PREFACE

THE LAST DAYS OF MAN

Man once ruled over an Empire that stretched throughout countless worlds, worlds that formed a complex cycle, a self-contained chain.

In his hunger for knowledge, Man unlocked the door to another realm, that of the alien race, the Csendook, and thus began a thousand year war in which these ferocious aliens, faster and stronger than Man, began the inexorable conquest of his Empire.

In desperation, facing extinction, Man's Imperator Elect and his Consulate sought to escape the Csendook tide. On the world of Eannor, the Imperator's Prime Consul and principal scientist, Zellorian, used dark and forbidden powers to create a gate into a separate cycle of worlds, a feat thought to be impossible. Zellorian brought the Imperator Elect, his remaining Consulate and the last of Man's army through to the world of Innasmorn, the Mother of Storms.

Innasmorn is a world of elemental forces, where the storms are worshipped as gods by its inhabitants. They, who are themselves pardy elemental, have no use for technology and have almost completely outlawed the use of metals. When they learn of the arrival of the intruders, the Men of the Imperator, they begin preparations for a war.

However, a small group of Innasmornians under Usse- mitus, a woodsman, question the decision of the the Wind- masters to carry war to the intruders, about whom little is known. Ussemkus meets Aru Casruel, a girl who flees the Sculpted City, where the Imperator has built a base in the mountains. Aru warns Ussemitus that Zellorian is prompting the Imperator to subdue the people of Innasmorn. Those in the Sculpted City who would prefer an alliance and peace with the races of Innasmorn are being eliminated by the ruthless Zellorian.

Ussemitus and Aru search for a forbidden land far in the west of Innasmorn, which is said to contain ancient powers. They fear that Zellorian will seek out these powers and attempt to harness them in his new thirst for control. With the help of Quareem, a renegade Windmaster, Zellorian attempts to release the storm-of-the-dark, terrible destructive forces chained by the gods of Innasmorn, but Ussemitus and his companions enlist the help of the Windmasters and thwart Zellorian's ambitions.

As the shadow of a new war threatens to embroil Man on Innasmorn, the victorious Csendook declare their own Crusade against Mankind ended. A Supreme Sanguinary is appointed, Auganzar, and he is given the task of subduing the last surviving Men in the original world cycle. Auganzar creates gladiatorial schools, where Men are trained as moillum, human gladiators who have exchanged their freedom for service to the Csendook. They perform in the Games and are used in hunting down their own fellow Men who will not capitulate, for which the moillum are well rewarded.

But Auganzar is obsessed with the belief that the Imperator Elect is still alive and that somehow he has evaded the Csendook and achieved the unthinkable, breaking through the very fabric of the world cycle to whatever lies beyond. When the Csendook military rulers, the Garazenda, learn that Auganzar may be seeking the Imperator Elect, some of them, led by the Marozul, Zuldamar, embark on a secret plot to assassinate hiin, as they have no desire to renew the costly Crusade.

Auganzar sends one of his loyal commanders, Vorenzar, to the world of Eannor, where it is believed by most Csendook that the Imperator Elect perished along with Zellorian and his principal supporters. But Vorenzar is charged by Auganzar with searching for any trail that might lead to the Imperator: he is told to find him at any cost.

Using an Opener, one of the Csendook sub-races bred for the creating of gates between worlds, Vorenzar finds a way through to Innasmorn, aided by a strange, ghost-like guide that promises him power. With a handful of survivors from the carnage of the Crossing, Vorenzar hears of and searches for a land in the far west of Innasmorn that is said to contain absolute power, the World Splinter.

Meanwhile, Ussemitus and his companions also journey to the lands of the west in search of the fabulous land, knowing that Zellorian will be seeking its powers for his own ends. The gliderboat of Ussemitus is pursued by another similar craft, the quasi-human death machine, a black gliderboat, created by Zellorian.

Ultimately Ussemitus and his companions reach the World Splinter, an immense fragment of a lost world of power, and in a grim struggle defeat Vorenzar and his minions and turn aside the corrupt power of the black gliderboat. The dark powers that Innasmorn once chained are now embroiled in the conflict, using the evil in Vorenzar and in Zellorian's terrible servant to release a Malefic, a nightmare force that prepares to unleash the old powers of the night.

