A/N: Canon-compliance after Book 9, "Draw", is not guaranteed

Sharidan kept his face neutral-to-disdainful while he tried to figure out what Embras's game was. He wasn't sure it was even important; could the Black Wreath really make things much worse at this point?

But no, that sort of defeatism wasn't going to get him anywhere. If Tiraas was still here tomorrow, he'd feel pretty silly if the Black Wreath had taken over the city or something.

The Emperor opted for a probe. 'I'm sure arming your followers' children was a vital part of the evacuation process.'

This was more careful than it might have seemed. Mogul must have been aware that the Wreath's massive operation was being observed, so Sharidan revealed nothing by confirming that he knew about it. And while insults to one's integrity were not usually a good way of getting under professional schemers' skins, the current crisis must have been almost as hard on the Wreath as it had been on the Throne. If the Emperor was lucky, their leader's nerves would also be more frayed than usual.

Alas, the High Priest of Elilial kept his cool. 'Some of the younger members are helping us carry our stock out, yes. None of the artifacts will be used, of course. Infernal magic is dangerous enough under controlled circumstances.'

Carry their stock out? Was that really the best lie the leader of the Black Wreath could come up with? Or was it so implausible that it had to be true?

But no, that was the wrong question to ask. The question wasn't whether Embras was telling the truth, but what he gained by Sharidan thinking it was true, regardless of whether it actually was.

Well, that one was obvious. If the Throne believed the Wreath were clearing out of the city, they had little reason to start a fight. Embras wanted the Emperor off his back, whether to evacuate or for some sinister scheme.

Under the circumstances Sharidan was tempted to tell him to just get out of his hair, but old habits die hard. And so…

'I'll accept that for now,' said the Emperor. 'But I have a request to make.'

'A request,' Embras repeated, deadpan. 'Really.' The flat inflection was probably useful in quelling his underlings, but to Sharidan the mere fact that he'd ceded the momentum of the conversation implied that he was genuinely taken aback. Good.

'Take the civilians with you,' said Sharidan.

Mogul stared at him with something approaching incredulity. Sharidan stared back.

'I assume you remember last summer,' said the High Priest finally. 'You manufactured a humanitarian crisis just to get a swing at us. Do you really feel you have a right to our help when a real one shows up?'

'I remember,' said Sharidan. Had Embras Mogul been a foreign ruler, he would have inserted an apology, but the etiquette here was slightly different—less formal, with fewer of the easier deceptions and more of the hard ones. So instead he just added, 'The citizens of Tiraas weren't responsible for that. I was. And I'm staying here.'

'Suppose I buy your argument,' said Embras. 'How many of these "civilians" will be reporting to our friend Quentin?'

Now here was a moment all-too-familiar from a lifetime of playing diplomacy. The question wasn't probing for information; they both knew the answer. The question was probing for attitude, and so in fact Sharidan was playing not the Black Wreath as an organization with rational interests but the emotional state of the man in front of him.

And what kind of a man was he? Charismatic, ambitious, but famously flamboyant and melodramatic. A man who had been hunted all his adult life. Who spoke frequently about the dangers of infernal magic but frequently found himself using it, and even more frequently commanded others who did so.

Embras Mogul, Sharidan decided, thought he was a tragic hero. Sharidan's suggestion was bonkers, but Embras was entertaining the idea because he wanted to be the kind of person who could forgive slights for the good of civilians—and thus show how much better a person he was than his enemies. The High Priest had arranged an encounter with the Emperor, not for a strategic victory or even a diplomatic victory, but for a moral victory.

And so, Sharidan's next move was clear.

'No more than half,' said the Emperor seriously. 'And I'll swear to that.'

Embras chuckled. 'Oh, very well done, Your Majesty. You're really getting into this whole bantering game.' He paused—somewhat melodramatically, Sharidan felt. 'But no. I'm afraid you have abused our generosity too much. Unjust as it may be, so long as you lead Tiraas they will suffer for your sins.'

And now, finally, they got to the meat of the matter. Why had Embras come here? Just to get a peek at the Elysium? Just to lord it over Sharidan? No.

