Jerusalem was no Antioch, no Aleppo: not a city made rich by trade. It sat between the southeastern corner of the Mediterranean and the River Jordan, fifty kilometers from the nearest coastline, far from any caravan route. It rose high above cliffs, ravines, and mountain scree, battered by searing summers and bitter winters.

From a purely strategic or commercial standpoint, the place was almost worthless.

Religion had made it priceless.

Saladin sought to reclaim the Holy City, to restore the Grand Magus's crown and claim the unassailable prestige that would crush all domestic opposition: perhaps even unite the world of Fire-Worship under one banner.

The Crusader states, for their part, fought to hold it with everything they had. Jerusalem was not just the seat of their faith; it was the very source of their legitimacy. After years of living like Eastern nobility, the silks, the baths, the spices, none of them could stomach the damp, grey chill of Western Europe any longer. And besides, one lord to one fief: their fathers and grandfathers had long since abandoned every claim and inheritance they'd once held in the old country. There was nothing to go back to.

In Jaffa, Sir Kevin introduced Lothar to Baron Godfrey, a man who had come to the port to receive his own son.

Godfrey of Ibelin was middle-aged, his hair cropped short against the Eastern heat. Over his hauberk he wore a silk surcoat. He had the look of a man who had long since made his peace with this land.

Count Werner's old friend. The moment he learned Lothar's name, he greeted him with a warmth that bordered on startling: warmer, even, than the greeting he'd given his own son, fresh from a long absence.

And when Lothar told him that he meant to follow his father's orders and pledge himself to the King's faction:

The baron's face lit with surprise and delight. "I knew it. I knew Werner would never leave an old friend to fight alone. And now look: he's sent me the bravest of his sons! I assure you, His Majesty will be just as pleased to learn of your arrival."

He clapped Lothar heavily on the shoulder, grinning so wide he could barely close his mouth.

Lothar managed a modest smile. "I'm honored to serve alongside my father's comrade-in-arms."

And he meant it. Godfrey's sincerity was unmistakable. It made him wonder, with a pang of genuine curiosity, just what kind of exploits Werner, that rustic count from a backwater stronghold, had performed here in the Holy Land to earn so much goodwill.

Maybe the real protagonist had been Count Werner all along.

They crossed the barren hills at dusk and reached the Holy City.

Jerusalem looked nothing like the cities of Western Europe. Some streets were so cramped and twisted you could barely walk two abreast. Yet the great fortress rising from the city's center was one of the most formidable citadels Lothar had ever laid eyes on. Mud-brick houses sprawled everywhere: domed roofs, pointed roofs, Frankish and Arab styles mingled without distinction.

When the first Crusaders took Jerusalem, they had carried out a slaughter that people still spoke of in whispers. Arabs. Jews. Every infidel within the walls, put to the sword.

Their wealth was plundered. Their buildings, Fire-Worship temples, shrines, altars, were seized and converted into domed churches. Over a hundred years later, Jerusalem still bore the unmistakable stamp of its Arab past.

Pilgrims from every corner of the world converged here, speaking a dozen different tongues. This was the holy city of three faiths: it drew believers from Western and Eastern Europe, from Central Asia, from North Africa. Endless streams of caravans and pilgrims: Jews, Persians, Aksumites, men from the Indus, Turks… even merchants from the distant Song Empire of the East.

The noise alone, every language, every creed shouting itself hoarse, made Lothar's head pound. If nationalism ever took root here the way it had in the world he'd come from, this place would be chaos incarnate, not a land of opportunity.

Street merchants hawked spices, silks, fruit at prices that would make a man blanch. Goods shipped even from the nearest coast suffered a punishing markup by the time they reached the city. Peasants drove livestock through the crowds, heads down, trudging behind their masters.

Knights of Jerusalem in their blue surcoats. Templars in white with red crosses. Hospitallers in black with white crosses. Each led patrols of men-at-arms through the streets.

And there were more: knights from Tripoli, from Antioch, from North Germania, from Anglo-Saxon England, from Aragon, from the Two Sicilies. Their coats of arms were a bewildering riot of colors and devices. They stood about in clusters, talking in low voices.

The war was coming. Everyone could feel it. This peaceful, chaotic, improbably tolerant city, this could not last.

Baron Godfrey pointed toward the hills. A domed structure rose there, a cross at its peak.

"That is the place where Christ was crucified. I will take you and Balian to pay your respects soon. But first, the palace.

"The Grand Council sits today. Most of the realm's lords will be there. I'll introduce you to the men who matter."

Lothar nodded. "As you wish."

The party halted before the castle's outer ward.

"Lord Godfrey! You've come at just the right time. The lords are in session; you're the only one we're waiting for."

The guard wore the same colors as Godfrey's own: the Royal Knights of Jerusalem, the King's household guard. Similar in name to the Knights of Jerusalem, but the addition of that single word, Royal, changed everything.

"I'll bring two in with me."

Godfrey gestured to Lothar and his other companion, then strode into the palace.

Prajna frowned. She was used to staying at Lothar's side, and habit made her step forward; then she caught herself. This was not the place.

Lothar glanced back at her with a small, reassuring smile.

