"Brother Pantelemone," announced Headmaster Francis' atten-dant, one of the five who had accompanied him from St.-Mere-Abelle.

Francis nodded; this visit was not unexpected. Brother Pantelemone had recently come from St.-Mere-Abelle to announce the impending arrival of Father Abbot Markwart.

The monk entered and went straight to the headmaster, handing him a rolled parchment tied with a blue ribbon bearing the insignia of the Father Abbot. Francis unrolled it quickly, just scanning it, not too surprised by the instructions penned there. The Father Abbot wanted a huge welcome, all the city out and cheering his arrival.

"The celebration must be monumental," Francis explained to the two. "The Father Abbot will arrive in three days. By that time, we must have all the city prepared for his visit."

A fourth monk joined the group then, Brother Talumus, hustling to Francis' quarters upon hearing the news that a monk from St.-Mere-Abelle had arrived.

"Go to the merchants we have ..." Francis started to say, but he stopped and chuckled. What exactly had they done to the merchants? Repaid them for their lost stones? No, in truth, Francis knew, the merchants had been bribed, plain and simple. But most of them had accepted the gold with a smile, a hopeful smile, for they knew that they could not afford to have the Church as an enemy. Not now.

Of course, Francis had to be more politic when speaking openly. "Go to the merchants whom we have compensated," he explained. "Tell them that the source of their new wealth, the Father Abbot himself, is coming to Pal-maris and that we require their assistance to properly welcome him."

"Is not King Danube also nearing our city?" Brother Talumus asked.

"He is a week away, at least, by all reports," Francis replied. "The Father Abbot will arrive first."

"And so we will likely organize this celebration all over again within the week," Talumus reasoned. "For it is to be as grand a parade for King Danube as for the Father Abbot, is it not?"

Francis didn't like his almost accusing tone. It had become increasingly evident to Francis over the last couple of weeks that there might be a problem growing with Talumus. The monk was out often and, according to the whispers Francis had overheard, he had even lent a soul stone to a street whore.

"Surely the King has spies within the city who will report to him immedi-ately if his entry parade is not as grand as that of the Father Abbot," Talumus said.

"That will be for the Father Abbot to decide, and to organize," Francis replied. "Our duty is to prepare the celebration for the Father Abbot alone."

Talumus started to protest, despite the grimaces on the faces of the two monks flanking him, but Francis would hear no more.

"Father Abbot Markwart is better suited for such a task," the head-master explained. "No one in all the world is better versed in protocol, I assure you. Or more experienced. Father Abbot Markwart has hosted roy-alty on many occasions, and organized a successful College of Abbots just a few short months ago."

"But ..." Talumus started to say, but, glancing around, noting that he had absolutely no support, he threw up his hands. "What else would you have us do, headmaster?" he asked.

"Start with the merchants, then send the soldiers out to the streets to the open markets and the taverns," Francis explained. "We will prepare a greeting at the ferry, then rouse all the folk of Palmaris along the route that will bring the Father Abbot to St. Precious."

Francis waved them away then, figuring they had enough to do. Two of the monks scurried out of the room, though Brother Talumus walked more slowly, looking back several times at the new headmaster.

Francis was relieved, for his time of trial, this most urgent trial, was nearing its end. And he had done well, he believed. Most of the merchants were satisfied, and even those who had left his office grumbling would not speak ill of him to the Father Abbot - they were certainly more enamored of Headmaster Francis than of Bishop De'Unnero. As were the common folk, Francis knew. The sermons had been gentler of late, and the taxes less demanding.

Markwart had given Francis explicit instructions for the handling of Pal-maris, and there could be no doubt that the headmaster had performed to perfection. All that remained was the celebration, the welcoming parade, and that, Francis believed, would prove to be the easiest task of all.

