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A hot, dry wind swept across the landing platform at Bonner’s Point, a minor port of call in the Caucasus Mountains and the easternmost of the Iron Duke’s holdings. That Duke Reginald Caffrey frequented this place in the summertime was no real secret, despite his habit of keeping his mistresses there. What he was doing there on the platform, however, in the darkest watch of night, was anyone’s guess—and no one’s. To be seen meeting with a man declared null would be unthinkable.

Arax Thorne held onto one small bit of hope, though, as the duke approached: He’s the Iron Duke. He’s made a career of the unthinkable.

The duke tapped the tip of his cane against the stone with a quick rhythm to match his light step as he came near. A true gentleman, he was never seen without his cane and his cape, ever ready to meet any challenge to his honor with treacherous steel. Thorne had been told the duke had been an accomplished swordsman once, but he could not imagine anyone with the courage or the stupidity to insult the man now. Even as he approached the century mark, the duke looked to be a man of only fifty or sixty years, well kept even for a nobleman.

“Ah, Commander!” the duke exclaimed, giving his customary greeting despite knowing full well that Thorne had been stripped of that rank, among other things, nearly seven years ago. “I see the villagers in Risi are still feeding you well. You haven’t died of boredom there yet?”

Thorne smiled in spite of himself. “The colonies are not quite as boring as those at court would like to believe, nor as interesting as the tales all claim. Life goes on.” He bowed low, ever mindful of his place and of the debt he owed the duke. “But the hour is late, milord. Why have you called me here tonight?”

The duke turned, gesturing for Thorne to follow him as he walked easily in the direction of his summer home. “Some words are best spoken without an audience. You are aware, of course, that Cardinal Belloc has been… disappointed in you?”

Their shadows danced across the paving stones of the walk in the pale, greenish light of the lampposts along the way and Thorne gave his answer a moment’s thought before he responded. “I have heard about plans to have me tried before the church, milord, though I have received no summons.”

“He sent for you last week. I called you here so that you could avoid the embarrassment of arrest. There is a chance we may still avoid a trial in this; he’s agreed to meet with us here tonight, in my home.”

Thorne felt his blood run cold.

“Is something wrong, Commander?”

“Nothing.”

But are you about to sell me out?

“I think a bit of brandy will help things go more smoothly, don’t you? There’s a bottle in the cellar I thought perhaps you could bring up.”

“Of course, sir.” The old man’s demeanor was absolutely inscrutable, but there was no way to simply ask without inviting his wrath. “You owe me no debt, you know. I did only what duty required.”

“Perhaps, Commander. But times change, yes?”

The duke mounted the steps to his cottage and a servant showed him inside. The same servant pointed Thorne in the direction of the cellar and helped him to select just the right bottle; having never developed a taste for the more civilized liquors of the empire, he had no way to know which the duke had intended. Or what, he added to himself.

A trial was inevitable, at this point. The only questions that remained were who would be invited to testify and with what crimes he would be charged. In fact, he was surprised that nearly the full seven years had passed before someone deigned to officially accuse him. He rapped upon the chamber door and waited to be admitted, noting with some shame that his nerves and the waiting threatened to get the best of him. He rolled his head about his neck and set his eyes and mouth in a line, hardening his countenance in case the cardinal happened to open the door.

Instead, a voice from within invited him to simply open the door. Pushing the oak door aside, he was greeted by the sight of both men comfortably seated at a humble, round table. There was no third chair to be seen, but there were three glasses. Thorne filled all three and, taking one for himself, waited for the others to drink.

They didn’t.

“Usually, Duke Caffrey—usually,” said the cardinal, apparently correcting an earlier statement. “I normally take no issue with the practice of lay investiture, but in this case I must protest. At the time, I thought I could take your word that the former baron had experienced a change of heart and could serve the church faithfully, but that seems not to be the case.”

The duke nodded gravely and, finally, lifted his glass to his lips. “I see,” he said after a sip. “But I still fail to understand what specific complaints you have against the commander—”

“…Bishop, milord,” the cardinal corrected him.

The Iron Duke smiled. “Yes, bishop. Anyway, what exactly seems to be the trouble?”

Cardinal Belloc seemed scandalized. “The problem, sir, is your choice of so insincere a person to care for one of the church’s youngest and most vulnerable missions. The people of Risi are little more than monkeys with a penchant for superstition!” He took a breath, calmed himself, and managed to keep his voice to only a softer shout after that outburst: “To pretend that a null could serve as a man of the cloth is insult enough, but to imagine that he could lead these people to enlightenment? It is a crime against the faith!”

Thorne couldn’t hide the smirk that spread over his face at the cardinal’s outburst. Did anyone really care if the colonies ever became enlightened?

“Understand, Cardinal, I would not hesitate to remove Commander—excuse me; Bishop Thorne from his post were it made clear to me that he lacks any of the faith and zeal I have come to expect of the clergy. However, I require that you air specific complaints.”

The duke’s backhanded insult was lost on the cardinal.

“Very well!” growled Belloc. “This cretin has set himself up as some sort of magician! Allow me to list a few of his specific exploits… He promised God’s protection to a group of natives if they would remove themselves to the church with all haste, as if he could somehow cast a spell on them and make it so. He then later delivered to them the corpse of a ‘demon,’ claiming that he had lifted the curse on their village as if by divine power! As if that were not enough, the fools then brought burnt offerings to the church—laid them on the very altar!—for months afterward while this null did nothing to prevent them.”

Belloc stopped their, a smug look on his face; he felt certain he had made his case. “There are even rumors that the ‘bishop’ sired a bastard with one of the local colonists. Of course, these are only the latest of his crimes against God and his country and by far not the worst.”

Thorne bristled, his knuckles turning white as he clenched the glass in his hand. You’ll die for those words, Cardinal.

The duke played his part. Turning to Thorne, he asked, “Is any of this true?”

Of course it was. “Yes, Duke,” he muttered, his voice gravelly with venom, his eyes closed to slits as he glared at the cardinal.

“Then I agree with Cardinal Belloc that something must be done.”

So the old bastard was going to sell him out after all?

“Having realized, of course, that your accusations could prove true, I took the liberty of having my chaplain draft a letter of dismissal before this meeting.” The duke took a one-page document on hefty parchment from the folio beside his chair, laying it on the table between himself and the cardinal. “It needs only your signature.”

The cardinal’s cold, satisfied smile was like a knife in his back.

“So then the Iron Duke can be reasonable after all?” mused the cardinal, preparing to set pen to paper. But he stopped, ink dripping from the nib of his fountain pen as he glared at what was writ before him. “What is this?” he demanded, snatching the document from the table. “How dare you! I will—”

“—you’ll do nothing, Cardinal,” bellowed the duke, “and if you ever dare question me again, I’ll personally see that every one of your bastards is there to watch when you are beside you on the day you’re excommunicated.”

The only sound in the chamber was that of the clock against the wall.

“You’ll both burn in hell,” the cardinal muttered. A servant met him at the chamber door and escorted him out.

Duke Caffrey smiled, taking on the look of a fox that had just won a fine meal by craft and wit. “Now, about that drink…” He topped off his own glass and offered Thorne the bottle before waving his hand toward the empty chair. “Sit down, Commander. Have you considered that your seven years are nearly up? You’ll soon be Baron Thorne once more. What then?”

Thorne drained his glass at once, and then shrugged. “I have no idea.”