“Where I was told to,” he said. She felt like reaching forward and wrenching a better answer out of him, but with difficulty forbore. If this was a joke, she thought grimly, Thorisin’s palace would get itself a new eunuch, cousin or no.

  A few minutes later, Nevrat burst out, “By Vaspur Phos’ firstborn, are you taking us to the High Temple?” The great shrine had been growing against the sky since Artavasdos left Middle Street, but Nevrat had not thought much about it—following their own version of Phos’ faith, the Vaspurakaners did not worship along with imperials. Now, though, the High Temple was too close to ignore.

  Artavasdos turned in the saddle to give Nevrat a respectful look. “You’re very close. How did you guess?”

  “Never mind.” She would rather have been wrong. She slid off the horse with a sigh of relief as Artavasdos tethered it outside the stucco building at the edge of the High Temple courtyard. Together, cautiously, they went to the door of the patriarchal residence. Nevrat grasped the knocker and rapped twice.

  Even she had not expected Balsamon to answer himself. “Come in, my friends, come in,” he said, beaming. Nevrat felt his smile like warm sunshine; no wonder, she thought, the Videssians loved him so well.

  “Where are your retainers, sir?” she asked as he led her and her cousin down a corridor.

  “I have but the one,” Balsamon said, “and Saborios is off on a bootless errand. Well, not quite, but more than he thinks.” He laughed. Though Nevrat did not see the joke, she found herself grinning, too.

  The patriarch led the two Vaspurakaners into his disreputable study. He and the young woman waiting there cleared space for them to sit. She was quite plainly dressed, but for a necklace of emeralds and mother-of-pearl; Nevrat took a moment to realize who she was.

  “Your Highness,” she said, and began a curtsey, but Alypia help up a hand to stop her.

  “We have no time for that,” she said, “and in any case, the favor I am going to ask of you I ask as a friend, not as a princess.”

  “Don’t worry, my dear, Saborios will be bootless a while longer,” Balsamon told her.

  “Not even Nepos knows how long his spell will hold,” Alypia retorted. Quickly, as if begrudging every word, she explained to Nevrat, “Saborios—he’s my uncle’s watchdog here—is off taking a pair of Balsamon’s blue patriarchal boots to be redyed. So long as Nepos’ magic works, he won’t notice the very long wait he’s having for them. Nor—Nepos hopes—will anyone detect that I am not back in the palace complex. But he cannot juggle the two magics forever, so we must hurry with our business here.”

  “Then let me ask at once what you want of me, your Highness,” Nevrat said, carefully not abandoning Alypia’s formal title, “and ask you why you choose to call me friend when we have never met.”

  Artavasdos gasped at her boldness, but Alypia nodded approvingly. “A fair question. We are, though, both friends of Marcus Aemilius Scaurus.”

  Her quiet statement hung in the air a moment. “So we are,” Nevrat said. She studied the princess and added, “You are a good deal more than that, it seems.”

  Despite his role as go-between, Artavasdos looked about ready to flee. Nevrat paid no attention to him; she wanted to see how Alypia would react. Balsamon, though, spoke first: “It also seems Scaurus somehow infects everyone who knows him with his own blunt speech.” Had his words been angry, Nevrat would have been as frightened as her cousin, but he sounded amused.

  “Hush,” Alypia told him. She turned back to Nevrat. “Yes, he and I are a good deal more than friends, as you put it. And because of that, he has been sent to what will almost surely be his death.” She explained what Thorisin required for Marcus to redeem himself.

  “Zemarkhos!” Nevrat exclaimed. Having traveled so long with Gagik Bagratouni’s men, she knew more than she ever wanted to of the fanatic priest’s pogrom against all Vaspurakaners. Anything to hurt him sent hot eagerness surging through her. But she agreed with Alypia—she did not think Scaurus had a chance against him.

  When she said so, the princess sagged against the back of her couch in dismay. Nevrat abandoned her half-formed thought of telling Alypia that Marcus had wanted her, too. That might have cured an infatuation, but she was convinced Alypia felt more—and so did Scaurus, if he was willing to beard Zemarkhos for her sake.

  “Tell me what to do,” she said simply.