The Fellowship Way bustled that night with news of the coming visit, and of the role the people were being told they would play in welcoming the Father Abbot. More and more people kept filtering in, and those who arrived did not quickly leave, getting caught up in the exciting and some-what confusing talk of the events of the last few weeks. When De'Unnero had been in command of the city, there was a general consensus that the strict Bishop - and thus, by extension, the Abellican Church - might not prove well suited over the long term to lead Palmaris, but now . . .

Now, the people did not know what to think.

The confusion proved troubling for Pony, waiting tables and listening in on practically every conversation. She winced as if she had been hit every time someone spoke favorably about this man Francis, for she remembered Francis - indeed she did! - from her journey to St.-Mere-Abelle. The lackey of Markwart, Bradwarden had labeled him. And indeed, when Elbryan had encountered the man, he was in the process of beating the chained centaur.

And now here he was, all smiles and give-away gold, the interim bishop, fast becoming a hero to the beleaguered folk of Palmaris. De'Unnero had clearly shown the power of the Church, had played the tyrant's role. Now Francis could build on that, showing the merciful, beneficent side of the Church. As the many conversations wound along, the threads began to shift favorably toward Francis, and in a hopeful direction at the mention of the Father Abbot's impending visit. "Mayhaps the Church'll come showin' us the true way, with the war done and all," one man remarked. That prompted a series of toasts to the Abellican Church, the new Bishop - may he remain in place even if De'Unnero returned! - and the Father Abbot - may he hear the calls of the peasant folk!

By the time they got around to that last toast, Pony had already left the tavern, walking out into the night air and the chill breeze blowing from the north. When several deep breaths did not calm her, she started around the building, moving to the rainspout that would lead her to the roof and her private place.

"You are not to be climbing in your condition, now are you?" came a voice behind her, Belster's voice.

"And aren't you leaving Dainsey alone with quite a crowd?" Pony remarked, though she could not easily dismiss Belster's words, not with her belly sticking out so far now, the child within hardly ever still.

"Mallory will help her," Belster replied with a dismissive wave. "And Prim O'Bryen has come in. And most have had too much already and will not be drinking much more."

"If only I could blame their stupid words on drink," said Pony.

Belster gave a great sigh. "Still you have that anger, girl," he said.

Pony stared at him incredulously; did he believe that her anger was misplaced?

"Even you, so full of hate for the Church, recognize that this Bishop is better than the last," said Belster. "For some of the folk, that's enough."

Pony shook her head and leaned heavily against the pipe.

"You have got your own anger," Belster said calmly, approaching and putting a comforting hand about her shoulders. "No one will deny you that, or even that it is justified. But most of the folk are trying hard to look ahead, not back. They just want to be left in peace to go about their work and their fun, and they ask no more from a leader than to keep them safe should the goblins return."

"And the Church is that leader?" Pony asked skeptically. "Bishop Francis is that leader?"

Belster shrugged, and Pony almost - almost - slapped him.

"And will Belster go out and cheer at the arrival of the Father Abbot?" Pony asked, her voice dripping venom.

"That is what we have been told to do, and so we should," the innkeeper declared. "If that will make the Father Abbot happy, and him being happy will make our lives a bit easier, then it seems a small price - "

"Prettyface!" Pony yelled, a common name used by children to describe someone who says one thing but then does something completely different. She pulled away from him, and saw that she had wounded him with her insult. But she didn't stop. "You know what they are! You know what they have done!"

"Indeed, my friend," Belster said somberly, quietly, "I know. I hold no foolish ideas or hopes that these men - the new Bishop and the Father Abbot - are good men. But they might just be doing good for the folk of Palmaris if doing good for us suits their purposes. What more might common folk ask for?"

Pony's anger changed to confusion. "Are you speaking of a fight between the Church and state?" she asked. "Are you thinking that the Father Abbot is trying to use the city against the King?"

"It might be that it is not so much a fight," Belster explained, "but it does seem, from what I have heard from my friends who know the mer-chants well, as if both sides plan to make a claim for Palmaris, though I expect that the Church wants the city more."

