I make mistakes like the next man. In fact, being--forgive me--rather cleverer than most men, my mistakes tend to be correspondingly huger. -- J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

Kilan didn't know how to react to the news of Qihadal's pregnancy. On the one hand, it meant the High Council would finally shut up on the subject of an heir. On the other, it meant that he would have to raise a child with a woman he didn't love. And where did Death fit into all this? Would they keep her existence a secret? Would the child see her as just a mortal friend of the family?

Then there was the question of Qihadal's other child. Sooner or later this new child would learn they had an older sister. And how would they react to that news?

It was a tangled mess that would give anyone a headache. But worrying about it now would serve no purpose. He had far more immediate worries.

Namely, Iqui Nalginton's half-brother giving Nimetath's spies a long list of ways to sneak unnoticed into the Malishese royal palace.

"Should we trust him?" Nimetath asked when she finished describing everything Shuradin had told her.

Kilan and Qihadal looked at each other.

"You know him better," Kilan said. "What do you think?"

Qihadal bit her lip. Her brow furrowed. "No one knows much about Shuradin personally. He has rarely lived in the royal palace. His mother was a concubine who fell out of favour and was executed. He was her only son and the Iqui didn't want him to have the same status as the sons of favoured wives so he was sent away. He became a general of an army division in the east. His army is rarely defeated and keeps good discipline. He has at least five wives. That is as much as I know about him."

This catalogue of facts didn't give them much information about the man himself.

"Has he ever been involved in plots, Your Majesty?" Nimetath asked.

Qihadal shrugged. "All Malishese princes are. His have never been discovered, but I do not believe they were ever successful."

Kilan thought about this. "Are he and Nalginton close? Are they likely to plot together?"

Qihadal shook her head. "They would see each other as rivals to be gotten rid of, not allies."

They all fell silent for a moment. Nimetath looked over the notes she'd taken on what Shuradin had said. Qihadal bit her fingernails. Kilan tried to read what the notes said on the pieces of paper Nimetath had set on the table. All he could see were a few almost incomprehensible scribbles.

At first glance a sitting room overlooking a small garden seemed a strange place to have a discussion of such importance. It seemed better suited to a tea party, or a friendly chat. The floral patterns on the chairs and windows were utterly out-of-place in a meeting between the royal couple and their spymaster. But Qihadal had personally chosen this room. She'd said no one would think they wanted to talk about anything important in such mundane surroundings. Kilan had to admit she had a point.

"There is one thing we can confirm with relative ease," Nimetath said after she'd looked through her papers. "Shuradin says that Nalginton is moving large numbers of troops to a barracks outside the village of--" She paused and picked up the sheet of paper again. "Good heavens. Dam-fa-riam-lees?" She sounded out each syllable carefully. "Do you recognise that name, Your Majesty?"

Qihadal leaned forward to get a look at the paper. "Dhamfarĩmles," she said, her voice rising and falling in the almost sing-song intonations ubiquitous in Malishese.

Kilan and Nimetath looked at each other. Both of them thought the exact same thing. What sort of name is that?

