CHAPTER NINETEEN
W hen Lin left the Etse Kebeth the next morning, wearing a clean blue cotton dress borrowed from Mariam’s stores, she found the day incongruously balmy. She had expected—and perhaps hoped for—rain and thunderclouds to match her mood. Instead, the sun had risen bright and hot, drying the puddles she had sloshed through the night before. The physick garden gleamed green and white in the unshaded brightness. A few white brushstrokes of cloud painted the sky: The storm must have been blown back out to sea. It was probably halfway to Kutani by now.
Lin wished she could say the same about herself. She felt as if a stone had lodged itself in her belly. She had lain awake much of the night, remembering the rain, the folly. The way she had lost herself—lost all the control she had built up so carefully and delicately over so many years. She had wanted Conor too badly to stop herself, and now he knew that—knew her weakness—and would scorn her for it.
She could taste the bitterness of disappointment on her tongue, like the aftertaste of Chana’s herbal tea. She was not disappointed in Conor; she would not have expected anything else from him. She was disappointed in herself.
She heard a voice call out to her. “Lin Caster. A moment.”
She was just at the gate of the Women’s House. She turned to see Aron in the middle of the street, his arms crossed. He was dressed as he had been the first time she’d seen him, in the clothes of a Rhadanite trader. His desert-colored hair and eyes were bright in the sunlight.
She looked at him wearily. If there was anything she did not have the energy for, it was an argument with Aron Benjudah, or another demand on his part that she try to puzzle him out.
“I do not have a moment,” she said. “I am about to begin my rounds, seeing to my patients in the city—”
“I know,” he said. Behind him, she could see a group of boys, the same age Josit had been when they lost their parents, at play in the gardens of the Dāsu Kebeth. They kicked up dust in clouds as they chased one another, carelessly happy in the sun. “We had an arrangement, I believe. I translate your text for you, and in exchange you take me with you on rounds and let me watch you tend to your patients.”
She had nearly forgotten. “Today?”
He smiled coolly. “There may not be that many days left until the testing.”
What an infuriating man he was, Lin thought, as she raced home to get her physician’s satchel. But perhaps being infuriated would be a good thing. Perhaps it would take her mind off the Prince.
She rejoined Aron outside the walls of the Sault. He fell into step beside her as she headed up the Ruta Magna in the direction of her first appointment, near Castle Street. “So,” she said. “What am I meant to say to my patients when they ask who you are?”
“Tell them that I am learning to become a physician and you are instructing me. Or perhaps I am writing a book on medicine and studying their cases.”
“Wonderful,” Lin said. “My patients will enjoy having a large, glowering man stare at them while they’re treated.”
“You could tell them I am to be your husband and insist on following you wherever you go.”
“They know me too well to imagine I’d tolerate that,” said Lin sweetly, and Aron made a noise that almost sounded like a reluctant chuckle. Lin saw someone glance at him as they passed. They were most likely wondering exactly who, or what, he was, with his leather arm straps and Rhadanite tattoos. Or perhaps they just thought he was handsome. He was handsome—which was one of his many irritating qualities.
It also turned out that he was not as totally ignorant of medicine as she had imagined. They went first to visit a young mother on Lark Street to make sure she and her new baby were thriving. Aron observed quietly, and did not seem discomfited by a long discussion of getting the child to latch to the breast. After that, a sailor near Yulan Road who was recovering from the bite of a crocodile. While Lin checked his wound, Aron silently handed her instruments and listened as the sailor cheerfully told him that he had been drunk when he had fallen into the harbor, and had been hauled out half naked and bleeding by a boatload of pilgrims on their way to Tyndaris.
A seamstress in the Silver Streets who feared needles was comforted by Aron while Lin stitched up a cut on her hand. On Tower Street, he distracted a fussy baby while the child’s mother anxiously watched Lin tend to her older boy’s ear infection. Lastly, Lin visited Zofia in the Fountain Quarter, hiding a smile as Zofia flirted shamelessly with Aron.
“ My, but you are big and handsome,” she announced, her eyes gleaming mischievously. “If Lin doesn’t plan to marry you, I’ll do it myself.”
Aron blushed, and Lin looked on in amazement as she set Zofia’s tincture of foxglove on her wooden nightstand. She had never imagined the Exilarch could blush. It suited him, she thought; made him look more human, less like a carved statue gazing into the distance, intent on some noble destiny no one else could see.
