WEEKS PASSED BEFORE THE summons came. I spent most days in the Magnarch’s palace, more often than not a silent accessory to the reports and inspections of the shipyards and the great cubicula where slept our waiting thousands, our soldiers awaiting the trumpet blast. The Emperor spoke but little through all this, taking in Lord Karol Venantian’s news with the studious quiet of the lifelong monarch. Good rulers—in my experience—listen more than they speak. It had been so with Raine Smythe, and indeed with my father, who for all his callousness ran his prefecture with the ruthless efficiency of a thinking machine.

As the days ran by, I began to imagine that Bassander’s rumor was only that: a rumor. But for the odd remark in council, the Emperor made no more special notice of me than of any other member of the council, as if I were not the man who had delivered him the heads of two Cielcin clan chiefs and cut as many fingers off Syriani Dorayaica’s White Hand. As if I were not the man who refused to die in the Grand Colosseum, as if I were not the man who stood unburned beneath laser fire before the gates of the Storm Wall on Berenike. That itself, I realize now, was a statement in itself, a reminder from His Radiance that whatever I was, he was Caesar.

But the summons did come.

“Just this way, please,” said the Emperor’s manservant, the androgyn whom Caesar had called Nicephorus. The homunculi’s bald pate shone in the lamplight as it led the way up the narrow stair to the viaduct approaching the Chantry sanctum where the Magnarch had his private chapel. “His Radiance asked I bring you to him directly after you arrived.”

“He’s in the chapel?” I asked.

“His Radiance is in the custom of taking these private moments for prayerful contemplation come evenfall,” Nicephorus replied. “Particularly of late. The disposition of the provinces weighs heavily on his mind, you understand.”

I paused a step to permit Valka to go ahead of me up the narrow way, and said, “I do.”

“I trust your time here on Nessus has been satisfactory, my lord?” the servant asked, apparently just filling the silence.

“Save the part where we can’t leave, yes!” Valka replied.

I caught her hand, and she glared down at me, mouthed the word What?

A servant Nicephorus might have been, but a servant with the Emperor’s ear—meaning the butler was the Emperor’s ears. Every word that passed between us, I felt sure, would be passed back to Caesar with no distortion.

“It is bittersweet to be back having been so briefly away,” I said, thinking of the mission to Eikana. Siloed as I was aboard the Ascalon, I had not seen Otavia Corvo, or Lorian Aristedes, or most of my Red Company. They had fought the battle in orbit, and our Imperial minders had made it quite clear we were to return directly to the provincial capital. Coming back felt like a man dreaming thrust back into the gray and waking world. Or perhaps Nessus was the dream, a dull nightmare, and Eikana true wakefulness. The old house—which had become home despite the unseen bars of the cage Venantian and his ilk maintained for Valka and for me—had become like home, but Eikana—and the brief time I’d had with Pallino and with Crim—had reminded me that my home lay cold in orbit, its occupants once again immersed in icy dream.

Nicephorus stopped at the top of the stair for Valka and me to join it. The androgyn smiled, but the light did not quite reach its Imperial emerald eyes. “It brought His Radiance no joy to order you here.”

It was as close to an Imperial apology as any man in the galaxy might hope to get.

Nicephorus extended a hand along the viaduct toward the sanctum—a tall, square building beneath a verdigris dome surrounded by its nine fluted prayer towers. “Come. Caesar should not be made to wait.”

The Excubitors parted and two of the mirrored knights pushed the carved oak doors aside to admit me to the chapel. I had seldom entered the place in all my years at the palace, attending only those ceremonies which necessity compelled me to attend.

The Emperor knelt before the altar, his back to me, arms outstretched in prayer. About him stood his various attendants and hangers-on, the logothetes and scholiasts, heads bowed in mingled prayer and respectful silence. The Archprior Leonora stood to one side like the watchful queen beside the king on his chessboard, though with her black robes and white miter it was impossible to say whether she checked the Emperor or protected him from check.

The altar stood beneath the chapel’s central dome, whose plastered surface was frescoed with the green and blue cloud-streaked face of Earth. The scent of myrrh rose from thuribles hung in the arches that opened round the circumference of that dome, and the smoke of candles burning before the icons in their graven niches twined about the scent of food left before those same icons in offering to the virtues and powers that shaped mankind and her world. Prudence and Justice, Time and Space, Temperance and Fortitude and Bloody-Handed Evolution. There were Icons of Death and Fate and Fury, too, and dozens more less well-known and less prayed-to.

