that the assassin and the survivors of his team were still alive.
Aeskepiles had made the amulets.
The young man – the young scholar from the Academy – had said that the amulets were surprisingly powerful.
QED.
Aeskepiles had given him devices to kill his agents.
Kronmir stood by the great iron statue of Cerberus for as long as it would take for a nun to say a pater noster.
And then he started across the square.
Gabriel Muriens lay on a cot in the pavilion that had been arranged for him on the jousting field. There were six braziers and a turf hearth struggling to keep the bitter cold at bay, and a closed bed had been moved in.
Ser Michael, in consultation with Ser Alcaeus and Lady Maria, had determined that the Megas Ducas was easier to defend in the middle of the hippodrome.
The Red Knight was sitting up on a dozen heavy pillows, his chest tightly bandaged. Messengers came and went, checked by a series of sentries who were company veterans with orders that only well-known company men could pass. It wasn’t fair to the Moreans who were loyal, but it functioned.
‘How bad?’ the Duke asked a shaken Long Paw.
‘Christ on the cross, my lord, it was like-’ He shook his head. ‘Like the heart of a forge fire, for a moment.’
Young Morgan Mortirmir, standing at the Red Knight’s shoulder, gave a slight bow. ‘My lord, if you are feeling stable then I’d like to have a look. Any of my fellow scholars could support you in a crisis.’
The Duke frowned. ‘What’s the Academy doing?’
‘Nothing, my lord.’ Morgan looked down, as if embarrassed. Perhaps he was. ‘They have taken no action.’
The Duke turned his head back to Long Paw. ‘What else?’
‘We followed the tracks – physical, and hermetical – to the tavern. Wilful got there with some troops, I wasn’t keen to take the bastard by myself.’
The Duke reached out and touched Long Paw. ‘You did right. Force, especially overwhelming force, saves lives.’
Long Paw looked miserable. ‘Tell that to Gelfred – he lost both his dogs and he’s like to lose his left arm, too. Or to Kanny – he’s dead. Three dead and three more badly burned.’ The older man shook his head. ‘I’m not cut out for this. I’ll cut a throat, but I don’t like giving orders. Making the call.’
Ser Jehan held out a cup of wine. ‘You did well to come away with anyone alive. But my lord, have you thought this through – militarily? If they have these explosives what else can they do? Can they knock down buildings?’
The Duke gave his mentor a mirthless smile. ‘Jehan, a master hermeticist can knock down a city wall in one stroke. They just don’t, mostly. It takes time and effort to do, and most of them are playing other games.’ He shook his head. ‘But this one isn’t.’
Jehan drank some wine. ‘My lord, I’m always the naysayer – I realise it robs me of – of-’ He smiled. ‘Of something. But listen – we’re on a battlefield of the enemy’s choosing, and he’s got a new set of weapons and tactics. This is like Etrusca – assassins. Magic. Can we go back to killing monsters?’
‘We can’t just retreat and regroup,’ the Duke said. He grunted as pain hit him afresh. ‘Morgan, go see the ruins of the taverna. See what there is to be seen. I’d like to know how it was done so that when I panic, I panic for a reason.’ He put his head back slowly. ‘Gentlemen, we’re building something here. If we beat Andronicus, we’ll have plenty of time. We’ll have an income base and a series of fortified towns and castles. And allies.’
‘Allies?’ Jehan spat.
Alcaeus had been sitting on a stool, but now he sat up. ‘Yes, ser knight. Allies. Many Moreans are in favour of what you have been doing. Peace – a strong peace, and a fair one, means that our merchants can compete with the Etruscans and Galles, and even the Albans and the Occitans.’
Ser Jehan shrugged. ‘While the princess pays Etruscan master assassins to kill us?’
Alcaeus met him, shrug for shrug. ‘My mother is doing her best to curb the princess,’ he said. ‘We don’t think she knew anything about the assassin.’
The Duke shook his head. ‘It makes no sense. I’m no fool, and I can’t even see exactly who we’re fighting. Why? Why is the princess sending messages to Andronicus? Why did the court mage betray the Emperor? Why is the Academy standing by and letting people die from a use of the hermetical that – at least in Alba – would get you burned at the stake?’
Alcaeus stroked his beard. ‘My lord I grew up here, and I don’t understand all the factions. Sometimes every man and every woman is their own faction. As for the Patriarch – who knows what he really thinks – eh? About you as an Alban? About your confessor here?’ Alcaeus shook his head. ‘I mean no offence, Father, but the Patriarch believes that priests should not fight. Many of our monks and priests are against that, and there has been trouble over it for years – and then an Alban comes with a member of the fighting orders as his confessor-’
‘He’s not my confessor,’ the Duke said. ‘I like to keep it all between me and God.’
Father Arnaud was sitting behind the canopy, almost invisible. Now he rose. ‘Would it kill you to talk about it? And have you considered that your private quarrel with God may in the end hurt your company? Perhaps it is our business.’
‘Perhaps,’ the Duke said. ‘But you know what? I’m really quite fond of you all – even Wilful Murder. And I’m quite sure that when my little problem with God finally comes to light, you’ll all-’
There was a stir, and some shouting out beyond the cloth and the torchlight.
The Duke sat up. ‘Michael – see to that,’ he said. The Duke had a roundel dagger in his fist.
Michael was in full harness. He and Jehan went out together, and Toby, also in harness, drew his sword. So did Father Arnaud. Long Paw eased his in its scabbard.
Ser Michael reappeared. ‘My lord. It is-’ His face was white in the torchlight and his mouth looked stretched tight. ‘It’s a man who claims to be the head of Andronicus’s spy service. He begs an audience with you immediately.’
The Duke’s right hand moved, and a glowing green shield came up, a bubble that passed with some attenuation through the cloth of the hangings.