Saint Wulferic' Shrine for the Poor Brothers and Sisters was built of white marble. In the twilight, though, it appeared red, looming like a standing stone over the deserted valley, slashed across by the little road, pock-marked by skeletal little trees.

And soon it would ring to the sounds of battle.

'Naturally, madame,' said Drill-Abbess Helene-Marie Pritchard, 'the celebration of the human body is the finest form of worship that the Emperor can receive.' She flicked her wrist, raised her sabre, assumed her stance; high guard, ready to swing down.

'I would expect nothing less,' Priscilla replied, 'from your establishment's reputation.'

She raised her own, assumed her stance ('fool's guard', blade almost crossways across her right foot.)

The Inquisitor looked on, inscrutable in high collar and hat; but, somehow, both knew he would be smiling.

'The worship of which we take most seriously,' Pritchard said, parrying Priscilla's first blow without any apparent effort. 'Too slow. Again.'

Booted feet clacked back and forth across the chalked floor. Around them were mirrors, seats, musical instruments, gymnastic equipment-all covered in white sheets. For the faithful, here as in the Capital, were fair-weather men.

After a few seconds of sparring thus (many twitches of the arm, the eyes behind the fencing masks, the body), Priscilla tried a feint-flick high, slash low, forcing the Abbess to dodge back another step, but taking a blow on her forearm in the process. Naturally, the sabres were blunted, and their padding protected her body from harm.

'The Emperor gifts me with the talents,' said the Drill Abbess (driving Priscilla back with two firm slashes at the torso, both of which she parried), 'which I display with such joy' (a third blow on the right, almost battering her sabre out of her hand), 'as his sacred servant' (parried a counter-blow to the legs), 'and deliverer of his winged victory' (rotate the wrist, cut into the elbow, step neatly around her sabre as it swings up.) 'Praise be unto the immortal lord of Terra' (Weave to the side as she tries to punch you in the face with the basket-hilt.), 'Long may he reign over us all.' (They both step back, disengage, resume their stances.)

'You really enjoy this, don't you?' Priscilla snapped, panting.

'It is good that I enjoy the Emperor's work,' the Abbess replied. She twirled her sabre, stretched. 'As should we all.'

'And you are not,' the Inquisitor noted, 'as fast as once you were.'

'Not you too!'

'I am merely remarking, Your Grace.' The Inquisitor turned to pull back a the curtain on one of the windows (small, thin, like arrow-slits) and peer out into the dying sun. 'A fine establishment you have here,' he said.

Pritchard beamed under her mask.

'We are descended from the Monastery to spread skill at arms' to the Emperor's worthy subjects,' she said, 'which are quite clearly in dire need at times.'

'We?'

'At this time of year, just myself and two servitors. The other brothers and sisters return from the Yeomanry regiments at other times of the year, when demand is higher.'

'And you stay here all year round?'

'Her and her friends,' Priscilla replied, 'by reputation.' She tore off her mask.

'But indeed! Many ladies and gentlemen reside her, for a quite considerable length of time over winter, to engage in the study of theology. Sometimes I will accompany them to the Capital, to give alms to the poor and needy.' Pritchard's mask stayed on. 'Do you wish to continue?' She raised her sword again.

Priscilla froze.

And lunged.

Prewellyn watched Priscilla parry five blows in quick succession, yielding ground all the while to her snarling opponent, and noticed that Mallory was not at his post seeing to the horses. An irregularity. So, leaving the ladies to their quarrel, he went to investigate.

He found Mallory in the entrance hall. The old mendicant leaned on his staff, eyes watchful. He was dressed in his robes, but underneath a heavy coat and gloves; his kit for the road.

'Crows on the trees,' he said tersely.

'Crows?'

'A lot of 'em. More by the hour.'

'Oh, indeed?'

'They don't want to move away, either. I tried shouting. Nothing.'

'Ah. Their arrival was, I think, inevitable.'

'You know 'em?'

'They are of our Enemy. As we get closer, more will come.'

'Watching us?'

'I do not doubt.'

Mallory considered this. 'Could they hurt us?'

'Not in here.' The Inquisitor tapped the wall with his cane. 'The walls are thick, and the windows thin.' He swept his cane up to the Aquila carved into the ceiling. 'And it is one of His shrines.' Mallory snorted. 'I appreciate its reputation, but it is a place of faith. In here, we are safe.'

'But outside?' Mallory made the sign of the Aquila. 'Not so much.'

'Indeed. Could we leave now?'

'On foot, perhaps. But the horses need the rest. They've been ridden hard enough. Seven night-rides in a row's too much for even a Phipps. Poor lads.' Mallory fingered the Aquila at his neck.

'How long?'

'A night. Well bred steeds like that.'

'Very well,' said the Inquisitor. 'Then a night it shall be.'

'Why the Drill-Abbess?' Mallory asked.

'Whatever do you mean?'

'Why are we taking her on board too?'

'Because she is an acolyte of long service, who could prove valuable to this mission. And that is all you need to know.' The Inquisitor strode over to the exit. 'Now, show me these crows.'

'They painted churches in my day. Covered up the stone beneath. But men were plainer.' Mallory turned to follow the Inquisitor.

'Perhaps. Now, these crows.' The Inquisitor checked his pocket-chron. 'Interesting.'

'Interesting?'

'Twilight's three hours early. Now, to business.'