I sat down opposite him. “How long has he been here?”

“Only about two weeks,” said the bishop as though in careful consideration. “Some say he arrived with the Romneys, though no one has seen him with them.” The Romneys wandered from place to place throughout the western kingdoms; I had noticed their caravans and horses outside the city walls as we flew in. “But already he-”

“Give me an example,” I prompted when he paused.

“What they are already calling his first miracle,” said the bishop, drawing back so that his eyes were shadowed, “was saving the life of a little dog.”

“A dog?”

“It belonged to a boy who lives down in the artisans’ quarter, near the river-that is where this man seems to make his headquarters.”

That was where Theodora and Antonia lived. Faint unease prickled the hairs on the back of my neck.

“It had slipped its leash and run right under the wheel of a cart. The carter was very sorry, of course, but there was nothing he could have done. The boy picked up the dog’s body-some say its ribs were crushed, some that it was already dead. But as the boy, sobbing, was carrying his dog home, this man stopped him, very kindly. He took the dog from him, cradled it in his own arms a minute-scores of people claim to have been eyewitnesses-and returned it to the boy alive, unharmed and barking.”

I shook my head hard. “That’s not magic. Magic’s never had any control over the earth’s natural cycle of life and death. We can prolong life but not restore it when it’s gone.”

“Yes,” said the bishop quietly. “For that you need the supernatural, the power of the saints-or of a demon.”

I took a breath and released it slowly. This had suddenly become much more serious. I had imagined someone who had picked up a few scraps of the Hidden Language somewhere, trying to make a living by producing rather pathetic illusions and passing them off on the credulous as miracles. But this person had better be working real miracles. The other possibility was black magic, which meant he had sold his soul to the devil.