I sensed Valka’s unease boiling off her at my side, and understood it. She was a daughter of the clans of Tavros, a witch in the eyes of the Holy Terran Chantry for the machines that spiderwebbed her brain. Stepping over the threshold of the chapel was like a sheep stepping into the lion’s den, or a lion leaping in among armed shepherds.

Of Bassander Lin, there was no sign, nor did I see Sir Gray or Sendhil Massa, the legate.

The Emperor did not turn, and before Valka and I could make it five paces along the minutely tiled space between, a logothete in the red-piped charcoal of the civil service stepped in and—throwing out an arm—whispered, “Lord Nicephorus! The Emperor is at prayer.”

“We can see that,” Valka said, unable to curb the acid in her voice. She softened it with the sharp V of her smile. Too sharp. The man’s eyes narrowed, and in lieu of answer I bowed my head and waited, twisting the ring of yellow gold upon the first finger of my right hand.

The Emperor’s ring. The ring that belonged on the conspicuously blank spot on his right hand. The ring he had given me before banishing me from the Eternal City after Bourbon and the Empress’s failed plot in the Colosseum.

The Dragonslayer’s ring.

Moving with the smooth grace of a lifetime’s courtly training, Nicephorus interposed itself between Valka and logothete. “Please wait here,” it said.

His Radiance did not stir for another several minutes, nor did his arms waver, red-gloved fingers spread wide to either side, the line of his shoulders straight and proud despite the weight of centuries. It was only then I saw the violet togaed form of Lord Venantian bent not far off upon a velvet-cushioned kneeler, head bowed and hands clasped. On the altar before them, the figure of William the First—the God Emperor—knelt himself beneath the painted dome of Earth, knelt as he had upon the Aventine Hill of ancient Rome in the ashes of his victory over the machines. The statue held aloft a crown of twisted wires, prepared to rest it upon his sainted brow.

In time, the red hands clasped above the Emperor’s red head, and making the sign of the sun disc, he stood, gathering his scarlet-and-gold cape over one arm as he turned. “We had thought you would come alone.”

I did not bow, but went to one knee as was my right as a soldier and knight of the Imperium. I turned my face down, and so could not see if Valka bowed or knelt or gave any sign. “Honorable Caesar,” I began, using the address that, too, was my right as a soldier, “my companion has been imprisoned here beside me these seventy years. She is not your subject, but I had hoped she might add her voice to mine in pleading for our release.” I risked a glance upward to see how the Emperor would respond.

His Radiance turned fully as two attendants hurried forward and adjusted the drape of his cloak and straightened his regalia. He planted one foot on his kneeler and said, “Is that why you are here? To plead? Was it not we who summoned you?”

I felt Valka’s hand on my shoulder, and from its angle guessed that she was standing. She did not speak, but that contact gave me the strength necessary to raise my head entire. I may have been the Emperor’s favorite servant for a time, but that time was long ago, and if Lin’s rumor was wrong, there was great risk in boldness. And yet . . . “Your Radiance,” I said, “I am your faithful servant, but I cannot well serve you here. I accomplished more for your Empire in a single day on Eikana than I have in all these years on Nessus. If I must plead to better serve you, so be it.” Reasonable as he was, the Emperor was not immune to flattery. Few great lords are.

The Emperor’s emerald eyes showed no emotion as he studied me for what felt the life-age of a sun. “Rise, Sir Hadrian,” he said at last, gesturing with one hand. His eyes swept the assembly in the chapel about us, and speaking to the congregation, he said, “Leave us.”

At once the scholiasts and logothetes took their silent leave, slippered feet scraping over tile. I remembered the way cold dread used to ooze down my spine as my father’s counselors filtered from his conference chambers, the way anticipation had clamped iron fingers about my heart. But I’d been young then, was young no more, and though the Emperor should have filled my veins with ice, I found there was little fear left in me.

It was a dance, nothing more.

Leonora and the Magnarch evidently exempted themselves from the Imperial order to vacate themselves, as did the watchful Excubitors, who stood by with highmatter swords blazing and active in attentive hands. Even the Emperor’s androgyn servants departed, save only hairless Nicephorus, who stood with head bowed beside a candlelit altar to two-faced Time. When all the rest were gone, His Radiance said, “I do not know what to do with you, Lord Marlowe.”