"Yes, there," Nimetath said. She wisely didn't attempt to pronounce it again. "We can send a spy there and learn if there's any truth in this story."

~~~~

Death's opinion of Qihadal tended to vary depending on how recently she had met the Empress. When she and Qihadal had not met for a while, Death was inclined to think of her in the same way she thought of Ranoryin: a bit of a nuisance, slightly frightening, worthy of respect. But when they met in person, and Qihadal inevitably acted as if Death was her worst enemy, Death retaliated in kind.

Their latest meeting had put Death in a bad mood. She had a very good reason to be interested in Qihadal's health, considering who her unborn child was... no, would be, and Qihadal reacted as if she was a murderer. Most unpleasant.

Well, let the empress think what she wanted. Death had more important things to think of. And today those more important things included a trip to Malish.

Technically Death was forbidden from spying on mortals. It was just as well, then, that she rarely cared what she was forbidden from doing. If Fate, that infernal meddler, had any objections, then Death could always claim she had just happened to overhear some important information while collecting souls.

Malishese architecture favoured wide open hallways lined with pillars and enormous rooms with glassless windows. No doubt that made it easy to keep the place cool in the blazing heat of summer. It also made life difficult for mortal spies, who would have to hide at a considerable distance from the people they were spying on.

Death faced no such problem.

She arrived in the middle of a conversation between a Malishese spymaster and a Carannish spy.

"Find out what the strength of the army is, and which provinces are the richest or poorest," the spymaster was saying in not-quite-perfect Carannish. "Tell us the easiest way to invade cities. Learn which rivers are navigable. If you do your job well, the Iqui, may he live forever, will reward you greatly."

"And how am I to get all this information to you?" Niuyínkir asked -- for she was the spy in question.

A map of Carann lay spread out on the table. Death leaned over the back of the spy's chair to get a better look at the routes marked on it. Niuyínkir shuddered involuntarily as a sudden cold chill washed over her.

"We have developed a code," the spymaster said. "You will pretend to be a garden designer. All your messages will be worded in references to plants and flowers. Send your letters to this address."

He handed her a small scrap of paper. Niuyínkir gave it only a cursory glance before she put it in her pocket. Death saw only the first part of the address. 64 Tredol Avenue. Which Tredol Avenue? She could think of more than eighteen in Esergot alone.

"We have an agent living at this address who will relay your messages to us," the spymaster continued.

"And how am I to learn this code?" Niuyínkir asked.

The spymaster took a small book out of his pocket. "This is a list of flowers native to Carann. We have noted which flower stands for what message. Destroy this book once you memorise the code."

What a ridiculously complex plan, Death thought, rolling her eyes. Do they not realise how likely it is that this code business will just make everyone suspicious?

Obviously not. Malish seemed to be operating under the impression that they were acting out a spy novel for children, who would find needless complexity fascinating rather than a hindrance. Well, so much the better for Kilan.

Death listened to the rest of the conversation. She learnt very little more that was of any use. They were only discussing how much Niuyínkir would be paid. Well, if that bastard thought five hundred hien per week was worth betraying her homeland, Death wasn't going to stop her. Niuyínkir would have eternity to come to meditate on her crimes.

~~~~

Some people said committing a crime was its own punishment. Gialma had always disputed this idea. If a crime was its own punishment, no one would ever commit another crime and there would be no need for law. Lately he had revised his opinion even more. Committing treason might not be its own punishment, but it brought with it a guilty conscience and a host of interfering long-dead relatives, all of whom wanted to bring him back to the straight and narrow.

Stubbornness was a trait his mother was noted for. He had inherited it without also inheriting her common sense. Unfortunately, Varan had more stubbornness than Gialma and his mother combined. She also had considerably more common sense than he did, and the Caranilnav tendency to do whatever she needed to get her own way.

This, however...

"What do you mean, you forged my handwriting?"

Gialma snatched the letter off the writing desk and studied it. He could see the differences between Varan's forgery and his actual handwriting. That letter was too circular, that one had a bit of a swirl added, another one was drawn at a slight angle. But someone who wasn't as intimately familiar with his writing as he was would have been convinced the letter was from him.

"You wouldn't listen to me," Varan said with unbearable smugness. She sat on the arm of his chair and surveyed her handiwork with a pleased smile. "So I took matters into my own hands."

Gialma scanned the letter. It was, in essence, a politely-worded invitation for Jalakanavu to overthrow her husband, with the support of the Carannish royal family. "What were you thinking? I'll never send this!"

"No," Varan agreed. Her smile stretched from ear to ear. "That's why I've already sent it. This is just a first draft of the letter that should already have reached Malish by now."

Dead silence fell. The cousins stared at each other, one shocked and one smug. Gialma felt as if someone had pulled the rug from under his feet. Varan looked like a toddler on her birthday.

"Remind me to never, ever let you near my letters again," he said at last.

She grinned. "Too late now!"

Apparently becoming a Reaper did something to someone's personality. He didn't remember her being so... arrogant, for want of a better word. "What will Jalakanavu do when she reads your letter? She'll show it to her husband, and he'll be furious, and--"

Varan held up her hand. "For goodness's sake, Gialma! I hear enough frantic worrying from Kilan! What's wrong with you two? Anyone would think you were trying to worry yourselves to death. There are two possible options. Either Jalakanavu will agree to my -- I mean, your -- proposal, or she won't. If she does, Nalginton will cease to be a problem. If she doesn't, they will realise you're not to be trusted and will break off their agreement with you. And I phrased my offer in a way that implies you are working with Kilan. They will think you were a double agent all along and won't see any point in revealing your crimes to Kilan or Qihadal. This way, everyone wins."

She smiled proudly, as if she'd solved the greatest problem in the universe. Gialma stared at her. If his eyes were any wider, they'd fall out of his head. The room seemed to spin around him.

"You've thought about this," he said, grabbing hold of the desk to steady himself.