“Let me feel your muscles,” Zofia commanded, and Aron blushed again but obeyed with good humor, letting Zofia squeeze his arm and exclaim that she hadn’t felt a biceps like this one since she’d been the lover of Ruthless Nestor, the most fearsome pirate ever to sail the seas until Laurent Aden.
As it turned out, Aron had heard of Nestor, and wanted to know if it was true that he’d left a treasure map behind after his mysterious disappearance off the coast of Taprobana. “Maybe, maybe,” Zofia said with a wink. “Now turn around. I want to have a feel of—”
“Zofia, no, ” Lin said firmly. She kissed the old woman atop her messy bun of gray hair and said, “Be good, take your medicine, and I’ll see you next week.”
“Will you bring him with you?” Zofia inquired, pointing a long finger at Aron.
“If you’re good,” Lin assured her, escaping with a bemused Aron by her side. They walked in silence back toward the Sault. Aron seemed lost in thought, his hands loosely clasped behind his back as they passed the dried fountains that gave the quarter its name, and crossed Elemi’s Way, where flowering vines spilled from wrought-iron balconies and down the white-plastered walls of the neat row houses. The air was warm and dry and smelled of oranges and jasmine. It was the sort of day that made people fall in love with the city, though if Aron felt such a thing, he hid it well.
They crossed the Ruta Magna together, where shops were closing for the hour of afternoon rest. Lin couldn’t blame them. All she wanted was to return to her house, crawl into bed, and sleep—though just last night she’d thought she would never sleep again. She realized with a faint sense of surprise that for at least these past few hours, tending the sick with Aron, she had not thought about Conor.
Mez was at the gates and winked at Lin as she passed through with the Exilarch at her side. She made a face at him, though she didn’t really mind. At least Mez hadn’t changed how he behaved around her since the Tevath.
They had gone as far as the Kathot when Lin, wondering if Aron meant to walk her all the way to her door, paused and turned to him. “I hope,” she said, as he stopped as well, a faintly inquiring look on his face, “that you learned all you wish to know?”
Aron took a moment to answer. His gaze swept over her, dry as the desert sands whose color they had absorbed. The trees of the Kathot had burst into almost unreasonable bloom: Lacy clusters of saffron brightened the yellow jacarandas, and heavy green fruit dangled from the fig trees. (She and Mariam had been inveterate fig thieves as children, and had often been chased from the Kathot by one of the elders shaking a stick.) Such a pretty place, she thought, that most of the people of Castellane would never see, just as they would never see the inside of Marivent. But for such different reasons.
“You are an excellent physician,” Aron said, startling her—both his words and the fact that it had taken him so long to say them. “Truly skilled with your patients. I admit I thought—well, it doesn’t matter what I thought.” His expression was gravely serious, as if he were giving her bad news instead of good. “I would hate to see your skill wasted.”
“Wasted? What do you mean?”
Aron glanced around as if to be sure they were alone. The Shulamat doors were closed for the afternoon hours, and the square was quiet. The heat seemed to press down on it, like the weight of a hand. “It has always been part of my task to observe and to evaluate you, before your test could be given, and I believe I know you now somewhat, Lin Caster. I understand why you claimed to be the Goddess. You are an inveterate healer, and you wish to save your friend Mariam, most likely with knowledge you can only access in the Shulamat.”
Lin stared at him, feeling sick. How many desperate people must he have met? How many different reasons for making the same claim she had?
“It is a shame you are who you are,” he said quietly.
She willed her voice to remain steady. “What does that mean?”
“Your grandfather is Mayesh Bensimon. Should you fail the test—and I don’t think you have much confidence you will pass it—your false claim will be seen by the Sanhedrin as a political gambit, not a simple mistake.”
“But that’s ridiculous. My grandfather didn’t even know—”
“Do you hear me, Lin? You will be exiled.”
It hit like a blow. Exile. “But—I have nothing to do with my grandfather’s work—”
“You go to the Hill quite often,” he said gravely. “You attend the parties of the nobility. You can see how it will look to the Sanhedrin.”
“And to you?” The wind had risen; she pushed her hair impatiently out of her face. “How does it look to you?”