"Wants the city enough to murder Abbot Dobrinion and Baron Bilde-borough," Pony pointedly reminded.

Belster patted the air now, trying to keep her calm. "And are you plan-ning to stop them?" he asked quietly, though the incredulity was clear in his voice. "We have been going around on this talk for weeks now, and surely you have come to see that you cannot fight them. Perhaps, if luck is with us, you will not have to, and that will be a good thing, girl. Good for Palmaris and good for yourself - and good, most of all, for the baby you are carrying in your belly."

Pony's hand went to her bulging belly. Always it came down to that for Belster; every time Pony started talking of action, he would gently remind her of the baby.

And she did calm down somewhat; she always did when feeling that life inside her. She recognized Belster's stand for what it was - not cowardice but pragmatism. The innkeeper had already carved out a comfortable exis-tence in the city, as had most folk; and he, like the others, preferred simply not to care about what their leaders might have done in the past as long as their present actions were helpful, or at least benign.

Pony could accept that from Belster and the others. Rationally, she tried hard not to judge them. But at the same time, Pony could not accept such an attitude from herself. Not at all. This was Francis, who had beaten Bradwarden; and the Father Abbot was responsible for the murder of her adop-tive parents and brother. No, Pony could not forgive, and could not forget; the talk in the Way, from men and women she had come to think of as friends, hurt her. But there was little point in arguing it with Belster, here in the alley in the cold of a late winter's night.

"Go and help Dainsey," Pony said to him. "I wish to remain out here alone." Belster started to respond, but Pony kept on talking. "I shall con-sider your words," she promised. "Perhaps we can avoid a war, after all."

Belster held his ground for a moment longer, but he realized that he had gotten as much of a concession as would be coming from one as stubborn as Pony. He came forward again and gave her a hug - one she returned -  and then he headed back out of the alley, saying only, "You be careful with that belly before you even think about going up that pipe!"

The woman only smiled, and that was enough to allow Belster to return to his duties in the Way.

As soon as he had gone, Pony made it to the roof without a problem, qui-etly and quickly using a malachite to aid her. She slipped into her cus-tomary spot, leaning against the back of a dormer. She did indeed want to consider Belster's words, but she could not give the reasoning any cre-dence. Every time she tried to think of the possible gain to Palmaris in let-ting go of the past, in judging the new leaders by their present actions, she thought of Graevis and Pettibwa, dear and innocent Graevis and Pettibwa. No, this new Bishop was no better than the last, she realized, and the Father Abbot was the worst and most dangerous of the lot.

They had done nothing to improve life in Palmaris, not if one considered where the city had been before the deaths of Bildeborough and Abbot Dobrinion. Yet no one seemed to remember that! All they could chatter about in the Fellowship Way was that this Bishop treated them better than the last, and that the monies demanded by the Church had lessened, and the sermons sounded less judgmental. And that, to Pony's distress, seemed to be enough for them.

It was all too pat for Pony, and she even looked beyond that and wondered just how much of this present situation had been carefully orchestrated.

A grand caravan made its way to the banks of the Masur Delaval. Twenty wagons strong, armed monks riding all around, the procession of Father Abbot Markwart came to the riverbank with the intent of using the magical powers of the amber to walk across. But when Markwart saw the splendor of the ferries and the accompanying fleet awaiting him, he instructed his monks to put their amber away.

More than a score of ships bobbed in the waters just beyond the docks at Amvoy, and several barges were tied to the wharves, awaiting the wagons. On one of these sat the new carriage for the Father Abbot, a magnifi-cent gilt affair, with a team of four perfectly groomed, shining white horses pawing the planks, eager to pull. The driver, a city guardsman, wore a splendid uniform, the full regalia of Baron Bildeborough's personal guard.