As Ussemitus prepares to defend Innasmorn from the ravages of these forces, Zellorian determines to crush the remaining resistance to his control of the Imperator Elect. He foils a plan of Consul Pyramors to get rebel aid to the outlawed Gannatyne, and reveals to Pyramors that his lover, Jannovar, is not dead as he thought, but alive in the old world cycle they have left.

Zellorian sends Pyramors back to Eannor in exchange for the safety of his rebels. As he travels through the gate between world cycles, Pyramors meets an Accrual, a parasitic being that feeds on the blood and sacrifices that create gates. The Accrual promises Pyramors a return to Innasmorn if he acquires sacrifices for it.

On Eannor, Pyramors is captured by servants of the Csendook Marozul, Zuldamar, and his presence is kept a secret from those who serve Auganzar. Zuldamar's Csendook persuade Pyramors to help them in the assassination attempt on Auganzar, in return for which they will find Jannovar.

Pyramors progresses through the gladiatorial schools, the warhalls, preparing for the Testament, the ultimate gladiatorial games held on the Warhive, where he will have the chance to kill Auganzar. While he moves upward through the system, Pyramors is hunted by Auganzar's servants, Zemaal, masters of the hybrid tigerhounds. He is also being searched for by a spectral, a spirit being of Innasmorn, sent to the world cycle by Ussemitus.

Helped by Jannovar, Pyramors triumphs at the Testament, but before he can destroy Auganzar, is forced to flee with Jannovar down into the depths of the Warhive. They find their way back to Eannor and the zone of sacrifice, readying for a return to Innasmorn, but are confronted by Auganzar. A bargain is struck : in exchange for the secret of the way to Innasmorn, Auganzar agrees to let Pyramors warn his allies that the Csendook are coming. Auganzar seeks only the Imperator Elect and Zellorian. He gives Pyramors six months to take his allies to safety.

And on Innasmorn the armies of Vittargattus and Ond- rabal are about to unleash the storms of Innasmorn upon the Sculpted City. Ussemitus and his allies seem powerless to prevent wholesale chaos.

BOOK ONE

WAR WOLVES

1

THE RENEGADES

Silence and darkness.

They were one, like the great emptiness before time, before the birth of the first world. Complete and utter, infinite. Ussemitus was barely conscious of himself within it, like a lost thought, in danger of being smothered by the infinity that surrounded him. Used as a lens for the powers within the World Splinter, he had focused the Mother's power, directing the course of the servant spectrals out beyond this place, beyond Innasmorn itself, to Eannor and further, to the Warhive.

The first spectral he had sent was lost, damaged in the arenas of the Csendook world, absorbed somehow into the sword of their Warlord, Auganzar. But the other had succeeded in its task and guided Pyramors and the girl, Jannovar, back through the bloody path between world cycles to Innasmorn. There was terrible danger on this path: the blood-hunger of the Accrual, the monstrous parasitic being that stalked the path. It was aware of Pyramors, and what had been promised it. But the spectral had evaded it.

Even so, Ussemitus felt his own powers drained, his mind and body weak, in need of long rest. Somehow he had brought Pyramors back, but only just. He would have brought him here, to the World Splinter itself, to safety, to a haven where he could prepare him for what was to come. But the energy of the spectral was all but burned up. In desperation, a gate had been opened, somewhere far short of these western lands: in the mountains, east of the Sculpted City. There, at least, there should be a degree of safety from Pyramors's enemies, and possibly a way to the rebels that had filed the city.

But for now, Ussemitus had fallen again into the exhausted sleep, deep down in the womb-like retreat of the World Splinter, where fresh power could be tapped, pumped into him. He had no contact with Pyramors. There was no way that he could offer him further help. Not yet.

The dark closed in. The Mother gave him deep rest: there were so many things he must do for her if he were to fulfil the destiny she had planned for him. But she felt a tremor of unease. There was something within him, a fierce will, that would wake with him, and question. Would he accept the answers?

They had been travelling through the rugged mountains for almost two months. At first they had no real idea where they could be, but Pyramors calculated that they were in the eastern mountains, north and east of the Sculpted City. The spectral that had guided them so heroically through the paths of the Accrual's lair, had not been able to take them further, to whatever destination it had wanted to find. When its energy had been spent, it dissolved into the air as if it had never been. With it had gone all hope of contact with whatever controlled it.