“It looks to me like an easy choice, Lin,” he said. “Withdraw your claim, take the small punishment, and that will be the end of it. I have known those who have been exiled. The pain of it is difficult to imagine. Everyone you ever knew, everything you ever knew, taken from you in an instant. And to no longer be Ashkar. To have the Goddess turn her face from you. It is death in life.”
“I see,” she said numbly. The sun blazing off the gold of the Shulamat’s roof seemed to pierce her eyes like needles. “What is the small punishment ?”
“You will be forbidden from leaving the Sault, or from practicing medicine, for six months,” said Aron, and it was clear to Lin from the way he said it that he had discussed this with the Maharam, that they had crafted this together. A rebuke to her independence, to her pride in her skill. And more than that—
“Six months is too long,” she said. “I must treat Mariam. She could die by then.”
“Mariam’s name is written in the Book of Life. Both the date of her birth and that of her death. You are the finest physician I have seen, yet surely you know you cannot save every life.”
Lin gasped. “How can you say that? How can you even think it?”
“You will not hear me, then.” He shook his head. He did not look angry, but more as if he had failed her, and that was somehow much worse. “In any case, you must make your decision. I know all I need to know; the test will be soon, Lin. Do not let it be too late.”
Kel’s head was pounding. The bright sunlight and loud clatter of carriages rolling by wasn’t helping, either; he was very definitely hung over. He felt like vomiting into the green canal water of the Temple District, but somehow he did not want to give whatever malign force seemed bent on ruining his life—Fate? the Gods?—the satisfaction.
By the time the ball had finally concluded, the last of the guests staggering out the doors beneath a cloudy, smoke-thickened sky, Kel had been vilely drunk on nettle wine mixed with honeyed gentian liquor. Like drinking poisoned sugar, sweet and deadly. The irony was not lost on him.
He had not said another word to Antonetta that night, as Conor or as himself. Nor had she approached him. She’d seemed to be having a fine time, smiling as she chatted with Sancia Vasey, with Montfaucon and Falconet, with Beatris Cabrol, even with Lady Gremont. Kel had not wanted to look at her, but he had not been able to unsee her. She was so bright in her shimmering dress, a star moving across an otherwise dark sky.
That morning Conor had sat at the foot of Kel’s bed, doing up the buttons on the long cuffs of his jacket. He was preparing to join Anjelica at the Royal Docks for the unveiling of Castellane’s newest warship. “They are naming the ship after Anjelica,” he said. “They never named a ship after me.”
“Well, she is prettier.”
“Debatable,” said Conor. He had finished doing up his buttons and was staring unseeingly at the window. “The people are happy, the nobles are happy—even my mother is happy, when she isn’t brooding about curtains. Why am I not happy?”
“Conor—”
“This is the best I could have hoped for,” Conor said, half to himself. “I was never going to marry for love. And Anjelica. She is beautiful—I knew she would be—but she is clever, too. Resourceful. She sees the truth of things. And she is honest about them.”
Kel thought of Anjelica’s secret meeting with Aden the night before. Honesty, perhaps, was relative. Especially his own.
“And she seems to have patience with me,” Conor had added, “which, I think you might agree, is unusual.”
“It used to be more unusual,” Kel said, and when Conor looked at him sidelong, he added, “You are pushing yourself too hard to feel what you think you need to feel. You like Anjelica. You seem well on your way to friendship. There are worse foundations for marriage.”
He could not remember what Conor had said in reply—and he was distracted now by someone calling his name. It was Merren, waiting with Ji-An outside the Caravel.
The two of them were seated on the barrier wall of a stone bridge over the canal. Merren raised a hand and waved at Kel; Ji-An, as usual, looked as if she were busy thinking about all the people and things that she disliked.
“You look awful,” she said to Kel by way of greeting. She wore her usual violet silk jacket, her long hair caught with coral clips at the back of her head.
“I am,” Kel informed her, “hung over.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Your face is green. It clashes with... whatever that color is.” She waved her hand at his clothes: a wine-colored frock coat and matching trousers.
“Here, take this,” said Merren, sliding off the railing. He rummaged in his jacket and produced a pewter flask.
When Kel unscrewed the top, the pungent odor of tree sap made him wince. “Are you sure this isn’t poison?”
“If I were going to poison you, I would tell you,” said Merren with an air of injured dignity.