No royal we. I did not know if I should take that as a good sign, or a very bad one.

He continued, speaking as if the Magnarch and Archprior were not present. “Do you understand what you’ve done?” I did not answer, but stood in the aisle with Valka, hands clasped before me, the gloved hand twisting the Emperor’s ring. The Emperor began pacing, circling the great altar where the God Emperor’s statue knelt amidst ten thousand burning candles, their bases all blurred into one, their points blazing like a little galaxy. “Four times now you have performed miracles. At Vorgossos, they say you returned from the dead. At Aptucca, you won a victory without spilling a single drop of human blood. In my Colosseum, you defied death again, and again on Berenike. I do not believe the first story. I know the second is not true. The third my Inquisitors have disproved—your false bones—but this . . . fourth one. Berenike. I have seen the recordings.”

I was especially glad, then, that I’d confiscated the suit camera recordings from the Battle of Eikana. It would not have done to add to my list of crimes.

The Emperor had vanished around the rear of the statue then, and against my better judgment I approached the altar where the Magnarch and Archprior stood. “I have tolerated these stories for so long not because I believed them or disbelieved them, but because I believed their usefulness was greater than the threat they posed. The people believe almost anything, and if what they believe is useful to our fight—I call that good.” The Emperor reemerged from the far side of the altar, continued pacing with hands clasped in front of him. “My Chantry,” here he nodded toward Leonora, “believes differently. They believe you are a charlatan and a threat to me. In pursuit of their belief, they have acted in accordance with what they believe to be my best interest and the best interest of the Imperium and of mankind as a whole.” He spread his hands. “Know this: in acting against you, they have acted without orders from me.”

“ ’Tis reassuring,” said Valka, arms crossed.

I felt my heart leap into my throat, but the Emperor ignored her.

“Do you understand the situation you have put me in?” the Emperor asked.

“Will no one rid me of this meddlesome priest?” I intoned, speaking in Classical English.

The Emperor evidently understood that ancient tongue, for he arched one eyebrow. “Just so. My left hand strikes at my right, and I have need of both. Understand: if I order you somewhere—here, say—for a period of some years, know I do not act without reason. I have kept you and my Chantry apart. Kept you from those agencies who believe they know my mind even when I do not.” He came to a halt before the statue of his ancestor, noble face creased with long care. “When last we spoke face to face, you told me you had visions. I did not quite believe you. But as I say, I have seen the recordings from Berenike . . . millions have seen them.”

He turned away, stared up into the graven face of the God Emperor. “They say you are the Earth’s Chosen. That these . . . miracles of yours prove as much.” The Emperor stood straight as a laser beam, so still he might have been a statue himself but for the motion of his jaw. “Perform your magic for me.”

“I am not a sorcerer,” I said carefully. Talk of magic and witchcraft conjured thoughts of forbidden machines, and it was important that I distance myself from such things as quickly as possible. “And you told me once that you do not believe in sorcery.”

“Are you not my servant?” the Emperor asked. “I gave you an order.”

“Eikana,” I said. “Berenike. Nemavand. Aptucca. Vorgossos. I gave you victories, Radiance. Is this not magic enough?” Valka choked back derisive laughter.

“Curb your tongue, man!” Karol Venantian spat, unable to contain himself.

“You address the Earth’s Anointed!” added the Archprior Leonora.

William XXIII raised one ringed hand. “Wisdom Vergilian and the Chantry Synod would have me kill you, Sir Hadrian. And there are those on my council who believe it would be best if I banished you to Belusha to live out your days, rotting in exile.” He turned, and for the first time I discerned the fractal gleam of the body shield he wore flickering against the candlelight behind. It was no idle threat. Belusha was the most famous of the Empire’s prison colonies, a frigid world beneath a dim and failing star where so many Imperial embarrassments met their end.

“You wouldn’t dare!” Valka said, unable to stop herself. “Do you know how much he has given to you? How much he has fought?”

I held out a hand to stop her, heart swelling with love and gratitude even as it leaped into my heart with fear.

The Emperor’s lips pressed together.

“Silence, witch!” Leonora raised her hand to point at Valka.

“You’re one to talk!” Valka thrust out her chin. “Hadrian has done everything you’ve asked of him. Everything! And this is how you thank him? Threats of execution? Imprisonment?”

“Valka, that’s enough,” I said, too aware of her danger.