The palace of Jerusalem was no viper's nest. He was here to swear his loyalty to the King, not to drive a blade into him. There would be no danger here.

Inside, the walls were covered in fine relief carvings. Light poured through the apertures of traceried windows in bright, colored shafts.

Godfrey guided them to a seat at the long table, speaking in a low voice as they settled in.

"The one in the red cloak: that's Joscelin of Edessa. He still calls himself a count, but it's a title without land. What holdings he has left are near Acre now."

"The tall, thin man with the wild red hair? That is Count Reynald. Once he was the Duke of Antioch, but he and Joscelin's father lost their lands to the Arabs at the same time. Now he styles himself Count of Oultrejourdain, Count Beyond the Jordan. He is one of the most powerful men in the kingdom.

"A brave and proven commander. At the Battle of Montgisard, he was the most important leader on the field besides the King himself."

Godfrey lowered his voice further. "He is also the lynchpin of Queen Mother Agnes's faction: the Queen's party, they call it. He has been maneuvering to have Guy of Lusignan married to Princess Sibylla."

"And the one in the red surcoat: that is Raymond of Tripoli, Count of Tripoli, Prince of Tiberias, Regent of Jerusalem. It was he who arranged Princess Sibylla's first marriage. He leads a coalition of nobles. Roger de Moulins of the Hospitallers is his strongest backer. Let us call them the Baron's party."

"Gerard de Ridefort, Grand Master of the Templars, was once firmly on our side. But, as you know, the King's health worsens. Gerard has been drawing closer to Reynald and the Queen's party of late. Reynald's fervor against the infidels, in particular, aligns with the Templar temperament."

Lothar frowned. In a handful of sentences, Godfrey had laid bare the three powers contending within this hall. None of the three was strong enough to defeat the others.

A tripod was the most stable arrangement there was, and the hardest to reconcile.

"And you, Lord Baron? Which party do you belong to?"

Godfrey did not hesitate. "House Ibelin is loyal to the King. Only to the King."

"And after His Majesty passes?"

The baron's face grew heavy. "Lothar, I must caution you. Merely to raise this question is already a grave liberty for any vassal."

Lothar smiled. "But if we don't speak plainly, how am I to stand with you?"

Godfrey was silent for a moment. Then, in a voice so low it was barely a breath: "Then we support the next king. The crown will pass to Princess Sibylla's son by her first husband."

"Which party does Princess Sibylla belong to?"

"The Queen's party."

Lothar considered this. "Then are we not on the same side as Count Reynald?"

"No. House Ibelin never decides its position in advance." Godfrey paused, his voice hardening with conviction. "We are loyal to the King. We do nothing more than that."

Lothar understood.

Now this, this was real wisdom.

It was not the same as being a fence-sitter. A house that was loyal to the King, and only the King, could not be dragged into the mire of factional warfare. It conserved its strength.

And the Ibelin family's power in the Holy Land was as deep-rooted as it came. A baron who was both influential and unquestionably loyal to the crown: any new king would have to court such a man. He would be trusted by default.

As for who the new king would be?

Let the others fight over that.

At the head of the hall, King Baldwin's herald strode forward. "His Majesty the King is still at rest. The Regent shall preside over today's session."

Raymond acknowledged the herald with a nod and rose. "Today's question is this: shall we open the Treasury of Jerusalem to fund the repair of the city's walls?"

The hall erupted.

Lothar leaned toward Godfrey, puzzled. "The King has to consult his vassals just to repair the walls?"

"The Great Treasury's keys are held by three hands," Godfrey explained. "The King holds one. The Grand Masters of the Templars and the Hospitallers each hold another. His Majesty cannot open it alone.

"And besides, the money was never his. King Henry II of England deposited those funds to finance his next Crusade. They have been sitting there ever since."

Lothar had no words.

Sure enough, the proposal met with fierce opposition almost at once.

"Henry II went to his grave without ever fulfilling his vow to the Holy Cause! That money is ours by right, and we would spend it on the defense of the Holy Land itself. What could be more proper?"

"Henry II is dead, yes. But his son, Richard, the one they call the Lionheart, is very much alive. We are still counting on him to bring an army to the Holy Land. How can we steal his father's treasury?"

The lords argued in a clamor of voices. Queen's party, Baron's party, King's party: the labels were crude, and outside of matters of fundamental interest, every man spoke his own mind.

Gerard spoke in favor of reinforcing the walls. Count Reynald argued against it: the money, he said, should be used to arm pilgrims, to meet Saladin in open battle once more and reprise the triumph of Montgisard.

Roger, Grand Master of the Hospitallers, believed the treasure should be kept intact as leverage: a means to press Henry II's son, Richard the Lionheart, to make good on his father's vow and march east without further delay.

A handful of minor lords proposed hiring mercenary companies from Italy and Germania. The money was more than sufficient to field five or six companies, each a thousand strong, for a full year of campaigning.

One man, more fanciful still, suggested using the funds to hire Assassin agents: to send a blade in the night for Saladin himself.

"Enough. We will vote."

Raymond of Tripoli slammed his hand on the table. "All those in favor of opening the treasury to repair Jerusalem's walls, raise your hand. Everyone else, hands down."