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safely, and Leandra had taught only her most loyal captains the way to Keyway Island.
    Presently on a mile-long stretch of open water, the catamaran was making good speed, but soon the sailors would have to close-reef the sails and paddle from the catamaran’s two hulls.
    From her customary spot on the forward center deck, Leandra watched the moonlit water slide below. Her concentration was periodically broken by the disease flare she had ignited when misspelling the smuggler’s godspell. First had come a dull bellyache. Then her wrists and fingers began to throb. Fortunately she hadn’t developed a rash or needed to pee frequently; if things got that bad, she might have to start taking the hydromancer’s stress hormone to suppress her body’s attack on her textual aspects.
    Most importantly, the divine aspects of her mind had not begun to expand her perception; that would threaten both her sanity and her ability to breathe. She prayed that her body would show her a little mercy, not that she deserved any. But if her two aspects, divine and human, could refrain from attacking each other for just a little longer, the present flare would prove a mild one.
    Then Leandra realized that by using the godspell around her head, she already knew that in an hour’s time the majority of her future selves would still be anxious, achy, fatigued, and cranky. “Rot it all,” she muttered before taking a deep breath and trying to think clearly about the prophecy she had made using the godspell.
    Now as before, she had no doubts. If she tried to run from this prophecy, everyone she knew would soon die. But if she did not run, she would have to choose between her own death and committing murder. If she tried again to misspell the godspell so that she saw farther than an hour into the future, the multiplicity of her future selves would drive her insane.
    The only thing left to do was to investigate her murders. So … whom might she have to kill and why? She fingered a slim leather wallet she kept tied at her waist. Inside she kept enough needles and poison to kill without pain or mess.
    When the time came would she kill the loved one or herself? Hard to say. There would be a great deal on the line, and she had never been one to balk at a necessary task. Then again, her body had been trying to kill her for thirty-three years. Maybe, out of pure spite, she’d beat it to its task. The thought made her smirk.
    Then she realized that she was being dramatic, a bad habit. And she didn’t allow herself bad habits, only addictions, so … time to focus on investigation.
    But, God-of-gods damn it, how?
    As the Warden of Ixos, she had investigated dozens of murders thought to have been committed by neodemons or their devotees. Her parents had taught her how to do so, something of the family trade.
    In most of her previous investigations, Leandra had discovered the guilty deities and converted or killed them. Several times the murders had gone unsolved. But she had been able to examine a corpse, gather evidence, interview witnesses. In her present situation, there wouldn’t be a corpse until she made one, and there damn well wouldn’t be any evidence or witnesses because she wouldn’t be so sloppy as to allow any.
    There was, however, at least one analogy to her previous investigations. Instead of listing suspected killers, she could list suspected victims. So watching the moonlit waves slide under the catamaran’s center deck, Leandra considered everyone she loved.
    It didn’t take very long.
    For one thing, she had to consider only those she loved so much that murdering them would cause her the extreme agony that she had sensed through the prophetic text. For another thing, she didn’t love many people.
    That realization made her smirk at the dark water and, by extension, at the idiocy of the universe.
    So, anyway, her list of loved ones. First was her illustrious father, Lord