“Hmph,” said Kel, and tipped the flask back, swallowing hard. What felt like a small firework burned its way down his throat to his stomach. Tears sprang to his eyes. He was somewhat aware of Merren telling him that they’d only just gotten the message he’d sent to the Black Mansion last night, and how had Kel managed to get Ciprian Cabrol to agree to meet him at the Caravel?
“I think Kel might be dying,” said Ji-An, gazing at Kel with interest as he coughed. “Are you sure you didn’t poison him, Merren?”
“It’s as if none of you trust me at all,” Merren complained. To Kel’s surprise, the burning feeling was fading, as was the pain in his head. Well. He handed the flask back to Merren, blinking. A not unpleasant clarity was spreading through his veins. The world around him seemed to have sprung into focus: He felt as if he could count every stone of the bridge in minutes, if he were so inclined. It rather put Dom Valon’s hangover cures to shame.
“What was that stuff?” he asked. “I could talk Conor into buying literal buckets of it, if you cared to sell.”
Merren tucked the flask back into his jacket. “I use it sometimes when I need to concentrate on my studies. And you know I won’t sell anything to the Palace,” he added. “It’s against my principles.”
“Of course,” Kel said. “I so rarely meet people with principles, I forget what they look like.”
“Speaking of the unprincipled...” Ji-An nudged.
“Right. Ciprian.” Kel looked behind them at the Caravel. He did not want to think about the last time he’d been there; he couldn’t bear thinking about Antonetta at all. “He thinks he’s meeting Conor. Merren, do you have any of that truth serum you used on Raimon?”
Merren looked dubious. “Do you think he’ll willingly take a drink from you once it turns out you’re not Conor?”
“I’m not sure he’d even willingly take a drink from Conor.” Kel scrubbed at his eyes. “All right. Let’s think. We have one chance to get this information from him. What’s our plan?”
There followed a flood of suggestions from both Merren and Ji-An. They were still disagreeing on the finer points when Kel left his companions on the bridge and headed to the Caravel, trying not to mind that his mouth tasted as if he had been licking the floor of a pine forest.
When he rang the copper bell, Hadja answered, her gold earrings swinging. She ushered him in, saying only that Domna Alys Asper was expecting him. Kel followed her to the main room, which was emptier than he had ever seen it; he supposed the Caravel did most of its business at night. A group of courtesans, with no one to entertain, were gathered companionably on sofas in the main room. One of them was Silla, her red head bent over her cards.
Kel glanced away just as Alys came into the room. She was unchanged: small and neat as ever, her dark hair loose over her shoulders. She really was surprisingly like Merren, Kel thought, though they did not look alike at first blush. They had the same delicate frame, the same fine-boned hands, the same economical gestures. Kel had not known Merren well enough to see it before.
“Is he here?” Kel said.
Alys nodded and began to lead him up the stairs. As they went up, Kel saw Silla glance over at him with a small, regretful smile.
Kel said, “My thanks, Domna Asper, for helping us once again.”
She said calmly, “I wasn’t aware that I’d helped you before.”
“You deprived Gremont of his protective amulet. Believe me, you did us all a service.”
A look of real pleasure crossed her face. There was no regret in it, only the satisfaction of seeing a balance restored. “Who knows that he’s dead?”
“Only a few people,” Kel said. “For the moment, everyone on the Hill merely thinks he’s gone off somewhere. What did you do with the amulet, by the by?”
“It’s in good hands,” she said as they reached the top floor. He fell into step beside her as they traversed the familiar corridor. Months ago, he had met Merren here for the first time—the same night he’d been kidnapped by Andreyen and offered a job working for the Black Mansion. The second night of his life where everything had changed in a moment’s span.
The tension in his back ached now, like a wire winding his spine too tight. “It’s a dangerous object,” he said. “Something that magically powerful needs to be kept safe.”
Alys smiled knowingly. “Just so. Understand, I can’t tell you where the amulet is. But we all have our secrets, don’t we, Kel Anjuman?”
She paused before the library door. It was very slightly ajar. Kel could smell the scent of patoun smoke wafting from within.
“Some more than others,” Kel said, and went inside. The sweet smell of smoke was stronger in here, the light dimmer. The room was as he recalled: shelves of books, scattered tables, the archway leading to the reading room. In front of the window where Merren had sat the first time Kel had met him was Ciprian Cabrol.