He wanted him to abdicate.

Because the next in line to the Silver Throne, strictly speaking, was the perhaps-still-unborn son of Sharidan and of the Black Wreath's own goddess.

Is it worth it? Is a Tiraas ruled by a Prince of Hell better than no Tiraas at all?

Embras Mogul didn't wait for the Emperor's reply. With an exaggerated bow, the High Priest of Elilial turned on his heel and sauntered off.

But suppose I reject his help. Suppose we make it through all this. Won't I die eventually anyway?

'I'll do it,' said Sharidan.

Embras stopped, but did not speak or turn around. Sharidan felt an urge to tell a Hand to smack the theatricality out of him.

'You want me abdicate, right? Well, I'll do it. If the Black Wreath evacuates the citizens of Tiraas, without harming them or their liberty or property or otherwise violating good faith, then one year from now I will step down. My word of honor.'

'Your word of honor?' spat the High Priest.

'It's all I've got,' said Sharidan. 'Take it or leave it.'

'Wrong!' Yelled Mogul, spinning around again. The Emperor idly reflected that his hat must have been pinned to his head, or else it would have gone flying off. 'There is a simple solution.'

He reached into a pocket and withdrew a syringe.

'You must be joking,' said Sharidan.

'Take it or leave it,' echoed Embras, sounding unbearably smug.

Afterwards, Sharidan noted that the High Priest walked away rather than shadow-jumping, which implied his earlier claim to still have his magic intact was probably a bluff. But if he really was going to help get the civilians out of the city, the Emperor would leave him to it.

Oh yeah. Sharidan addressed one of the Hands of the Emperor who had been hovering around him, waiting for the order to strike Embras Mogul dead. 'One of you get back to Army HQ and let High Command know about this, will you? I'd rather not have our people starting fights with the Black Wreath after all that.'

'By your will,' said the Hand—which Sharidan suspected was Hand-ese for "I think this is a stupid idea"—and off he went.

How do other people even get by without utterly loyal, omni-competent servants? I suppose this is why people hire Butlers.

Unfortunately, he now had to venture where they couldn't keep an eye on him. 'The rest of you stay sharp,' ordered Sharidan. 'And one of you give me a dagger,' he added. 'Mithril.'

'Sire—'

'Don't mess me around. None of the things we're facing are in the habit of using weapons, and if nothing else it'll make me feel better if I can go down fighting. Give.'

The one on his left handed him a dagger, hilt first. He tucked it into his belt.

'Thank you,' he said shortly, and entered the realm of the gods once again.

The gods themselves were, once again, absent. Their foremost servant was not, sitting at a table near the center of the room with the Book open on the table in front of him.

'Your Holiness,' said Sharidan, attempting to convey by tone of voice alone that, impending execution or not, he was unimpressed with the level of sass he'd been getting throughout the evening.

No response.

'Justinian!' said Sharidan, more loudly.

The Archpope raised his head slowly. He looked awful: his eyes were bloodshot and Sharidan could have sworn he'd lost a significant amount of weight over the course of the evening. Also, he seemed to have gained about eight inches of beard. The Emperor was not opposed to beards, as a general rule, but they weren't supposed to sneak up on you.

There had been stupid Emperors, but they hadn't lasted long. 'How long have you been here, Your Holiness?' asked Sharidan gently.

Justinian peered blearily at him. 'Sharidan?'

'To my wife, yes. I'll take "Your Majesty" from you, if you don't mind.'

There was a rather strange moment of vulnerability as the Archpope visibly pulled himself together. His posture straightened, his eyes focused, and suddenly he shot to his feet and bowed. 'Your Majesty! My humblest apolo—'

'Yes, yes,' said the Emperor; it was actually rather unsettling to have Justinian pretending to feel like his inferior. 'A little lapse in protocol is acceptable under the circumstances. You've been in solitary confinement for years, right? Just you and the book?'

'Years?' asked Justinian hoarsely. 'Good gods, has it been that long?'

