“Only Tavrosi?” I said. Never had I known such a rage . . . or such a blindness, and never had I cared less. The boy from Emesh stepped forward—the proud knight stepping with him—and struck the Emperor full across the face. The crowd gasped and cursed behind me as Caesar staggered back against the crate upon which his makeshift throne had stood. He managed better than Gilliam had. The rotten priest had fallen. Six Excubitors streamed toward me, highmatter gleaming in their hands. Martian lances lowered, aimed, primed.