  Alypia’s eyes glowed, but she wasted no time on thank-yous. “To destroy Zemarkhos, I think Marcus will have to have an army at his back. His Romans and those who have joined them are in Garsavra. If you rode to tell them what has happened to him, what do you think they would do?”

  Nevrat never hesitated. Give Bagratouni another chance for revenge? Give Gaius Philippus—no, it would be Minucius; Gaius Philippus was with Scaurus—the chance to save his beloved commander? “Charge for Amorion, and Phos spare anything in their way.”

  “Exactly what I thought,” Alypia said, eager now for the first time.

  Nevrat looked at her in wonder. “You would do this, in spite of your uncle’s command?”

  “Command? What command?” Alypia was the picture of innocence. “Balsamon, you as patriarch must be well informed of what goes on in the palaces. Has his Imperial Majesty ever ordered me not to send word to Garsavra of Marcus’ dismissal?”

  “Indeed not,” Balsamon said blandly, though he could not keep the corners of his mouth from twitching upward.

  Only because Thorisin never dreamed you would, Nevrat thought. She did not say that. What she did say was, “I think Marcus is a very lucky man, Princess, to have you care for him.”

  “Is he?” Alypia’s voice was bitter and full of self-reproach. “His luck has an odd way of showing itself, then.”

  “So far,” Nevrat said firmly.

  “You’ll go, then?”

  “Of course I will. Senpat will be furious with me—”

  “Oh, I hope not!” Alypia exclaimed. “I would have gone through him—”

  “—because he’ll be stuck here in the city,” Nevrat said.

  At the same time the princess was concluding, “—but with his duties here, I thought he would have trouble getting away inconspicuously.”

  They stared at each other and started to laugh. Nevrat flashed the thumbs-up gesture the Romans used. She was unsurprised to find Alypia knew what it meant. The princess said, “How will I ever repay you for this?”

  “How else?” Nevrat said. At Alypia’s puzzled look, she explained: “Invite me to the wedding, of course.”

  They laughed again. “By Phos, I will!” Alypia said.

  “Most touching, my children,” Balsamon put in. “But I suggest we bring our pleasant gathering to an end, before this poor lad jitters himself to death.” He made a courteous nod toward Artavasdos, who did seem on the point of expiring. “And, even more to the point, before my dear colleague Saborios at last returns with my boots.”

  After embracing Nevrat, Alypia left first, by a back way. Then Balsamon led Nevrat and her cousin out to Artavasdos’ horse. “It matters less if Saborios should happen to see you,” he said. “He’ll merely think me daft for consorting with heretics.” One of his shaggy eyebrows rose. “Surely I’ve given him better reason than that.” He patted Nevrat’s arm and went back inside.

  The two Vaspsurakaners were still close to the High Temple when a priest came by carrying a pair of blue boots. He had an upright bearing and rugged features, but his face was vaguely confused.

  “Don’t gape at him like that,” Nevrat hissed in Artavasdos’ ear. Her cousin ostentatiously looked in the other direction. He was not cut out for intrigue, Nevrat thought. But it did not matter. Past a glance any man might have sent an attractive woman, Saborios paid no attention to either of them.

  Nevrat began thinking about what she had agreed to try, and also began worrying. From Garsavra to Amorion was no small journey, and many Yezda roamed between the two towns. Could the legionaries force their way through? More to the point, could they do it in time?

  “The only thing to do is find out,” she muttered to herself. She grinned. What better omen to start with than sounding like Scaurus?

  Riding west through the lush farming country of the coastal plain, Nevrat became certain she was being followed. She could see a long way in the flatlands, and the horseman on her trail was noticeably closer than he had been when she first spotted him early that morning.

  She checked her bowstring to make sure it was not frayed. If Thorisin was fool enough to send a single rider after her, he would regret it. So, even more pointedly, would the rider. Not many imperials, she thought proudly, could match her at the game of trap and ambush.

  She did spare concern for Balsamon, Alypia Gavra, and her cousin Artavasdos. She wondered what had gone wrong, back in the city. Maybe Saborios had noticed something amiss in spite of the sorcerous befuddlement Nepos cast on him, or maybe Nepos had just tried keeping too many magics in the air at once, like a juggler with too many cups.

