"If you can forgo titles, so can I. Armenides will suffice, or simply Father."
"As you wish."
"For my part please call me Faneuil, as once you did," Hardisty said. He gestured at the model city. "Do you like it?"
Zaranda walked round the model, leaning and stooping to study it with genuine interest. Elaborate and clever constructs had always appealed to her. The buildings were carved of wood to exquisite detail, and so placed that the noonday sun shone down through the octagonal skylight overhead and made them seem a real city somehow reduced and captured on a magician's table.
"It's wonderfully wrought, Faneuil. Did you build it yourself?"
He laughed. "Ah, but that I had the hand skill-or the time. I should more readily win the trust I need from our good people; you know how Tethyrians admire craftsmanship. No, only the vision's mine, guided by the clear eyes of Father Armenides." He held forth a hand. "Behold the Zazesspur of the future!"
Zaranda looked up in amazement. "Zazesspur?"
Hardisty smiled fit to split his head in half. "Indeed."
"You'd raze the city and rebuild it from earth upward?" she asked, straightening.
"An audacious plan, but one I hope to see completed before I pass on."
"But where are the houses and shops? All I see are blockish things like, ahh-"
"Like the palace itself, though smaller. Except for the Temple of Ao and All Faiths there across from it."
Armenides spread hands above the miniature city as if bestowing a benediction. "All parts of daily life shall be drawn together, even as over time the worship of the sundry gods, which is none other than worship of Ao in his myriad aspects, shall be reabsorbed into the body of the All-Faith. In these times of uncertainty and peril, compassion demands that we draw our flock close together where we can most efficiently watch over it."
"I'm uncomfortable thinking of people as sheep," Zaranda said. "But surely you didn't bring me here to discuss rebuilding Zazesspur, Faneuil."
"In a manner of speaking," the baron said, "yes. Specifically, that part you might play in the remaking of Zazesspur-and all Tethyr."
"And what might that be? I'm not much for stone-masonry, nor religion, for that matter."
The baron goggled slightly, then recovered and emitted a hearty laugh. "Ah, a joke. You were ever the sly wit, Zaranda. No, the greatest part of the task that confronts us requires neither trowel nor chisel nor level. It will re-quire the skills of the tongue, and when they fail, the sword. You are remarkably adept with both."
"We do not overlook your skill in matters magical," the cleric added.
"I thought you were trying to clamp down on the mystic arts," Zaranda said. "Swordsmanship too, for that matter."
"Those are actions the council is contemplating," Hardisty said smoothly. " I have no official standing With that body."
"You did get them to build this palace and let you live in it."
They recognize the beauty and strength of our ideas," Armenides said, "and indeed, their inevitability."
He paused to engage her gaze fixedly with his own. She felt a moment's jarring dislocation, a passing loss of balance as if a chasm had opened suddenly at her feet. She rocked back, trying to keep surprise from showing in her face.
"-certainly see the benefits of such a program," the priest was saying. His eyes were only eyes now, not spiritual hammers. "Magic and the sword do much grievous harm. For the sake of all, is it not wisest to restrict their usage to those with the training, wisdom, and moral perspective to use them properly?"
"Meaning us," Zaranda managed to croak.
Baron Hardisty leaned forward on the balls of his feet "The you'll join us?"
"What exactly-beyond the satisfaction of a job well done-is in it for me?"
"You would have a voice in restructuring our anar-chic society," Hardisty said, "as well, obviously, as a hand in running it. Confirmation of your title as Countess Morninggold, as well as a grant-in-aid to secure your possession of it."
"Isn't that a bit ambitious, seeing as you don't yet control even Zazesspur?"
The two men laughed. "Have you never heard the saying that one doesn't hit what one doesn't aim at?" the cleric asked.
"You would certainly not want for material reward," Hardisty said. "During the Tuigan War you displayed considerable waywardness of thought and spirit. Yet al-ways you fought for what you thought was right. Your greatest reward, I warrant, would be the power to help people."
To keep my house, she thought, and win the power to do unlimited good: what more could I ask for? She could think of a thing or two, certainly, such as the companionship of men who bathed and didn't have biceps big-ger than their brains; but she suspected such amenities would be included in the bargain. All he's offering me is everything I've striven for all my life.
And then, in what seemed a different mental voice And all it will cost me is my soul.
"What do you ask of me?"
"Your loyalty," Hardisty said. "Your support. Swear yourself to my service, and you shall have all we've spoken of and more. How say you?"
Zaranda laughed and held up a hand. "I say things are moving rather rapidly for me. I have some friends, who depend on me for their livelihoods, just now. What of them?"
"Certainly you can employ whatever retainers you choose," the baron said, "provided they pass a minor investigation."
"Investigation?"
"A trifle of magic," Armenides said heartily, "to ensure the purity of their minds and motives. It is a a sad truth that many minions of evil move at large through our chaotic world, and we cannot always know them by surface appearance."
"Indeed," Zaranda said. She drew a deep breath and expelled it through pursed lips. "Gentlemen, your offers are most kind. But I need time to assimilate all you've told me, and what you have proposed."
Hardisty gave an airy wave of his big square hand. "I should doubt your wisdom did you not want time to contemplate-may I now call you Countess?"
"Take all the time you need," Armenides said. His forefingers each traced a semicircle in the air before his face, completing the circle at the bottom. "And may the blessings of Ao the Universal follow wherever you walk in this wide world."
The six half-hour bells of midafternoon were still reverberating through the streets of Zazesspur when a company of civic guardsmen entered from either end of the block of the Winsome Repose and took up blocking positions. A squad often men in morions and breast-plates, under the command of a young lieutenant and his sergeant, marched up to the front door of the inn.
The innkeeper, a small weasel-sleek, dark-haired man whose name was Quarlo, met them on the steps. The lieutenant, whose hair hung in black pomaded ringlets to the shoulders, wore a bronze breastplate gorgeously wrought in the likeness of impressive chest and belly muscles, which surely were not mirrored by anything beneath. From the hilt of his rapier hung a scented ball as big as his fist, to help shield his nostrils from assault from the nearby stables. He unrolled a parchment scroll and read aloud "-therefore require you to deliver unto arrest and sequestration the persons of one Zaranda Star, self-styled Countess Morninggold, as well as all companions and chattels. In the name of the city council of Zazesspur, herewith attached the seal of Shaveli, captain of the guard."
Scrubbing his hands compulsively in his apron and rolling his beady eyes, Quarlo listened to the peroration. Then he said, "But, Excellent One, I cannot!"
The youthful lieutenant gave him a terrible eye, which he had devoted much mirror time to perfecting. "And why not?" he asked, in rage that was meant to thunder but squeaked instead.