He turned around just as Kel blocked the doorway behind him. His shoulders stiffened, the look on his face turning from anticipation to surprise. “Anjuman? What are you doing here?”
And suddenly Kel was not nervous at all. For so many years he had been trained to read every room as he came into it, to examine the behaviors of those surrounding Conor as a jeweler might examine the fine workings of a watch. Now he looked at Ciprian Cabrol, usually so elegant, and saw that his auburn hair was disarrayed where he must have scrubbed his hands through it more than once. Under his eyes, the skin was stretched tight and shiny, a clear sign that he had not slept.
He’s afraid, Kel knew. No. He’s terrified.
Kel locked the door behind him, then leaned back against it, his gaze fixed on Ciprian. “Conor sent me,” he said easily. “He can’t get away, I’m afraid. You know how it is. Busy royal schedules.” He grinned, showing all his teeth. “So much to do. Roistering, drinking, looking down on the peasantry, counting all the silver to make sure none of the lesser nobility made off with the spoons last night...”
Ciprian stared at him. “I can’t tell if you’re serious.”
“I’m keeping the mood light,” Kel said. “Conor said you seemed to wish to unburden your soul to someone. Rest assured, I will happily pass on your unburdening to Conor.”
Ciprian flushed angrily. “What I have to say can be heard only by the Prince himself. Not his lackey.” He started for the door, clearly annoyed that he would have to push past Kel to get out.
“Stop,” Kel said with a quiet menace that stopped Ciprian in his tracks. “You owe House Aurelian for granting you the Charter in the first place, don’t you? But you owe Malgasi more.”
To Ciprian’s credit, he didn’t bluster or deny. He only narrowed his eyes at Kel and said, “Conor does seem to tell you everything, doesn’t he?”
“What you should be asking yourself,” Kel said, “is what I will tell Conor about our meeting today. You seemed to think you had something to share with him, perhaps something that would exonerate you from your part in the Shining Gallery massacre. So what was it?”
“I had nothing to do with that,” Ciprian started angrily. “All I ever wanted was to get rid of the Roverges—and the Belmany Princess offered me that.”
“Oh, indeed,” said Kel. “By giving you the money to buy enough black powder to blow the Roverge fleet sky-high.”
Ciprian had gone a sort of putty color. “What,” he said tightly, “exactly, do you know?”
Kel shot out a foot and hooked a chair, pulling it toward himself. He sat down, crossing one leg over the other. He leaned back with a sigh and saw Ciprian’s eyelid twitch.
He smiled to himself. He had learned from the Ragpicker King how beneficial it was to seem to be at one’s ease while others stood around uncomfortably. “I suspect I know more than you imagine,” he said. “But let us find out if my suspicions are true, shall we?”
Ciprian nodded impatiently.
“I know the Malgasi Court dreams of bringing down House Aurelian, and of using the Charter Families to do it,” said Kel. “I know that a number of families are loyal to them, and that your family is one of them.” He was gathering the strands to him as he spoke, weaving them into a tapestry he had not yet seen in its completeness.
The pupils of Ciprian’s eyes seemed to have grown larger. “You devil,” he snarled. “How do you know all this?”
“Through spying on people, Ciprian. I advise you to concentrate more on what I know, and less on how I know it.” From the second library room, Kel thought he heard the squeak of door hinges. He spoke loudly to cover the sound. “I know you’re about to tell me that, at first, Malgasi only approached the nobles—the Alleynes, the Gremonts—with a plan to frighten the Sarthian Princess. And perhaps that’s true. But when that plan became a bloody massacre, the Belmany family used the conspirators’ guilt to blackmail them. To paraphrase your own speech to a friend of mine—once the Malgasi have their claws in you, they keep that grip forever. They will never stop demanding more of you. So tell me, what is the rest of their plan?”
Ciprian was panting a little. “Conor can’t know all this. He can’t. We’d all be in the Trick if he did.”
Here Kel would have to step carefully. “Conor has charged me with discovering the full picture of what is going on,” he said. “And of course, he has his own plans for the Malgasi.” He leaned forward, keeping his expression neutral. Friendly. “Ciprian. I don’t dislike you. I know you merely wanted to get rid of the Roverges, and you had justified reasons for it.”
Ciprian nodded in agreement.
“You didn’t even know of the Shining Gallery plan until it was all over.”
“No—no, I didn’t,” Ciprian said with an almost pathetic urgency.