"Of course." Varan took to the air with a beat of her wings that sent the papers on the desk flying across the room. She hovered in mid-air like an overgrown bird, her head tilted to the side. "Did you think I'd write whatever nonsense came into my head? I've thought about this since I heard of your stupidity. And now, dear cousin, you and I are going to tell Kilan all about this."

Gialma tried to protest. "What? Tell-- We can't-- You must be--"

Varan was one of those exasperating and by no means uncommon people who refused to take "no" for an answer. Before he could form a full sentence she had pulled him to his feet and dragged him out the door.

~~~~

"...And that's all I can tell you at the minute," Death finished. "There must be dozens of other spies, but she was the only one I saw today."

Kilan looked over the notes he had scribbled down. "So she's going to send messages in a code related to flowers? What?"

Death shrugged. "My thoughts exactly. This spy's going to be working in the town of Kyoyang. You can tell Nimetath to arrest her tomorrow."

He paused in the middle of scribbling down the spy's name. "Tomorrow? I don't think you know how long it takes to find someone. There could be dozens of Niuyínkirs in Kyoyang!"

She looked at him as if he was very stupid. "It would take a long time if you were searching on your own," she agreed, "but have you forgotten that I know where she is at this very minute? I can tell Nimetath -- or her spies, as the case may be -- exactly where to look, with none of the bother of red herrings."

Kilan decided not to say that Nimetath would hardly be inclined to trust any information that she knew came from Death. He would have to lie. Or perhaps it was time for Death and Nimetath to meet. "All right. I'll tell her tomorrow."

A rain of pebbles striking the window made them both look round. Then, as one, Death and Kilan turned to stare at each other.

Zasordoth Palace had no end of sitting rooms scattered all over the inhabited parts. No doubt there were even more in the abandoned areas. The sitting room they were in now was positioned two floors above Kilan's office. He had decided to speak to Death there because it was placed on the rarely-visited fifth floor. There would be no one nearby to ask awkward questions if they happened to overheard him apparently talking to himself.

Above them were another two floors used for storage and the living quarters of the household staff. Above that was the roof. No one could possibly throw pebbles from the ground and have them hit the window. Nor could anyone throw them down from the roof without missing the window entirely -- and why would anyone climb onto the roof with a handful of pebbles anyway?

So the question was, where did those pebbles come from?

The answer arrived a split-second later.

First they heard a worried voice say, "Don't drop me!", and another voice replied, "Of course I won't."

Then, as they both got up to investigate, a black shape appeared in front of the window. It completely blocked out the late afternoon sunlight and looked at first like a formless shadow.

"What in the world--" Kilan began.

Death, her mouth a grim line, stalked over to the window and threw it open. "Varan! What are you doing here? You're supposed to be collecting souls on Avyerti!"

Varan almost fell out of the sky when she saw her Queen at the window. The person she was carrying -- for Kilan saw now that someone had their arms around her shoulders and was holding on for dear life -- almost lost their grip.

"Your Majesty!" Varan's eyes were as wide as dinner plates. "I didn't expect to see you here!"

"Obviously," Death said dryly. She stood aside. "Well, now that you're here, you may as well come in." She craned her neck to get a better look at the person Varan was carrying. "I might have known. Have you started carrying your new friend around with you wherever you go?"

Varan slowly and carefully landed on the windowsill. Her wings, each one about six feet in length, were too large to let her get through the window until she folded them up. But to do this, she would leave herself standing on a windowsill no more than eight inches wide, with no way to stop herself falling.

She grabbed hold of the wall on either side of the windowsill before she closed her wings. Then she half jumped, half fell through the window. The person she was carrying lost their grip on her shoulders and landed with a thump on the carpet.

"Gialma?" Kilan exclaimed. He looked at Death, who was frowning forbiddingly at Varan. Varan was dusting herself off and pretending not to notice. Gialma was clinging to the chair in front of him and shaking like a leaf. "Would someone please tell me what's happening?"

~~~~

All was not well in Malish. Absolute power was the worst thing to give an already cruel and paranoid man. Nalginton had not been Iqui a full year, and he was already trying his best to destroy the empire from within. Torturing servants, raising taxes, gathering more and more soldiers... He had become hated and feared more quickly and thoroughly than his father ever had.

Jalakanavu watched in a mixture of disbelief and horror. She didn't dare say a word he might interpret as criticism. He had tortured one of his concubines to death for criticising him.

The letter arrived just as she was contemplating an assassination. She read it, and she immediately came to a conclusion.

No woman had ever ruled Malish before.

She was going to be the first.

And Carann would help her.