Pyramors found it difficult to control his frustration. This was Innasmorn, in a totally different world cycle to Eannor, yet he was countless miles away from the city. But Jannovar was thrilled to be free of Eannor and the Csendook worlds, and said so repeatedly. She knew the urgency of Pyramors's quest, but to be here was, to her, like a part of a dream she had never-expected to fulfil. She did nothing to hold back their journey, but she would have been perfectly content to remain with him in these mountains, alone and wrapped up in the love that had grown between them. She could never be the woman who had once been his lover, her own sister – Jannovar, whose name she had taken, and which she would always insist on keeping.

Pyramors came through the tangle of undergrowth as lithely and as silently as a cat. Strapped to his shoulder was the recently slain carcass of a creature not unlike a young buck deer. They were mercifully plentiful in this part of the mountains, and he and Jannovar had been able to eat well.

He parted the branches in front of him to see the rock pool. It was one of the most suitable places they had found since beginning their trek through the mountains, naturally sheltered from predators by the rock wall behind it and the drop down to the valley below, with tightly packed copses on either side. The pool was fed by a tumbling stream that ran out at its far end as an overspill and dropped in a fine spray to the lands below.

Pyramors smiled. Jannovar had stripped off her clothes and bathed in the icy pool. Now, with the sun at its zenith, she was standing on a smooth rock at the edge of the pool, her hair flung back. She twisted it to wring the water from it, the sunlight gleaming on her naked body.

Pyramors drew in his breath. He knew that body now, every line of it, its texture. So like the Jannovar that had been, and yet not her. He accepted it now. They were not the same. At first he had made her a substitute, and she had encouraged it. But they learned quickly that it would be impossible to persist in this illusion. She must be loved for who she was.

Looking at her now he knew that he loved her, not as her sister. Their time in these mountains had opened a new way for him. Though his life was mapped out ahead of him, his time not his own, she was an intrinsic part of it. Did she understand? Could he ever make her believe that, although his past could never be wiped away, she meant so much to him now? It had taken him a long time to realise it himself.

He slipped from the bushes, confronting her with a grimace as if he were a bandit.

She gasped, not having heard him approach, and almost tumbled back into the waters.

He was beside her at once, arms about her, laughing. He bent to her and kissed her, and for a long moment they clung to each other above the valley.

'A beautiful creature like you should take more care,' he laughed softly. 'If you were attacked in such a remote place, who would come to your aid?'

Her arms tightened about him. 'Then I'm safe from attack, now that you've arrived?'

'That isn't what I said.' He kissed her again, but a moment later his head jerked up.

She knew at once that something was wrong. She had come to understand and trust his uncanny sense of hearing. He gestured to her clothes and she bent down to them, dressing swiftly while he dropped the carcass and slipped his sword from its sheath. She knelt among the rocks, eyes scanning the bushes around them and the rocks above. She saw nothing.

Pyramors had noticed a subtle change in their surroundings: she saw him tense. He held his blade ready. Were there men in these forests?

'D'you have a name, fellow?' came a gruff voice.

Pyramors did not react, but his pulse throbbed. The man had spoken in his own tongue. He was no Innasmornian.

'There are half a dozen arrows aimed at your chest, fellow. Spit out your name,' came the voice.

'Pyras,' said Pyramors, using the alias he had used among the Csendook.

'Never heard of yer. Who d'ya serve?'

Pyramors knew from the man's tone that he was not one of the Imperator Elect's guard, nor part of any unit of Zellorian's. He must be one of the rebels. But he had to be sure.

'Myself.'

'What about our illustrious Imperator?'

'I love him as deeply as you do.'

There was silence for a moment, and then the first of the branches were pulled apart. A weatherbeaten face poked through, the man's beard thin and ragged, his eyes as sharp as a hunting bird's.

The man grunted as if he recognised Pyramors but could not place him. It would be true of many of the rebel soldiery, who would never have met the Consul or been close to him. The man's attention strayed to the girl among the rocks.

Behind him another warrior emerged. 'Pyras my arse,' he said under his breath, his own face splitting in a grin. 'It's Pyramors.'

Pyramors knew him at once. It was Lascor, one of the soldiers from the Sculpted City whom he had helped to escape.

Lascor came forward, bowing. His wide grin suddenly changed as he straightened. 'Sire, I must apologise. For myself and for Kelwars here. Our life in the mountains has roughened our tongues.'

Pyramors nodded, though he did not mask his relief. He studied the two men critically. Lascor was of medium build, as fit and muscled as any of the moillum Pyramors had left on Eannor, his face clean-shaven and deeply tanned. There was something in his manner that spoke of his freedom, something that was missing in a moillum, as though he had been born to this terrain.