“You fell into a Malgasi trap,” said Kel. “And I would be willing to intercede with Conor for you if you will give me the names of the other conspirators. I can make him understand you should be pardoned.”
“But I don’t know the names of the other conspirators,” Ciprian protested. “Only the ones you mentioned—Alleyne and Gremont. First the Malgasi had an agreement with the father—old Gremont, the one who died in the Shining Gallery. But he got cold feet. So they killed him and brought in the younger one.”
“Artal.”
Ciprian nodded. “Artal Gremont was put in charge of everything. We communicated with the Princess through him. I know there are two more families, but not which ones.”
Kel was silent a moment. He’d known it was a possibility Ciprian wouldn’t talk, or simply didn’t know, but he hated it. More delay. More lying to Conor.
“Really,” Ciprian said. He’d pulled his sleeves down over his hands, like a boy, and was worrying at them with his fingers. “I don’t know.”
“All right.” Kel stood up. “Use what contacts you do have. Go to Elsabet Belmany herself if you have to. Charm her. Find out who the other conspirators are, then come back to me with names.”
Cabrol hesitated.
“It’s the only way to keep yourself out of the Trick, Ciprian. It will be a proof of your loyalty to Castellane and the Aurelians.”
Something flickered and faded in Ciprian’s eyes. He shook his head. “It’s a nice offer,” he said. “Believe me, I’m afraid of the Trick. I’m no fool. But the Malgasi—” He broke off. “The Trick, the gallows, they frighten me in a way I can imagine. What the Malgasi can do to me is unimaginable.”
Kel thought of the flame pouring from Elsabet’s hand, fire burning out over the ocean. So Ciprian knew something of the magic the Belmany Princess could do. Artal seemed to have known it, too, though Lady Alleyne had seemed shocked. Still, he would need to be careful here. This was dangerous information to trade. “I know they are powerful, the Malgasi,” he said. “In a way no one else is powerful—”
But Ciprian, still shaking his head, strode toward the door. It was clear Kel had lost him, so he rose and moved out of the other man’s way. Ciprian hesitated a moment on the threshold before unlocking the door and flinging it wide.
Only to find Ji-An and Merren standing on the other side. Merren looked mildly interested in what was happening; Ji-An, holding a dagger in her hand, was smiling.
“This conversation isn’t finished,” she said.
Ciprian narrowed his eyes. “I know you. You work for the Ragpicker King.” He swung his gaze around to stare at Kel. “And you...”
“Get inside,” Kel snapped, and Merren and Ji-An hastened into the library, Ji-An urging Ciprian back into the room at the point of her dagger. Kel wasn’t sure it was entirely necessary—Ciprian looked too confused to want to run—but it added a dash of theatricality.
Merren kicked the library door closed behind him. “We all work for Andreyen, yes.”
“That’s how you knew about the black powder.” Ciprian turned to Kel. “But you’re the Prince’s cousin. You— Well, all right, I don’t know what you do exactly, but you’re clearly loyal to the Aurelians. What are you doing mixed up with the rabble of Castellane?”
Ji-An whistled through her teeth. “Watch yourself.”
“There is a King on the Hill and a King in the City,” said Kel. “And that is not just a saying; it is the truth. Do not imagine monarchs do not acknowledge each other. If you ally yourself with the Malgasi, you make yourself an enemy of both Kings.”
“But if you look out for the King on the Hill, then the King in the City will look out for you,” said Merren.
“What does that mean?”
“Andreyen will protect you,” said Ji-An. “Get those names for Kel, and the Ragpicker King will take you and your family into the Black Mansion. You know how safe it is there. And the Malgasi fear him. They, too, are not fools. They know that should they antagonize the King in the City, the streets of Castellane will never be safe for them, no matter whether they control the Hill.”
There was a long silence that seemed to stretch out like the sea toward the horizon. Kel could not read Ciprian’s face; he could only note that his nervous, plucking hands had stopped their movement. At last, Ciprian said, “All right. All right. I’ll do it. I’ll get the names.” He turned to look at Kel. “But there is something you should understand about the Malgasi. They are not like Sarthe. It is not greed that drives them, or the desire for more territory. It is hatred. Hatred of the Aurelians. Why, I cannot say, but it is pure as white fire. They will not rest until the Aurelian line is burned away to ashes.”