'I'd say so, judging from the state of you. I'm sorry, everything's gone crazy with the gods distracted. The mortal plane slipped a couple of years into the future. I… guess this place doesn't exactly count.'

'No,' said Justinian slowly. 'I suppose not.' He held up one hand in front of his face and flexed his fingers; the nails had grown ludicrously long. 'Years, you say...'

'I think so. What did you eat?'

'Nothing,' said the Archpope simply. 'Nor drank. Nor slept. I imagine the Elysium sustained my body for me.' He smiled. 'I think it's rather poetic, really. You're going to kill me after this is all over, but the gods hand me an extension so long as I spend all of it trying to undo the disaster I created.'

Sharidan had nothing to respond to that. Justinian was too smart for platitudes: he couldn't say he wasn't going to kill him, and he certainly couldn't say it wasn't his fault. So instead he just said, 'Let's hope Vidius takes it into account.'

'I'm sure he will, Your Majesty. And it has not been for nothing! Come take a look at this.'

The Emperor walked round the table to stand over the Archpope's shoulder. The Book was open to a page that appeared blank.

'What am I looking at?' he asked.

Justinian uttered a single syllable that Sharidan's brain completely refused to register, and his eyes refocused subtly. He wasn't looking at a book, he was looking at a key, a key and a gate, a thing that held the secrets to the beyond and simultaneously was the thing those secrets were about.

Sharidan stared at the Book, and through the Book. The Thing That Comes From Outside stared back, vast and alien.

Somehow, seeing it again was calming. Chaos as a phenomenon was unknown, unknowable and invincible. But the Thing with all its teeth and eyes was, in its own way, just another monster.

I'm not afraid of you, thought the Emperor, though he was. He corrected himself: The Silver Throne isn't afraid of you. We're not afraid of anything.

The Thing gave no indication it had heard him, or that it cared. It was just… waiting, exerting a gentle, inexorable pressure on the barrier between them until some fracture caused the whole thing to shatter.

Sharidan looked up and met Justinian's eyes. 'This is the Book of Chaos,' he said flatly.

'What did you think I was studying?' retorted the Archpope. 'The Book of Nemitoth contains every book in existence, but only one has ever been written about Chaos that was worth reading.'

'"Worth reading" is a funny way of putting it,' replied Sharidan, 'given that everyone who's ever read it has died insane. But I suppose you did what you had to; "desperate times" and all that. Do you happen to feel an inexplicable urge to take over the world while laughing maniacally?'

'No more than usual, Your Majesty,' said Justinian drily, which made Sharidan crack a smile despite everything. 'I had hoped to hold off the effects for a few hours, but if it has indeed been years… I can only assume the Elysium protected my mind from Chaos in the same way it protected my body from hunger and thirst.'

'So what happens if you leave?' asked the Emperor.

'I don't know,' said the Archpope.

Sharidan took a moment to digest that. 'All right, then,' he said at last. 'Nothing to be done now, I suppose. What have you learned? Can we fight this?'

'Not exactly,' said Justinian. 'Only gods can oppose Chaos directly. The Pantheon won't be enough alone. Are you aware that Scyllith has sent an emissary?'

'Yes,' said Sharidan. 'He saved my life earlier.'

The Archpope raised his eyebrows. 'Curious.'

'That's pretty much what I thought, but whatever she's up to won't matter unless Chaos is stopped. Will an emissary be enough?'

'That's a trickier question,' said Justinian. 'Since the answer depends on how much of her personal power Scyllith decided to bestow on him. You say he saved your life? How exactly did that come about? What form did his powers take?'

Sharidan briefly recounted the story of his encounter with the headhunter in Bishop Darling's house. Giving the Archpope free information might have been a bad idea, but whatever his plan Sharidan really didn't think he was interested in the unmaking of the Empire and everyone in it. They were on the same side, for now.

'I'm afraid that story is not promising,' said Justinian when the Emperor finished. 'A being wielding any significant fraction of Scyllith's total power would have annihilated even a headhunter with a thought, and certainly wouldn't have needed a weapon to duel with.'