“No, ’tis not.”

The Emperor’s compressed expression had transmuted into a papery smile. “In nearly six hundred waking years, madam, I cannot recall the last time anyone has taken such a tone with me.”

“Perhaps they should start,” she said.

“Valka!”

Silence found its place among us. I offered no apology, begged no pardon.

The Emperor’s smile had not vanished. “The female of her species is more deadly than the male,” he said, speaking in Classical English. Valka made another derisive noise. Returning to Galstani, the Emperor said, “You two may be more dangerous than the Cielcin . . .” He inhaled sharply through his nose, eyes shut in what I recognized was a scholiast technique for clearing the mind. “Which brings us to our present concern.”

“Radiant Majesty, this cannot stand!” Leonora said. “The woman must be punished!”

“The woman is not my subject, nor am I yours, Reverence. Be silent.”

The Archprior bowed and retreated a step, though I caught the spark of flint in her black eyes.

“Besides, this is a private conversation. No public offense has been given. Lord Marlowe is fortunate to be blessed with so zealous a defender.”

Not knowing what else to say, I said, “Thank you, Radiance.” I could sense the danger Valka and I were in too acutely. Another Emperor might have ordered Valka killed then and there for such an outburst. I glanced at the score of Excubitors who yet held their posts about the chapel’s perimeter.

“No matter. I have thought of a better use for you, Lord Marlowe.” The Emperor fidgeted a moment with his rings. “I shall be frank. You have remained here on Nessus so long for one reason: I do not waste tools that are of use to me, and you are of use. Charlatan or sorcerer, you have gotten results. You say your victories are magic enough. I agree. And while I have kept you here to keep you out of trouble, I believe you are right: you are more use to me off Nessus than on it.”

Earth and Emperor, Bassander Lin had been right. Sir Gray and the legate were right.

Auctor.

The Emperor meant to name me an Auctor of the Imperium after all. I braced myself for the news, for the tide of outraged fury that was sure to come from Magnarch and Archprior alike.

“I want more victories from you,” the Emperor said. “And so you will take your ship and go to Padmurak as our apostol. You will head a delegation to the Lothrian Grand Conclave.”

“What?” I could not help myself. It was not at all what I’d expected. “Padmurak?”

Visions of Hadrian, Auctor of the Sollan Empire, faded in a twinkling.

I ought to have been relieved, and yet I felt a perverse melancholy, not because I’d wanted the honor, but because it would have upset the Magnarch and the Chantry’s representative far more than any outburst from Valka ever could.

“The Commonwealth has stood apart from this conflict for too long now,” the Emperor said, brows raised at my outburst—though he withheld comment. “With Prince Kaim committing the Jaddians to the war effort, it is right and just that the Commonwealth should join us as well. You will secure their support. Our people have bled enough for mankind on their own. If the Scourge of Earth insists on changing the nature of this war, than we shall insist as well.” The royal we had returned, and with it the stoic impassivity of the Emperor’s visage.

It made sense. The Lothrian Commonwealth was—after the Sollan Empire—the largest human nation in the galaxy. Their Grand Conclave—a body of Party officials nominally elected by the people but really appointed from on high—ruled more than a hundred thousand worlds spread across the upper reaches of the Sagittarius Arm of the galaxy, nearer the core in the galactic west. Each planet was ruled by its own conclave of Party appointees, and each conclave nominated one of its members to represent it to the Grand Conclave on Padmurak.

I smiled. “This is another form of exile, isn’t it?”

“Another impossible task.” The Emperor glanced at Venantian, and I wondered if the Magnarch had put him up to it. But no, the Emperor had still diverted his fleet years out of the way to come early to Nessus on his tour of the far provinces. This was important. “And yes. I will not risk another Thermon. That is why I sent you here. That is why I am sending you to Padmurak. The Commonwealth can no longer be allowed to play the hermit. You will go to them and secure their military support. You will be empowered to make concessions to them: lift trade embargoes and so forth. My counselors will get you all you need. Magnarch Venantian?”

The old man nearly stumbled in his hurry to approach the Imperial person. “Radiance?”

The Emperor’s eyes never left my face. “See to it that Lord Marlowe’s ship is brought out of space dock and outfitted for its journey. I want him on his way at once.”

“That’s it, then?” I asked.

“Those are your orders,” the Emperor replied. “Go and perform your magic, sorcerer.”