  On the other hand, maybe pincers and knives had torn the truth from Artavasdos, who could not hide behind rank.

  In the end, none of that mattered. What did matter was the fellow coming after her. She glanced back over her shoulder. Yes, he was closer. He had a good horse—not, Nevrat thought, that having it would help him.

  A couple of mule-drawn cars, piled high with clay jugs full of berries, were coming toward her. She swerved behind them. They hid her from view as she rode off the road into the almond orchard along the verge.

  One of the farmers with the carts called, “Old Krates don’t like trespassers on his land.”

  “To the ice with him, if he begrudges me a quiet spot to squat a minute,” Nevrat said. The farmers laughed and trudged on.

  Nevrat walked into the orchard and tethered her horse to a tree out of sight from the roadway. She gave the beast a feed-bag so it would not betray her with a neigh. Then she took her bow and quiver and settled down to wait, well hidden by bushes, for her pursuer.

  Something with too many legs crawled up under her trousers and bit her several times, just below her knee, before she managed to kill it. The bites itched. Scratching at them gave her something to do.

  Here came the fellow at last. Nevrat peered through the leaves. Like her, he was riding one of the nondescript but capable horses the Videssians favored. She set an arrow in her bow, then paused, frowning. She wished she could see better from her cover. Surely no Videssian would wear a cap like that one, with three peaks and a profusion of brightly dyed ribbons hanging down in back.…

  She rose, laughing, her hands on her hips, the bow forgotten. “Senpat, what are you doing here?”

  “At the moment, being glad I found you,” her husband replied, trotting his horse up to her. “I was afraid you’d gone off the road to give me the slip.”

  “I had.” Nevrat’s smile faded. “I thought you were one of Thorisin’s men—the more so,” she added, “as you told me you were staying in the city the other night when I left.”

  Senpat grinned at her. “The thought of sleeping alone for who knows how long grew too disheartening to bear.”

  Her hands went to her hips again, this time in anger. Her eyes flashed dangerously. “For that you would risk us both? Have you all of a sudden gone half-witted? The very reason I got this task was that your leaving the capital might be noticed. You were trailing me—how many imperials are after you?”

  “None. My captain felt very bad when I got a letter from home bidding me return at once because my older brother had just died of snakebite. The same thing had happened to him three years ago, which is why I had Artavasdos write the letter that way. For good measure, he wrote it in Vaspurakaner, which Captain Petzeas doesn’t read.”

  “You have no older brother,” Nevrat pointed out.

  “Certainly not now, poor fellow, and Petzeas has the letter to prove it.” Senpat arched an elegant eyebrow. “Even if anyone who knows differently hears of it, it’ll be too late to matter.”

  “Oh, very well,” Nevrat grumbled. She could never stay annoyed at her husband for long, not when he was working so hard to charm her. And he was right—the imperials were unlikely to see through his precautions. Still: “It was a risky thing to do.”

  Senpat clapped a hand to his forehead. “This, from the woman who rode out alone from Khliat after Maragha? This, from the woman who, if I know her as the years have given me a right to, is itching to tangle with the Yezda or Zemarkhos or both at once?” Nevrat hoped he did not see her guilty start, but he did, and grinned. He went on, “I don’t expect to keep you out of mischief, but at least I can share it with you. And besides, Scaurus is a friend of mine too.”

  Again Nevrat wondered whether he would say that if he knew the Roman had made a move in her direction. Probably, she thought—Marcus was at low ebb the past fall, but took a no when he heard one even so. Senpat would likely chuckle and say he could not fault the tribune’s taste.

  Nevrat did not intend to find out.

  She said, “Come with me while I get my horse. I tied him up in the nut orchard so I could do a proper job of ambushing you.”

  “Hmmp. I suppose I should be honored.” As they scuffed through last year’s dry leaves, Senpat remarked, “Nice quiet place.”

  “A couple of locals told me old Krates, who I take it owns the orchard, doesn’t care for intruders.”

  “He doesn’t seem to have troubled you any while you were setting up your precious ambush.” Senpat put a hand on Nevrat’s shoulder. “Do you suppose he might stay away a while longer?”

  She moved toward him. “Shall we find out?”