'He might just be stingy with it,' pointed out Sharidan. 'If I'm understanding the metaphysics correctly. No need to use your flashiest magic if the enemy in front of you doesn't strictly require it.'

'Perhaps,' said the Archpope placidly.

Sharidan stared at him. 'That's what you've got for me, Your Holiness? After years of study with access to every text ever written? "Perhaps"?'

'As I said, the Book of Chaos is the only text on the subject worth looking at, and it was written for an audience short-sighted enough to use Chaos, not fight it. I am a scholar second, Your Majesty, and a priest first. At this point, we must trust in the Pantheon.'

'No,' said the Emperor. When Justinian gave him a look, he corrected himself—not that there was anybody around to pander to, but old habits died hard. 'I mean, of course we'll trust in the gods. But I promised my citizens that we would face this even if the Pantheon couldn't, so let's put together a backup plan.'

'Admirable pragmatism, Your Majesty, but Chaos doesn't have weaknesses. It's not an ogre that can be slain if only some brave hero will strike its vulnerable spot. Only the gods can protect us now.'

The Archpope was simply too competent an actor for Sharidan to read his tone or body language, but he strongly suspected he was lying. He'd deliberately sent a team to acquire one of the most dangerous artifacts on the planet; had he really not had any contingencies in place in case things went wrong?

The Emperor almost asked him outright, but caught himself at the last second. If the Archpope hadn't volunteered that information already, it was either because he didn't think it was relevant—unlikely—or because it went against his interests to do so, in which case Sharidan had nothing to hold over his head since they both knew that Justinian wasn't long for this world, however things went. He couldn't even force him out the door and have the Hands torture the information out of him, since for all he knew the Archpope would turn into an insane Chaos sorcerer as soon as he got back to the mortal plane.

But no, that was the wrong train of thought. The Archpope and the Emperor had long been political opponents, but at the end of the day Sharidan didn't think Justinian would want the Empire and all its citizens unmade. If nothing else, it would kill his entire power base.

So, what could Justinian be holding back? And why?

The Emperor's first thought was a fairy geas, like the one which he himself had made use of to Seal secrets to the Throne. But most of the continent was currently under a cloud of magic-obscuring dust; if ever there was a time to break such a spell, it was now. In fact, the only ones who could possibly be listening to their conversation were the gods themselves.

Crap.

It made a horrifying sort of sense. The Archpope was famously subject to the Pantheon's personal attention. The Elysium was… well, Sharidan didn't know exactly what it was, but it was obviously special in some way that related to the gods. It was possible that even with their attention mostly on the fight against Chaos, Justinian would avoid revealing his plan if he feared the gods would disapprove.

And what would they disapprove of? The answer was obvious.

Only a god could fight Chaos. The Pantheon alone were not enough. The Pantheon along with Yophiel were probably not enough.

The Archpope had spoken to another god.

Sharidan wanted to say something like "I understand", to hint that he suspected Justinian had a plan and that he would try to follow up on it. Since only idiots dropped hints when they were being listened to, he did not say that. 'Very well. I will lead our citizens in prayer, due to Your Holiness's… health condition.'

The Archpope inclined his head graciously. 'A show of unity between the Throne and the Church might be appropriate, in any case.'

Also a fair point, although the Archpope's absence would be pretty conspicuous. Nothing to be done about that, though.

It was even darker when Sharidan stepped back out into the mortal world. It was difficult to tell what with all the dust, but he thought there were clouds gathering overhead.

With any luck, the apocalypse will get rained off.

Whatever the Archpope's plan was, if he was worrying about the Pantheon overhearing it then it was safe to assume he hadn't told many people about it. Sharidan thought Antonio Darling was probably his best bet, since he had been part of Justinian's inner circle of Bishops and was not the kind of person it was easy to hide one's plans from.

Darling, assuming he was still alive and at large, would know where to find the Emperor. Everyone who was anyone was pitching in to help the fall of Tiraas happen in style. So Sharidan made his way back to the amphitheater, tailed silently by his Hands.