Kelwars, whose smile had become an unwitting scowl, was much the leaner of the two men, his chest thick with hair, his arms bare but tattooed exotically. The bow slung over his shoulder looked as if it would take two ordinary men to draw it, and his hands were scarred and calloused.

'How far is the city?' said Pyramors.

Lascor was puzzled by the question. Pyramors guessed that he would have assumed Pyramors had come from the Sculpted City. But the warrior pointed across the valley to the next range of peaks. 'Fifty miles or more.'

'And Gannatyne?'

Lascor gestured back beyond the woods. 'Ten or so. In the fortress of Starhanger. But it's not safe to go there. Zellorian has strengthened its defences.'

'I've arrived here by a somewhat tortuous route,' Pyramors told them. 'All of which I will explain in good time. Who commands you? Are you directly under Jorissimal?'

Lascor nodded. 'Yes, sire. He controls all our units. Sire, have you left the city altogether?' He glanced at Kelwars, but the latter looked away, as though uneasy.

'I have. It is no longer safe for me, nor for any of our sympathisers. Zellorian is conducting searches designed to destroy all who oppose the Imperator Elect.'

Kelwars was listening, but his eyes could not keep from Jannovar, who had risen up from her place of hiding. She tossed her head, freeing her hair of more water, unaware of how stunning she looked.

'This is Jannovar,' said Pyramors, holding out his hand to her, though his eyes remained fixed on the two men. They both saw the challenge in them, as if Pyramors expected them to comment.

Both Lascor and Kelwars inclined their heads as Jannovar took Pyramors's hand, but Pyramors could see the sudden tension in them. Her presence here would undoubtedly pose questions, if not to them then certainly to their stern leader. But maybe they would not know about Jannovar, and what had occurred on Eannor at the time of the Crossing. Possibly her name might mean nothing to any of them. Better if it did not.

'A pleasure to meet you, my lady,' said Lascor.

'Her father was an Ekubal,' said Pyramors. 'So you will accord her the respect that noble house is due.'

'But of course, sire,' said Lascor, and both he and Kelwars again inclined their heads.

Pyramors casually picked up the carcass of the creature he had slain and slung it over his shoulder, sheathing his sword. 'Will you take us to Jorissimal?' It was an instruction, not a request, and the men recognised it.

If they were curious, they kept their feelings to themselves, but the power of Pyramors was known to them, and their men, all of whom showed their delight at having the Consul among them, knowing that he was Gannatyne's strongest ally, the centre of the rebellion.

As the party made its way up through the forest, Pyramors asked for reports, and Lascor brought him up to date on their situation. Apparently there were a number of rebel nests, places hidden high in the mountains where patrols from Gannatyne's prison could not find them. Zellorian's guards spent as little time out of the garrison as they could, knowing that it was secure from any attacks. It seemed unlikely that Gannatyne could be freed. No one had been able to get into the garrison to find out anything about him although word from the Sculpted City had filtered back to the rebels that he was alive, living the life of a hermit within his prison. Lascor explained that the Sculpted City had fallen silent for some months and that there had been no fresh escapes, which seemed strange. He wondered if the rebellion there had ended somehow.

Pyramors was reluctant to say much about it.

Lascor told him that Jorissimal was undecided as to what to do. Should he make an attempt on the garrison and free Gannatyne if at all possible? If he succeeded, it would mean that more of the men of the Sculpted City would rally to the rebellion. Or should the rebels use their strength to help others out of the Sculpted City? Jorissimal had decided it must be one thing or the other: the rebels were becoming exasperated at the lack of decision.

'It's our families,' said Lascor. 'Many of us have wives, children, in the Sculpted City. They cannot be safe. We have always assumed Zellorian would not dare take action against them. He'd only be fuelling the rebellion, would he not? But at the moment it seems as if the rebellion is at a standstill.'

Pyramors listened to all that was said, encouraging the rebels to speak openly. He did not speak his own mind, offered no solutions, but promised them that when he sat down with Jorissimal, something positive would be done.

Out of hearing of the Consul, Kelwars spoke softly to a companion. 'The whispers I hear speak of betrayal. That Pyramors himself ended the rebellion in the city. Guard your back, Tennegar, and watch every shadow from now on.'

