Tonight's entertainer is in over his head. The impresario is sweating into his caked-on face paint and spends too much time looking at the Box, where an obsidian curtain hangs like a glittering doorway to hell. A few dozen members of the Innter Court watch with half an eye, intent on their private conversation. Only one Exemplar is in attendance tonight, Nightsun Blooming, swathed in golden silk and surrounded by a fawning retinue. The rest of the crowd is the usual mix of ministers, undersecretaries, officers, and general hangers-on who flock to every court occasion, even the dull ones.

  Ba'alabeth Ebecrezzar stalks through the mass of colorful chitinfabric and silk like a deathbeetle at a feast, her dress a shimmering iridescent black, powdered moth wings lending a subtle sparkle to her long waterfall of black hair. Her eyes are painted a deep purple, her lips a dark slash. The only touch of color is at her neck, where emeralds gleam in the triune symbol of She-who-watches. She's looking for someone.

  "Tonight," say the impresario, "Malabar's Wondrous Creations presents a true legend of the ancient world! A creature gone for millennia, past the memory of even the most venerable" -- a tacky reference to the First-of-the-City, complete with another glance at the Box -- "but now resurrected for the delight and edification of this august court. Prepare to witness a sight winched from the black depths of myth into the light of day!"

  There's hint of movement from the Exemplar behind her golden veil, something that might have been a yawn. The impresario swallows hard and raises his voice.

  "I present to you" -- hidden drummers begin a thrumming roll -- "the !"

  The fancifully painted box beside the man opens, its sides falling away to reveal an iron-barred cage. There's a pained squeal from within, a few dutiful gasps and titters from the audience.

  The thing in the cage is not, of course, a horse, any more than a statue of the Fifth is a god of war. It is an amalgam, flesh flensed and stitched into shape then fused with water-of-life to produce a conglomerate entity. The horses of the stories had the warm flesh of men, not the carapace of insects, and so Malabar has used humanity as his exclusive ingredients, no doubt at great expense. A patchwork of skin covers the beast's flanks, some dark and some pale, some dusted with freckles, and here and there a scar. A shaggy mane of hair is stitched up from dozens of brunette scalps. Six legs with weird, knobbly joints end in blobby feet with ten splayed toes.

  It's not a particularly good example of the craft, in Ba'alabeth's opinion. Too obvious which pieces were what -- that drooping penis is just somebody's thigh with a blob of fat on the end. Wide eyes roll wildly above a stretched-out mouth with too many teeth. Probably Malabar would defend his choices as artistic, but she doubts that would cut much ice with the First-of-the-City. He'd better hope the Box is empty behind the obsidian curtain.

  "Lovely," Nightsun Blooming drawls, her musical voice quieting all other conversation. "Can it be ridden? In the stories people ride on horses."

  "Ah..." The impresario rubs his hands together nervously. "Our creatures are intended to be looked on, more than … ah … touched. I am not sure the weight would …"

  "I will ride it," the Exemplar declares. She stands up in a rustle of silk.

  "It might be wiser to --"

  Ba'alabeth tunes out the rest of the conversation, since if she's any judge, this entertainer is likely to end up an ingredient in someone else's creation after tonight. She's spotted a pale hand bearing a heavy gold-and-onyx ring reaching out from a curtained nook at the back of the room. The hand beckons and withdraws, and she follows it, slipping between the dark silks. Inside two couches sit opposite one another, and she takes a seat on the unoccupied one, bowing her head.

  "Prefect," she says.

  "Beth," he replies. He is perhaps the only man still living who can call her by her childhood nickname. "You look well."

  "I am, thanks to Earth-as-in-Heaven," she says, eyes still on the floor.

  "Oh, sit up." The Prefect's voice is a purr. "We're beyond these formalities, don't you think?"

  She straightens up. The man across from her is of ordinary stature, dark haired and dark eyed, dressed in several layers of exquisite silk interwoven with braided beetleshell. The acid-green centipede twined around his right arm seems out of place as decoration, but its utter stillness doesn't fool her; the thing is a pet, not an accessory. Its bite is said to be so venomous the victims melt from the inside out.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Shavi Montremora, Prefect of the First Circle, is without question the most dangerous man outside the Utmost Eye, and Ba'alabeth would place him above half of the Exemplars as well. His predilection for deadly pets is only the smallest part of that. His smile is insect-cold.

  "Have you been resting as I instructed?" he says. "You know I'm concerned for your health."

  "Yes, Prefect." Resting is not something that comes naturally to Ba'alabeth. She'd organized her files instead. "It has done me a world of good."

  "Excellent." He tickles the centipede with one finger and it shifts slightly, a ripple running through its myriad legs. "Then you won't object to a new assignment?"