Something crunched underfoot as he approached the city center. Sharidan looked down, and saw that someone had apparently ordered the streets to be sown with wood chips. He bent down, curiously, and picked one up. It felt oily.

It was a pretty good idea as defensive measures against the undead went, but Sharidan was more impressed by the execution. Someone somewhere in this city had scrounged up several tons of oil-soaked wood chips, in the middle of the night, with none of their communication or industrial devices working. Sharidan didn't know who they were, but he resolved to find them and put them in charge of something.

The Emperor could hear and smell the "party" long before it came into sight. When it did, he was pleased to see that the venue was filled to capacity—although not surprised, since the place was obviously far too small to hold the population of the whole capital. The stalls were all occupied, and aside from the enormous bonfire on the dais several lesser fires had also been lit, most of them being used to cook.

The Imperial Army had a significant presence, standing guard around the perimeter and dotted throughout the crowd. The soldiers were armed with a mismatched variety of antique weapons, and were doing a poor job of making them look natural. Sharidan spotted swords, clubs, pikes, and a crossbow.

His retinue cleared the way for him with cries of 'Make way for the Emperor!' and the occasional shove. He caught Eleanora's eye, up on the dais next to the fire, but she didn't come down to meet him—that would have looked urgent, and this event was about being relaxed in the face of potential disaster. He climbed up to her instead, carefully keeping his side to the crowd so as not to give the impression he was about to make an address. He'd probably have to, but he wanted to catch up first.

'How's it going out here in the world of men?' he asked, when they were close enough to be able to hear each other. The crowd was far too loud for them to be overheard.

'So far, about as well as we could reasonably hope,' said Eleanora, with a calm smile on her face that her tone did not match. 'I understand there have been sporadic incidents of undead at graveyards around the city. The people aren't rioting in front of me, but word from Vex is that the public order is slowly unravelling.'

'Well,' said Sharidan. 'Overall—'

'Naturally,' continued the Empress as if he hadn't spoken, 'you'd have to ask Panissar at HQ for the complete picture. I'd be there myself, but I get the impression a lot of people here are enjoying the novelty of the Empress at a booze-and-barbecue street festival, and I'd hate to ruin their fun.'

Sharidan got the impression he was in trouble for something. 'Dear, is there—'

'I don't mind being a showpiece, of course,' interrupted Eleanora again. 'It comes with the job. But imagine my surprise when one of Quentin's flunkies shows up to inform me that while I was standing here looking pretty, my husband was off striking a deal to have our citizens spirited away by the godsdamned Black Wreath.'

What with Justinian and the Book of Chaos, he'd almost forgotten about that. Maybe the cursed thing had done something to his head.

'Wrong call?' asked Sharidan, more flippantly than he would have been with anyone else.

The Empress sighed. 'I don't even know. You really couldn't have asked for some time to confer with the rest of us?'

Well, there was an obviously sensible move that he'd missed. Maybe Mogul's melodrama had gotten to him. 'You know what? I probably could have. I apologize.'

Perhaps only Sharidan himself could have recognized Eleanora's smile changing from public to genuine. 'Apology accepted, I suppose. Heavens know—'

'Also,' said Sharidan, figuring it was best to get it out in the open, 'as part of that deal, I promised to abdicate within a year.'

The microscopic change in the Empress's expression reversed itself, but she took a moment to think before speaking. 'Not to impugn the sanctity of your word, but if push comes to shove… do the Wreath have any way of enforcing this promise?'

'I gave them a vial of my blood. Useless with all this Chaos everywhere, but once it clears…'

The tiny twitch of the Empress's eyelid was all the indication she gave that she wanted to bury her face in her hands. 'Omnu's balls, Sharidan. Was—'

A horn sounded in the distance, long-short-short-long. Another one closer by repeated the sequence, then more throughout the city.

'Oh gods,' said Eleanora.

Well, it had been inevitable. 'How bad?' asked the Emperor quietly.

'I don't know,' admitted the Empress. 'You think I remember the Army's nonmagical communication codes?'

Touché.

