I’ve had a lot of people killed since I took over, but nowhere near enough. Running a corrupt cesspit like this city is damn near impossible. No ordinary man could do it. You’d need several lifetimes to stamp your authority on these streets and make them your own. Fortunately I have those lifetimes, and more besides. I’ll wear down the dissidents eventually, even if I have to die trying… repeatedly.

Cathal and Gico are rambling, quaffing champagne, working up the courage to kill me. They were fine servants of the original Cardinal. When I stepped in, they swore allegiance to me and for several years remained true to their oath. But their loyalties have swayed. Like so many, they’ve come to believe I’m not up to the task of leadership. They see the trouble I’m in, the strain the city’s under, the threat of rival gangs, and they think the time has come to push me aside and install a new supremo.

Slipping away from the knot of assassins, I gravitate toward the balcony, brooding on how it’s all gone wrong. For the first few years I ruled smoothly. I faced opposition, and assassination attempts were frequent, but that was to be expected. Things settled down as The Cardinal had predicted in the plans he’d left behind for me. It seemed that I was over the worst and I commenced planning for the next phase, expansion out of the city. That’s when it all started to fall apart.

I study the dozens of puppets hanging from the walls. Dorak’s macabre Ayuamarcans. He could create people. He had the power to reach beyond the grave, bring the dead back to life, and give them new personalities. A group of blind Incan priests—villacs—constructed puppets and aided Dorak in his resurrection quests. It sounds insane, but the Ayuamarcans were real. I know because I’m one of them.