As the flotilla started across the wide river, trumpeters on flanking ships took up the welcoming call, a song that was repeated by every ship in the line, trumpets answering trumpets, the blaring call telling of the impending arrival. So impressive was Francis' plans that the call reached all the way across the miles of water to the docks at Palmaris, where answering horns echoed the notes.

One thing that Francis could not avoid was the slow progress across the water of the bulky, square boats; the minutes became an hour, and then two. Finally the docks of Palmaris came into sight, and the noise of trum-pets reached the Father Abbot's ears, along with cheering.

Cheering!

"How different this is from my last visit," the old man said to the two masters, Theorelle Engress and a much younger man, flanking him. "Per-haps they have come to appreciate the glory of the Church at long last."

"A testament to the work of Bishop De'Unnero," the younger master replied.

Markwart nodded, for he had no desire to explain, but he knew the truth, knew that any sincere applause he might receive in Palmaris would be the work of Headmaster Francis. Beyond that, of course, it was truly the work, the master planning, of himself.

The crowds reached down to the docks, lining the way. Markwart noted that many Behrenese were there as well, gathered all over the docks, and though their cheering was not nearly as exuberant as that of the white- skinned Palmaris folk, many of them were clapping their hands and calling out the name of Father Abbot Markwart.

"Oh, Francis," the old man muttered under his breath, "truly you have made my task here easier."

Pleased, Markwart took his seat in the gilded carriage and bade those monks who had been chosen as personal bodyguards to step onto the run-ning boards at either side. The masters organized many other monks to flank the magnificent coach, including one skilled with horses to take a seat up beside the soldier driver.

And then the parade began, the song of trumpets calling from every sec-tion of the city, the yells and cheers drowning even those. Entertainers of every persuasion - jugglers, sleight-of-hand magicians, and many bards - filtered behind the crowds, singing and laughing. And there, as well, were the soldiers, trying to keep out of the Father Abbot's sight as they prodded the crowd to be more enthusiastic.

Markwart basked in it all, reveled in the glory he believed that he deserved. Had he not brought Honce-the-Bear through the war, including personally leading the victory over the main powrie flotilla at St.-Mere- Abelle itself? Had he not restored order to the beleaguered city of Palmaris while the inept King remained in Ursal, no doubt riding his private stock of horses and women?

Of course, the Father Abbot did not consider the more covert and less glorious actions that had led him to this point, any more than to remind himself that Dobrinion and Bildeborough had proven ineffectual and could not see the broader and more important possibilities in the wake of the war. Yes, that was dark business to consider on another day; for now, Markwart merely sat back, waving occasionally, and then even smiling when his wave brought more enthusiastic cheers.

Francis would become the bishop, he decided then and there. If De'Un-nero returned a hero, with the head of Nightbird and the stolen stones - and perhaps even with the five heretics in tow - he would find another use for the man, a duty more suited to one who was more a creature of action than of politics. Yes, it was all falling neatly into place, the completion of the puzzle that would allow the Abellican Church to steal more and more of King Danube's domain, a completed picture that would return Honce-the-Bear to the theocracy it had been in more glorious days.

It all started here, in Palmaris, and the dream resounded in Markwart's ear with every cheer and trumpet blast.

And nearly everyone in the crowd was cheering, and those cheers were sincere, a prayer from the common folk that their lives could now return to normal and the dismal days of the war and its immediate aftermath would be put behind them. The Father Abbot saw it all very clearly and basked in the glory of this, his greatest moment.

Several hundred feet away, leaning against the slanted roof of a taller building, watching the procession, Pony, too, recognized the cheering for what it was: a desperate plea for leniency. They would forget the past -  not all the folk, but a significant number, certainly too many for her to find con-tinuing support for any major resistance against the Church rule. They would turn a blind eye to the murders and the injustices, would lament the name of Chilichunk whenever they came into the Fellowship Way, but would call it "a pity," or an "unfortunate consequence," rather than "an atrocity," a crime that needed to be avenged. The beleaguered people had seen too much of war, had found their world turned upside down severaltimes over the last few months after years of constant and stable rule. How many years had Abbot Dobrinion overseen St. Precious and the spiritual needs of Palmaris? How many decades - centuries even! - had the family Bildeborough ruled rather benignly from their seat in Chasewind Manor? It had all come undone in a matter of weeks, and now the common people wanted only a return to that safe existence.

