"That's right. From here to the margin of the First Dominion. To the region of the 
Unbeheld Himself."
  Chant began to gasp, and Dowd-realizing he'd hit a nerve-leaned towards his victim.
  "Do 1 detect a little anxiety?" he said. "Are you afraid of going into the glory of our 
Lord Hapexamendios?"
  Chant's voice was frail now. "Yes . . ." he murmured.
  "Why?" Dowd wanted to know. "Because of your crimes?"
  "Yes."
  "What are your crimes? Do tell me. We needn't bother with the little things. Just the 
really shameful stuff'll do."
  "I've had dealings with a Eurhetemec."
  "Have you indeed?" Dowd said. "However did you get back to Yzordderrex to do that?"
  "I didn't," Chant replied. "My dealings . . . were here, in the Fifth."
  "Really," said Dowd softly. "I didn't know there were Eurhetemecs here. You learn 
something new every day. But, lovey, that's no great crime. The Unbeheld's going to 
forgive a poxy little trespass like that. Unless . . ." He stopped for a moment, turning 
over a new possibility. "Unless, the Eurhetemec was a mystif. . . ." He trailed the 
thought, but Chant remained silent. "Oh, my dove," Dowd said. "It wasn't, was it?" 
Another pause. "Oh, it was. It was." He sounded almost enchanted. "There's a mystif in 
the Fifth and-what? You're in love with it? You'd better tell me before you run out of 
breath, lovey. In a few minutes your eternal soul will be waiting at Hapexamendios' door."
  Chant shuddered. "The assassin . . ." he said.
  "What about the assassin?" came the reply. Then, realizing what he'd just heard, Dowd 
drew a long, slow breath. "The assassin is a mystif?" he said.
  "Yes."
  "Oh, my sweet Hyo!" he exclaimed. "A mystif!" The enchantment had vanished from his 
voice now. He was hard and dry. "Do you know what they can do? The deceits they've got at 
their disposal? This was supposed to be an anonymous piece of shit-stirring, and look 
what you've done!" His voice softened again. "Was it beautiful?" he asked. "No, no. Don't 
tell me. Let me have the surprise, when I see it face to face." He turned to the voiders. 
"Pick the fucker up," he said.
  They stepped forward and raised Chant by his broken arms. There was no strength left in 
his neck, and his head lolled forward, a solid stream of bilious fluid running from his 
mouth and nostrils. "How often does the Eurhetemec tribe produce a mystif?" Dowd mused, 
half to himself. "Every ten years? Every fifty? They're certainly rare. And there you 
are, blithely hiring one of these little divinities as an assassin. Imagine! How pitiful, 
that it had fallen so low. I must ask it how that came about." He stepped towards Chant, 
and at Dowd's order one of the voiders raised Chant's head by the hair. "I need the 
mystifs whereabouts," Dowd said. "And its name."
  Chant sobbed through his bile. "Please," he said. "I meant. . . I. . . meant-"
  "Yes, yes. No harm. You were just doing your duty. The Unbeheld will forgive you, I 
guarantee it. But the mystif, lovey, I need you to tell me about the mystif. Where can I 
find it? Just speak the words, and you won't ever have to think about it again. You'll go 
into the presence of the Unbeheld like a babe."
  "1 will?"
  "You will. Trust me. Just give me its name and tell me the place where I can find it."
  "Name . . . and . . . place."
  "That's right. But get to it, lovey, before it's too late!"
  Chant took as deep a breath as his collapsing lungs allowed. "It's called Pie 'oh' 
pah," he said.
  Dowd stepped back from the dying man as if slapped. "Pie 'oh' pah? Are you sure?"
  "I'm sure. . .."
  "Pie 'oh' pah is alive? And Estabrook hired it?"
  "Yes."
  Dowd threw off his imitation of a Father Confessor and murmured a fretful question of 
himself. "What does this mean?" he said.
  Chant made a pained little moan, his system racked by further waves of dissolution. 
Realizing that time was now very short, Dowd pressed the man afresh.
  "Where is this mystif? Quickly, now! Quickly!"
  Chant's face was decaying, cobs of withered flesh sliding off the slickened bone. When 
he answered, it was with half a mouth. But answer he did, to be unburdened.
  "I thank you," Dowd said to him, when all the information had been supplied. "I thank 
you." Then, to the voiders, "Let him go."
  They dropped Chant without ceremony. When he hit the floor his face broke, pieces 
spattering Dowd's shoe. He viewed the mess with disgust.
  "Clean it off," he said.
  The voiders were at his feet in moments, dutifully removing the scraps of matter from 
Dowd's handmade shoes.
  "What does this mean?" Dowd murmured again. There was surely synchronicity in this turn 
of events. In a little over half a year's time the anniversary of the Reconciliation 
would be upon the Imajica. Two hundred years would have passed since the Maestro Sartori 
had attempted, and failed, to perform the greatest act of magic known to this or any 
other Dominion. The plans for that ceremony had been laid here, at number 28 Gamut 
Street, and the mystif, among others, had been there to witness the preparations.
  The ambition of those heady days had ended in tragedy, of course. Rites intended to 
heal the rift in the Imajica, and reconcile the Fifth Dominion with the other four, had 
gone disastrously awry. Many great theurgists, shamans, and theologians had been killed. 
Determined that such a calamity never be repeated, several of the survivors had banded 
together in order to cleanse the Fifth of all magical knowledge. But however much they 
scrubbed to erase the past, the slate could never be entirely cleansed. Traces of what 
had been dreamed and hoped for remained; fragments of poems to Union, written by men 
whose names had been systematically removed from all record. And as long as such scraps 
remained, the spirit of the Reconciliation would survive.
  But spirit was not enough. A Maestro was needed, a magician arrogant enough to believe 
that he could succeed where Christos and innumerable other sorcerers, most lost to 
history, had failed. Though these were blissless times, Dowd didn't discount the 
possibility of such a soul appearing. He still encountered in his daily life a few who 
looked past the empty gaud that distracted lesser minds and longed for a revelation that 
would burn the tinsel away, an Apocalypse that would show the Fifth the glories it 
yearned for in its sleep.
  If a Maestro was going to appear, however, he would need to be swift. Another attempt 
at Reconciliation couldn't be planned overnight, and if the next midsummer went unused, 
the Imajica would pass another two centuries divided: time enough for the Fifth Dominion 
to destroy itself out of boredom or frustration and prevent the Reconciliation from ever 
taking place.
  Dowd perused his newly polished shoes. "Perfect," he said. "Which is more than I can 
say for the rest of this wretched world."
  He crossed to the door. The voiders lingered by the body, however, bright enough to 
know they still had some duty to perform with it. But Dowd called them away.
  "We'll leave it here," he said. "Who knows? It may stir a few ghosts."