Around the perimeter of the amphitheater, soldiers hurried to raise barricades and form up. Sharidan spotted Major Avelea, the event's ranking officer, standing at the foot of the dais, unsure how to approach the Imperial couple or get their attention. He caught her eye and waved her up.

'Status,' ordered the Emperor before she was done bowing, dropping the breezy tone he'd adopted with her earlier.

'A significant number of undead have breached containment somewhere within the city walls,' reported Avelea. 'This being the largest concentration of people anywhere in the city, we have to assume they're headed this way.'

'My compliments to your subordinates on the swiftness of their response,' remarked Sharidan. This was sincere, but he probably would have said something similar even if it wasn't. 'Is this location defensible?'

'I had assumed that was one of the reasons you chose this venue,' said Avelea, correctly. 'There are too many entrances to defend against a real army, but against an enemy that can't strategize and tends to follow the path of least resistance, we should be okay…'

She trailed off.

'But?' Eleanora prompted her gently.

The Major dropped her gaze, an absurd gesture from an adult woman but one to which Sharidan was accustomed from people who weren't used to interacting with him or Eleanora. 'But I don't know for how long,' she finished, voice very soft.

'That's up to you,' declared the Emperor, projecting as much sincere confidence as he could. 'And us, of course. How can we help, Major?'

'Um…' she seemed to be seriously considering the question for a moment. 'The civilians are probably our biggest liability, to be honest. If people panic, they'll trample each other, and probably my soldiers too.'

Sharidan and Eleanora exchanged a look.

'Your Majesty,' added Avelea.

'We've got this,' said Sharidan. 'Get down there and see to your soldiers.'

'Yes, sir!' She saluted, descended the platform, and began pushing her way through the crowd to her soldiers.

'Should we tell her you're not technically supposed to salute the Emperor?' asked Eleanora conversationally.

'Probably not. She seemed nervous enough as it was.'

'I'll say. I think she liked Casual Sharidan more than Commanding Sharidan.'

'I'll take that as a compliment to my ability to put people at their ease, thank you very much. But for a situation like this, I need to show I'm capable of taking things seriously.'

'Of course. Plus, she looked cute staring at her shoes like that.'

Sharidan almost choked. 'Nora!'

'You expect me to believe you didn't notice that? You were basically flirting with her earlier.'

The Emperor did not dignify that with a denial. 'Enough of your insinuations, woman. Time for a speech.'

Another horn sounded, disturbingly close.

'Make it short,' suggested the Empress.

Sharidan turned towards the crowd. Strangely, silence was almost immediate.

They're hoping against hope that you can make this go away, thought Sharidan.

He couldn't. The real problem here was beyond his ability to fight. But if Tiraas was going down, it would go down fighting.

'You're the ones who didn't run,' yelled Sharidan. He'd never addressed a crowd this size without amplification, but he hoped he'd be audible.

'You chose to stay here.' He elaborated.

And I know it wasn't for the booze, he thought, but discarded the line. Too flippant.

'And I know why.' Always a little risky, telling people you understood them before they'd explained themselves to you. The trick was to avoid specifics, so the listener could interpret whatever you said in light of whatever was on their mind. 'Because you have something here you couldn't leave behind. Something worth standing against Chaos for.'

As he paused for breath, he could have sworn he heard the sound of thumping, crunching feet approaching.

'I do too. Stand with me.'

The horde came into view, down the eastwards street on Sharidan's left. He'd expected them to be slow, but the undead were running as fast as any living person, a mass of bones and flesh barreling towards the barricades like a cavalry charge. They did not vocalize at all, and so the voice of the Silver Throne that came from the Emperor's throat was audible even as the distance between them closed.

'Eyes up! Face the enemy! Stand!'

And he jumped off the stage and, with the help of his Hands, pushed his way through the crowd towards the oncoming foe.

A moment before they made contact, someone atop the barricade tossed a torch towards the undead. With a sound best transliterated as wumph, a hundred feet of corpse-filled road caught fire.

The Emperor didn't know how long mundane fire was supposed to take to disable undead, but it clearly wasn't instantaneous, because a moment later the crush of burning, reanimated dead people slammed into the barricades.