They sat alone, looking out from the high place at the mountains, the twilight glow beyond them. In the camp below them there was little sound, and the fires were carefully shielded. Pyramors had to remind himself that this was Innasmorn, an alien world, a world of other races, beings who were outside the wars of man. But how long could they remain so?

Jorissimal sat with him, equally thoughtful after their long, private talk. He was a sound warrior, a man in his early fifties who had seen considerable action in the Csendook wars, and Pyramors would trust him with his life. But even Jorissimal had frowned at the news his Consul had brought with him from Eannor. He had listened-thoughtfully as Pyramors had explained all that had happened to him since being sent through to Eannor by Zellorian. But he had deliberately played down the fact that he had told the rebels in the city to give up their rebellion.

'Csendook,' murmured Jorissimal at last, breaking the silence of the night air. 'Coming here.'

'In less than four months,' said Pyramors.

Jorissimal shook his head. 'You lead us. No one will deny you that, sire. But to bring Csendook to this world, this haven — '

'I have brought Zellorian's doom, no more than that,' said Pyramors curdy. He was well aware of the horror his decision would have for his people. It would seem like a betrayal. But he must teach them it was to be revenge for Zellorian's betrayals.

'Can you be sure Auganzar will keep to his bond? He is, after all, a Csendook. They are sworn to destroy all mankind.'

'I trust him to do what he promised me. But we have only a few months to save our own people. When Auganzar arrives with his Swarm, he will obliterate the Sculpted City and anyone he finds there.'

'And after that? When he has the head of the Imperator on one pole and that of Zellorian on another? What is to prevent him seeking mastery of this world?'

'He'll leave it. We'll be spared.' Because I could have had him and his Swarm killed, Pyramors told himself. I could have given them to the Accrual, though Auganzar found that out. I did not know, but Auganzar understood. How can I explain to my people the bargains that were struck? That he gave me Jannovar. How could they see that as anything but just another deceit, a betrayal? But how much do they know about her? The question burned, but he dared not ask it.

Jorissimal would have pressed Pyramors on this, but he could see that he would unlock no more detail than he already had. But Pyramors seemed assured. For whatever reasons, he trusted the Csendook. It was unprecedented. No treaties had ever been struck with the aliens before.

'Our position is critical,' said Pyramors.

'If we could free Gannatyne – ' Jorissimal began.

'We don't have enough men yet. I've not seen the garrison, but we could destroy ourselves trying to get in. We need a stronger force.'

'Then you've decided to return to the Sculpted City?'

'We must get our people out, their families. Call all the rebels together, Jorissimal. Bring their leaders to me. We have to do it soon.'

Jorissimal rose, studying the black skies overhead as though they had been lowering, intent on listening to what had been said. He nodded. 'I'll send runners out within the hour.'

Some time later, in the shadows of the cave that had been provided for them, Pyramors and Jannovar held each other. He kissed her gently, meaning to talk softly of the things to come, but she silenced him and drew him down beside her on the skins and furs. They made love gently, forgetting for a brief time the fears they both felt about the coming weeks. Jannovar knew well enough that the conflict would begin soon.

'You must remain here,' he told her at last. 'You have endured enough terrors with me.'

She would have argued, would have told him she would gladly remain with him even at the head of his warriors, but she knew him well enough to know that it would be pointless. He would not take her. She had known the moment would come.

'Is it to be soon?'

'The leaders will gather. I'm taking them to the Sculpted City. We have to bring our people out, even though Zellorian may believe the rebellion to be over. Even though he no longer persecutes them, they will not survive the coming of Auganzar.'

She shuddered in his arms. She would never forget the terror of the zone of sacrifice on Eannor, the confrontation with the Supreme Sanguinary. She could never share Pyramors's trust of the alien warlord.

'But it will end,' he avowed. 'Then our lives will be our own. There'll be no more hiding, no more slavery.'

Again she kissed him, holding him with a barely concealed desperation. They loved again, until the dark, brooding stillness of Innasmorn drew over them both.

2

VOICE OF THE NIGHT

The two men stood on a balcony that overlooked the city. As twilight fell, darkening, the mountains that pressed close to the very walls, lights blazed in the streets below. Innasmorn, with its strange winds and temperamental storms, had made the citizens cautious. They had no liking for ambiguous shadows or for the darkness of this world's night. And in the Sculpted City there were other reasons for a man to be wary of the silent hours.