And to their thinking, Father Abbot Dalebert Markwart was the only one who could give it to them.

The thought brought bile into Pony's throat, made her hands tremble with outrage. She chewed her lip and tried to think of something she could scream, that she didn't have to hear the cheering.

The cheering! The cheering! It went on and on and on - and for Mark-wart, for the man who had persecuted Avelyn, who had tortured Graevis and Pettibwa and Grady to death! The man who had ordered heroic Bradwarden dragged from the bowels of Mount Aida, locked in chains, and slung into the dungeons of St.-Mere-Abelle. The man who had ordered the assassinations of Abbot Dobrinion and Baron Bildeborough!

And now they were cheering, and it went on and on, hammering at Pony's heart and soul, pushing her further and further from her desire to strike back at this man and the corrupt institution he represented. It would all die here, she realized. Any hopes that she might have allowed to flicker about a potential revolution against the Church would all die here on the streets of Palmaris, buried beneath a chorus of "prettyface" cheers.

Pony clenched her hand tightly, and only then realized that she had fished one of the gemstones from her pouch. She looked down at it, but knew what it was before she did. Magnetite, the lodestone, and it was no accident that she had plucked this particular stone.

She looked from the stone back to the man in the gilded carriage. He was closer now, and rolling along a course that would bring him barely a hun-dred paces from her.

Pony could focus and loose a lodestone over a hundred paces.

"Come on, ye rotten waifs!" the soldier prompted, giving a shove to what he thought was a young boy.

Belli'mar Juraviel accepted the treatment stoically, for he, like all the other elves in the area, understood that they were observers who were to take no action to cause any disturbance whatsoever. He glanced over at Lady Dasslerond, apparently next in line for the pushy soldier's abuse, and the lady winked at him to indicate that he should play along.

She started cheering for the Father Abbot before the soldier reached her, and her companions all joined in.

For Lady Dasslerond, though, this sight was particularly unnerving. She wanted to deal with the King, if she had to deal with any human at all to ensure the security of her people, but this reception for the Father Abbot, so completely and professionally orchestrated, made her understand that this dangerous man would play a much larger role in determining the fate of Palmaris, and any potential expansion of the human kingdom, than she had believed.

She cheered, and her kin cheered, and the soldier moved along to the next less-than-enthusiastic onlookers in the seemingly endless line.

"Am I an assassin?" Pony asked aloud, and her face crinkled in disgust at the thought. She was a warrior, trained inbi'nelle dasada and in the use of gemstones, a warrior who could meet her enemy on an open field, sword against sword or magic against magic. So she had hoped ultimately to meet Markwart.

But it would not come to that, she realized painfully. There would be no rebellion, no open fight.

She held her arm extended over the roof ridge now, looking down it as if it were a drawn arrow at the rolling carriage. More out of curiosity than intent, the woman slipped into the magic of the stone, looked through it toward her intended target. Every metallic item along the route shone clearly to her: the swords of the soldiers behind the crowd, the shoes of the horses, even the jewelry and coins of the onlookers.

Pony narrowed her focus, eliminating all but the metal on the carriage, and then even narrower, seeing clearly only the metallic items worn by Father Abbot Markwart. She noted the three rings on his hands, the brooch clasping the top of his brown robes. Yes, that brooch. It was off center, and too high above his heart, but a strike through it would surely cause a grievous wound, probably a fatal one to a man as old as Markwart.

Pony's arm gradually slipped lower. Could she murder a man, any man, like this? Was she an assassin? The man was defenseless. .. .