  “I still say you shouldn’t have shot Krates’ dog,” Nevrat told her husband a few days later.

  By then they were almost to Garsavra, but Senpat still sounded grumpy. “You’re right. I should have shot Krates, for showing up when he did.”

  “We’ve made up for it since.”

  “Well, so we have.” Senpat peered toward the town ahead. “Why does it look different?”

  “The Romans have been busy,” Nevrat said. A man-high earthwork wall, faced with turf so it would not melt in the rain, surrounded Garsavra. It has been unfortified for hundreds of years, but times were changing in Videssos’ westlands, and not for the better. From the direction in which she was coming, Nevrat could see two openings in the wall, one facing due north, the other east. She was dead certain a matching pair looked west and south. “They’ve turned the place into a big legionary camp.”

  “Sounds like what Gaius Philippus would do—there’s nothing he likes better.” Senpat chuckled. “I wonder if he had the Romans knock down half the buildings in town so he could make the streets run straight between his gates.”

  Nevrat shook her head. “He’s not wasteful. Look at the way they made the Namdalener motte-and-bailey part of their works.” She found the senior centurion too single-mindedly a soldier to be easy to like, but she was always glad they were on the same side.

  The sentries at the north gate were Vaspurakaners, men from Gagik Bagratouni’s band. They brightened at the approach of two of their countrymen. Still, their questions were brisk and businesslike—Roman drill working, Nevrat thought as the foot soldiers stood aside to let her and Senpat into Garsavra.

  Sextus Minucius made his headquarters where Scaurus and Gaius Philippus had before him, in what had been the city governor’s residence. He was a handsome young man, taller than most of the legionaries, with blue-black stubble that darkened his cheeks and chin no matter how often he shaved.

  He greeted Senpat and Nevrat warmly, but with a trace of awkwardness. He had been only a simple trooper when they first attached themselves to the legion; now he outranked them. At their news, though, he abruptly became all business. His face went hard as stone.

  “Gaius Philippus, too, eh?” he murmured, half to himself. He followed it with something in Latin that Nevrat could not follow. Seeing her incomprehension brought him back to the here-and-now, and to Videssian. “Sorry. It sounds like him, I said. The two of you had best wait here while I send for Bagratouni and Pakhymer. They ought to hear your story firsthand, to give me the best advice.”

  That last sentence killed any doubts Nevrat had about who was in charge at Garsavra. In his firm, unhesitating acceptance of duty, Minucius sounded much like Scaurus.

  The orderly outside his office was a Roman. His hobnailed caligae clattered on marble flooring as he dashed off to fetch the officers his commander wanted.

  Laon Pakhymer showed up first. Somehow that surprised Nevrat not at all. Nothing took Pakhymer by surprise—the light cavalry officer from Khatrish had a nose for trouble and a gift for exploiting it.

  Minucius was pacing impatiently by the time Gagik Bagratouni arrived, though the Vaspurakaner was prompt enough. He embraced Senpat and Nevrat in turn. He had known them since he and they still held estates in Vaspurakan, before the Yezda invasions forced so many nobles from their native land.

  “So,” he said at last, turning to Minucius. “I am glad to see them, yes, but is this occasion enough to drag me from my quarters?” His voice was deep and deliberate, a fit match for his solid frame and strong, heavy features, the latter framed by an untrimmed beard as dark and thick as Minucius’ would have been.

  “Yes,” the Roman said flatly. Nevrat exchanged glances with her husband; not many men could withstand Bagratouni’s presence when he chose to exert it. Minucius nodded their way. “Seeing them is one thing, hearing them something else again.”

  Nevrat told most of the story, Senpat filling in details and adding how he had managed to get out of the city to join her. That earned him an admiring grin from Pakhymer. Nevrat saw how her husband drew himself up with pride; praise from the Khatrisher was praise from a master schemer.

  When they were through, Bagratouni did what Nevrat had known he would—he slammed his fist down on the table in front of him and roared, “My men march now! Give me Zemarkhos, Phos, and I will ask for nothing more in this life!”

  Minucius was the one who surprised her. He waited until Bagratouni’s thundering subsided a little, then told the Vaspurakaner, “Your men march nowhere without my leave, Gagik.”