Both men were dressed in the robes of the Consulate, white and flowing, though they were ready to make for their homes and their families, where they would be glad to put off the responsibilities of their posts for another night. But they could not slough off their concerns so easily.

Inevitably, as they looked at their city, they turned to stare at the rock wall that rose up from its eastern extremity, the wall that was the beginning of another range, rising sheer to the clouds. There were buildings cut into its base, for the city had been cleverly constructed within the valley, using as many natural features as possible. But there were no lights in those buildings, and in the face of the mountain the openings were unlit, as though they might be the caves of huge bats or other aerial creatures. Occasionally something seemed to pass there, insubstantial as a shadow, and both the Consuls frowned in thought. Somewhere high up within that rock wall, the Prime Consul worked on whatever new design he had for the future of the city. While in the palace, a fortress that rose up in the heart of the city, dominating it in a tradition that went back to the remotest beginnings of man's history, the Imperator Elect and his immediate servants thrived, careless of Zellorian's work and the city's needs.

The first of the two Consuls, Tremazon, shook his head in an exasperated way. 'Innasmorn is not a haven, Gratello. It has become a prison.'

Gratello, the elder of the two by a dozen years, looked about him cautiously, although there was no one likely to be near them in this private place. He ran scrawny fingers through his white hair. 'You're beginning to sound like one of Gannatyne's supporters,' he replied with a nervous laugh.

Tremazon grunted. He was in his mid forties, though the events on Eannor, the Crossing and the settling on Innasmorn had taken a premature toil. 'I'm not a young man. I've had my fill of wars.'

'You think Zellorian plans war? But surely the so-called rebellion is over.'

'We're his fools, Gratello. His fodder.'

'Have you only just begun to realise?'

'Of course not. But I've never thought rebellion sensible, not while Zellorian holds such power.'

'But you do now?'

Tremazon looked closely at his companion. They had been friends for many years. But no one spoke of rebellion, treason, without putting his life at stake. Zellorian ruled this city. It was easy to lose a friend, no matter how old, when one courted rebellion.

'I have tolerated many things, even the casting out of strong men like Gannatyne, for the good of the city. For the safety of my own family.'

'Judgements we have all had to make,' agreed Gratello.

'But we are not free men.'

Again Gratello looked about him. 'You know what you are saying?'

Tremazon nodded to the far rock wall, the towering fist of Zellorian's power. 'What does he do there? What control do the Consulate have? None! The Imperator is quite content to revel in his freedom here. He does nothing but amuse himself. He has never had so much freedom. Affairs of state no longer matter to him. They are left to the Consulate, or rather, to select members. What responsibilities do you and I have now? Duties that could be performed by clerks! We are on the Consulate to govern, Gratello. Not to organise the building of houses! To supervise the storing of grain!'

'Not all of the Consulate have such minor duties.'

'No. They do not. Some Consuls have grown greatly in power. Men who have no business being on the Consulate at all. How can we possibly tolerate the likes of Onando? That little pig of a man! He would sell his own mother if it meant another step closer to Zellorian.'

'He spends much time with the Prime Consul, as do others who are as uncouth and unsuitable,' Gratello agreed.

'I regret my past weakness,' Tremazon told him abruptly. 'I acted from cowardice – '

'We all have our people to think of – '

Tremazon glared at him. 'No. We should have had more spine.'

Gratello drew in his breath. 'Tremazon, we must trust each other. If we speak our minds fully on this matter — '

'Betrayal is death. If you spoke of this to Zellorian's supporters, I am already marked.'

In the light from the brands below, Gratello's face was glistening, a sheen of perspiration coating it. They were toying with fire. But Gratello could not believe Tremazon had come to test his faith: he could not really be one of Zellorian's fools, seeking to trap him.

'I'm with you, you know that.'

Tremazon breathed a sigh of relief. He could see that his words had frightened his old friend. 'We've trod the safe path for long enough. It's no longer safe. You know that Gannatyne has allies in the city?'

'Even now? Well, I had guessed as much. But since Consul Pyramors left us, there have been few reports of men slipping away into the mountains. If there is insurrection, it is well hidden.'

'Have you talked to any of the other Consuls?'

Gratello paled. 'No! It is dangerous.'

'We may have to now. There must be others like us, who secretly long to bring Zellorian down. Not those who we suspect of being Gannatyne's allies, as Pyramors was, but others who have never dared even to whisper their misgivings. We must find them, Gratello, whatever the dangers.'

Gratello dabbed at his face. The night