Pony noted something, then, a strange feeling in the lodestone, almost a repulsion. She brought her arm back up and looked through the magic again; and then, as she focused more closely on the ring on the index finger of Markwart's left hand, she had her answer. The ring was set with mag-netite. Of course, Pony realized, the Father Abbot was protected from metal-tipped missiles, his magical ring sending off a defensive deflection shield. Likely he wore other shielding items - an emerald, perhaps, to bring a defensive shield against wood as the magnetite protected him from metal.

Pony clenched her stone more tightly. He wasn't defenseless, and somehow that challenge pushed her past her emotional barrier.

"Do you think you've the power to stop this?" she whispered grimly, focusing on that brooch, thinking to blow a hole through the man's chest and shoulder. She sent her energy into the lodestone, let it build and build an attraction to that one item. In mere seconds, the stone was pulling against her grip, but Pony held on, sending even more energy into the stone, charging it to tremendous levels.

She noted something else then, a sudden impulse as the Farther Abbot flashed a wide grin to the cheering crowd.

The man had a metal tooth, likely a golden one.

She shifted her angle only slightly and blocked out the brooch as she had blocked out all other metal in the area; and now her focus was on that one tooth halfway down the Father Abbot's jaw on the right side of his face.

The lodestone was humming now, vibrating with power, begging Pony for release. Still she held, throwing all of her strength into that stone. "Do you think you've the power to stop this?" she asked again, and she un-clenched her hand.

It flew with the speed many times that of a diving falcon, had reached its target before Pony had even finished opening her hand, and yet she saw it as if it were moving slowly, as if all the world were moving very slowly. It soared past the rooftops, nearly clipping an eave, diving in a straight line. She saw one woman turning her head right into its path, but too slowly, and the stone zipped past, startling the woman.

And then the way was clear to the Father Abbot, to his gold tooth. On the stone tore, blasting into the side of the old monk's face, explod-ing bone, tearing flesh, and then ripping on, through the man's tongue, smashing bone and teeth on the other side of his jaw, driving up and out through the side of his skull and then burrowing into the side of the carriage.

Pony watched Markwart's head snap violently to the side, watched the man jump out of his seat, then fall back limply, blood spraying all over his robes and the carriage, all over the attendant monks rushing to the Father Abbot's side, and all over the back of the soldier driving the carriage, the man still oblivious of the disaster behind him.

Absolute chaos exploded around Lady Dasslerond and her companions, for the carriage was almost directly in front of them when the Father Abbot got hit. Elves scrambled to get some sense of what had happened, but Dasslerond and Juraviel had already figured it out.

"Gemstone," Juraviel said grimly.

"It would seem that your friend is ambitious," Lady Dasslerond replied in less than complimentary tones. Dasslerond shook her head in disgust and turned her attention back to the chaos at the carriage. Soldiers and monks closed ranks about the stricken man, yelling for the driver to race to St. Precious.

Dasslerond could only watch as her scouts fanned out, trying to give her the most complete and accurate information possible. The situation had just become even more complicated, she knew. And so did Juraviel, who hoped that their suspicions about the method and source of the attack would be proven wrong.

Pony rolled to her back and slid down the sloping roof so that she was below the crest. And so she was an assassin - at least, if the old wretch died before the monks could get to him with any soul stones. "No," she said aloud, shaking that thought away. She had seen the impact and knew the power of the gemstone. Markwart had died the instant it hit him.

A strange emptiness washed over Pony, a hollow feeling that was not the sweet taste of revenge she had expected. That man, that dangerous wretch, had killed her parents and her brother; he was an evil man in a position to continue hurting people, so many people, and the world was a better place without him. Pony knew all that, but it mattered little at that horrible moment.

She heard the commotion behind her, the screams.

Pony blanked it out, couldn't bear it at that time. She felt unclean and tainted. She moved lower on the roof and vomited until her sides ached.