When Ifoli entered Snoat’s oval reading room carrying a note, he gained the impression that she was afraid of him. Her fear did not bother him, though he was irked that she showed it.

Despite her exemplary service he would have got rid of her had there been anyone to replace her, but he no longer found it easy to recruit the best. It could not be because of his wealth and power, which had grown considerably since the catastrophe at the place whose name he had erased from the map. It must be because he was maimed, repulsive and an object of derision.

“Is that message from Rasper?” he said. Even his voice had lost its former honeyed perfection. These days it was grating and monotonous; he lacked the strength of will to speak properly.

“A subordinate,” said Ifoli. “Rasper is dead and all but one of his men.”

“How?” cried Snoat, shocked. “And where?”

“He tracked Llian and the youth, Wilm, to Carcharon, a ruin in the mountains west of Tolryme.”

“I know where Carcharon is. Why did they go there?”

“The message does not say,” said Ifoli. “Though Shand, Karan and Ussarine arrived only hours later, following Unick.”

“Why did Unick go to Carcharon?” said Snoat.

Realising that he was rubbing his scarred chin through the silken mask that covered his nose and the lower half of his face, he dropped his hand to his side.

“Rasper’s man did not know,” said Ifoli.

“Take a guess.”

“Unick went there because his devices —”

“My devices!” snapped Snoat.

“Your devices told him the summon stone was there.”

“There is no summon stone! It, and the Merdrun invasion, are a fantasy concocted by my enemies to try and unite the west against me.”

Ifoli went perfectly still. “I believe it, Cumulus.”

He made a dismissive gesture, both crude and clumsy. His decline was humiliating and someone had to pay.

“Rasper’s man has recovered the Command device,” said Ifoli. “He’s sending it by skeet the moment the bird returns to him. You’ll have it by dinnertime.”

“Without the Origin and Identity devices, it’ll be severely limited. Have my artisans made copies yet?”

“Yes, but they can’t get them to work.”

Snoat cursed. Using profanity was another illustration of his decline, but he no longer cared. “Tell me about Unick.”

“He’s utterly debased now; he left a trail of ruin all the way across the mountains.”

“He’ll soon drink himself to death,” said Snoat carelessly.

“I must warn you, Cumulus —”

“You already have,” he snapped. “Don’t mention it again.”

“I have a duty of care.”

“Enough!” he roared.

She nodded stiffly and stepped back to her place, her salmon-pink kimono rustling. Snoat flushed. He, who had always prided himself on his mastery of self, had so lost control as to shout at her. What was happening to him?

“What about Thandiwe?” he said in a deliberately flat voice.

“After splitting with Llian she headed south in the direction of Flumen, with four of your horses. She has not been seen since and you have few spies in those lands. It will take time to find her.”

“Put more spies to work.”

“Yes, Cumulus.”

“But never lose sight of my first objective – my collection of the Great Tales must be complete. Find Llian and get his manuscript back.”

“And then?”

“I want his mummified head spiked on my bedpost.” He turned away to adjust the mask. “What progress on… the other matter?”

He meant restoration mancery to give him back his perfect nose and chin, and the three fingers so burned that they’d had to be amputated.

“Slow,” said Ifoli. “Such mancery has been done before, though the results have rarely been ideal. However there are illusionists who —”

“I don’t want the illusion of perfection. It’s not for the world, it’s for me.”

He dissembled. It mattered a great deal that the world saw him as a perfect specimen, but it mattered more that he be one in his own eyes. Presently he was maimed and it could not be endured.

“It may take a greater power than old human mancers have ever used before, even such mancers as have taken renewal.”

“The Command device will give me power; all I need are the restoration spells. Find them!”

She shivered, and again he felt she was afraid. Not of him, but of it.

“To the war,” said Snoat.

“Sith won’t be easy to take.”

“The allies only have five thousand men, and they’re led by a geriatric librarian.” He snorted, then had to wipe his eroded nose, another humiliation. “I have three armies and my fleet is big enough to carry any one of them. Send one army south to besiege Sith. Embark another to take Vilikshathûr from the sea, then sail upriver to attack Sith from the east.”

“It… will be done,” said Ifoli.