  Ba'alabeth tries not to let the eagerness show in her face. "I am ever at your command, prefect."

  "Good." He tickles the centipede again, and the creature slowly begins to wind around his arm and back up across his shoulder. "We have a new lead on Redmask."

  Ba'alabeth permits herself a cold smile. She'd been hoping that was why she'd been summoned.

  Redmask is an anomaly in a system that detests anomalies. The redmask spider, though small, is among the most dangerous in the world, bearing the crimson image of a screaming face on its abdomen; the notorious rebel has taken the stylized image as both her name and a literal mask concealing her identity. Rebels, of course, are nothing new, and the Prefect of the First Circle would probably count it strange if each month didn't bring a half-dozen new plots against the First-in-the-City's benevolent rule. The schemers will be infiltrated, exposed, and in the fullness of time contribute their screams to the Wailing Dark, the endless tunnels that spread under the palace like a cancer.

  But Redmask , worming free of the wreckage of every foiled plan. The woman's knack for escaping the closing fist of authority is uncanny, and half-serious rumor among the First Circle says she's blessed by the Seventh, the Gibberer, Life-in-Darkness, god of hermits, skulkers, and madmen.

  For her part, Ba'alabeth disdains supernatural explanations. Redmask is smart, dedicated, and utterly ruthless, sparing not a thought for discarding her own comrades when she needs to escape. An admirable set of talents, under other circumstances, and one that has kept her out of the Prefect's clutches for more than five years.

  Ba'alabeth's last brush with the rebel's trail had been the Chiroptera boy, but that had been a dead end. That the Prefect was offering this to , and not another, meant she still retained his utmost trust.

  Then again, if she'd

  his trust, her first indication would be waking up to find one of his pets pumping her full of toxins.

  All this runs through her mind in a second or two. But the Prefect appreciates brevity, so she confines her response to, "Where?"

  "South Dextral. Probably Ghist. We're still narrowing it down."

  "That's farther from the City than she usually operates."

  The Prefect grunts agreement. "Either something's in the works, or we spooked her with our last operation. Either way, we can hope she'll be off her guard and make some mistakes if she thinks she's outside our reach."

  "We're sure she's there in person? No mask-switching tricks?" The mask, after all, was not the person. Redmask had pulled

  gambit on them more than once.

  "Reasonably certain," the Prefect said. "We have information from one of her couriers."

  A rebel confederate, either bought or vivisected down in the Dark. Ba'alabeth gives a slow nod.

  "You'll go to Ghist," the Prefect says. "By the time you arrive, our people there will have tracked down the other end of the courier route. That's your lead, so don't waste it. If you tip her off, we won't get another anytime soon."

  She swallows a response admonishing him for stating the obvious. The Prefect does not encourage his agents to talk back.

  "What's my authority?"

  "You'll have a writ of command over all local forces." Casually giving her the ability to commandeer an entire fleet, if she needs it. Even after all this time, the thought takes her breath away. "And all the assets we have on the scene, of course."

  "Am I going publicly or incognito?"

  She has a cover identity for when a more subtle approach is needed, like with the Chiroptera boy. A brainless socialite with a fondness for underground salons and dangerous men. She wonders for a moment if the poor fool had ever figured out the truth.

  "Incognito," the Prefect decides, after pursing his lips a moment. "It'd be hard to explain Lady Ebecrezzar taking a sudden southern holiday."

  "Understood." She takes a deep breath. "I'll depart at once."

  "Do." He waves two fingers in a vague dismissal. "And Beth?"

  "Yes, Prefect?"

  "Remember this is not simply about you and Redmask." The Prefect's expression darkens. "As long as rebels exist, they weaken the state. Without the state, there is no tithe. Without the tithe, there is no rockwater. And without rockwater, all of this" -- he waves expansively -- "crumbles to dust and blows away. Redmask isn't simply a traitor to the First-in-the-City. She is an enemy of all of humanity. Treat her as such."

  Beth keeps her eyes on the table. "I will, Prefect."

  "Good." He smiles. "And take care of yourself, will you? Make sure to eat properly."

  Before she can reply, there's a sickening from outside, followed by a splash like a bursting water balloon. Laughter and shouts of approval follow. Ba'alabeth catches the Prefect's eye and twitches the curtain aside for a look. Evidently the Exemplar has mounted the "horse", over Malabar's strenuous objections; her weight has broken the thing's back, and its collapsing body has come apart in a gush of vile organs. Nightsun Blooming appears unharmed, but she's holding up the hem of her dress, which has been flecked with a few drops of crimson gore. Now

  is going to die, probably at great length.

  Ba'alabeth is not sure any sight could make her less enthusiastic about food, but she drops the curtain and bows her head obediently.

  "As you command, Prefect."