She tried to hide the bloodstained rags from him, stuffing them deep within her embroidery basket while he slept. Only he wasn't asleep. He couldn't fall asleep until he'd seen the rags and made sure they were no more bloodied than normal. But too often they were. So he would wash them for her; rubbing the stain against the stone by the light of a midnight candle. The next morning he'd rise early and take the drying rags from the grate. After he'd softened them by rubbing the fabric against his palm, he'd slip them into her basket. When his mother wakened, she would find the newly cleaned strips, and they could both pretend for a while that there had never been any blood.

It got so bad near the end that rags weren't enough, so he ripped up his tunics to give to her. At the very end; she was kept from him. Whispered words of warning barred her door. Jack's only consolation was the light that stole from under the panel. As long as it shone, the candles still burned, and while they burned, she still lived.

Crope was the last to talk to his mother. Even now, Jack could remember the huge giant emerging from the doorway, tears in his eyes, hand in his tunic. How he hated Crope for being called to her side. No call came for him.

For three days he was not allowed to see her. And then there was nothing to see. The light disappeared from under the door. The cellar steward's wife came. "She's dead," she said. "No use getting upset.

Make yourself useful by scrubbing those pots. You wouldn't want to turn into a burden."

So he'd scrubbed pots the day his mother died, and scoured the floors the next. It had helped, in a way, for a tired and aching boy, whose fingertips bled from using course brushes, had little time or strength to think of his mother. He realized half a year later that he could no longer remember what she looked like before the illness. He'd scrubbed the memory clean away along with the pots and the pans.

Jack's fist came crashing down on the side of the pallet. The wood cracked and splintered. Melli was dead. He would not forget her with the same faithless haste. It was all his fault. He should never have left her to deal with the body. He should never have killed the man in the first place.

The girl called Tarissa stepped into the room. "What's going on?"

Jack regarded her coldly and said nothing. She spotted where the wood had been punched. "You did that?" Her voice was flat, neutral in more ways than one. Neutral in its careful lack of emotion, and neutral in its dialect. She had neither the kingdom's lilt of her mother, nor the Halcus accent of Rovas.

"Look, I'm sorry about the girl," she said.

"Are you?" Her sympathy made him angry. "Or was it just part of your plan?" Jack could still feel the pressure of Melli's last touch upon his hand. The memory of their final parting was new and painful, and he ground his knuckles into the splintered wood.

"Plan?"

Again Jack's fist came down upon the wood. The girl stepped back, momentarily frightened. "Innocence doesn't suit you," he said. "Don't expect me to believe that you and Rovas were up near the frozen pond for the good of your health." The splinters drew blood. Why had they saved him, not Melli? His life was worthless. No one would mourn his passing. But Melli, she might have been a queen. She was beautiful and proud, and the day he'd turned against the mercenaries and blasted them with a mixture of rage and sorcery, she had saved his life. With his mind gone and his body failing, Melli had dragged him for leagues across the forest to find shelter.

"What's done is done." Tarissa shrugged. "We did not bring about the death of the girl. You have yourself and a certain Halcus captain to blame for that."

"What is this captain's name?"

Rovas entered the room and Tarissa fell under his shadow. "I will not tell you his name yet," he said.

"Why not?" Jack had the feeling they were both acting. That the whole scene had been arranged, and by asking this question, he was playing into their hands.

"Because you might do something foolish, when, given time and preparation you could do something wise instead." So here it was: the proposal. Skillfully cast, expertly baited. All that remained was for him to take the lure.

"So that's why you brought me here," said Jack, "to do something wise?"

"No,"

said Rovas. "I brought you here to save your life. You know you would have died trying to help the girl."

"And you expect a favor for a favor?" Jack stood up. He was more than a match for Rovas in height.

"Well, I'm sorry, but you'll get no gratitude from me."

Tarissa took a speaking breath, but Rovas stopped her from using it. "I expect nothing from you," he said. "You are free to go."

A silence followed. Jack sensed that Tarissa was unhappy with Rovas' words. He knew better-Rovas was still acting. The words were merely a dramatic feint. Like all things hollow, they were more sound than substance.

"But," said Rovas, "I can't guarantee your safety once you leave this cottage. You murdered a Halcus soldier and will be tracked and hunted like a blooded stag."

"And you will give them the scent?"

"Me, no. Tarissa, I think I can speak for, and she wouldn't, either. But her mother..." Rovas shook his head. "Magra has no love of anyone from her former country. She is a bitter woman, and bitterness turns to spite when long in the belly."

"I see that the word free has little meaning when dropped from your lips." Jack wiped his bloodied knuckles on his tunic.

Rovas watched him carefully, his eyes flicking down to the blood. He was not oblivious to the threat implied by Jack's action.

When he spoke again, his tone was calming. "Stay here, and I promise that by the time you come to leave, you will be better able to take care of yourself. Whether it be evading the soldiers, or extracting revenge from their captain."

That was what Rovas was after, Jack was sure of it. He wanted the captain murdered and needed him to do it. He decided not to let Rovas know just how transparent he was being. "You are right," he said. "I have need of training. You saw only two days back that I have little skill with a blade. If I am to escape from this country alive, then I must be able to defend myself."

"So you'll stay?"

"As long as it suits me."

The change in Rovas' manner was overwhelming in its completeness. The huge man stepped forward and embraced Jack. The smells of garlic and sword oil wafted from his tunic. In the throes of the powerful and heavily scented embrace, Jack spied Tarissa over Rovas' shoulder. The girl's face was as cool as ever, only now her lips were drawn into a grudging smile. There was something familiar about her features. Something known br remembered. Before he could grasp at what it was, she turned and left.

They were drawing close to the mountains, and the land, as if practicing for its great feat of elevation, had begun to slope and fall. Baralis could not spy the peaks of the Great Divide, for the clouds and the snow conspired to keep their heights hidden. But he knew they were there. They called to him. Their ancient and venerable songs, without words or music, carrying their messages to all who could perceive them. In this modem world of metal plows and water clocks, that number was not many.

Baralis could hear them. The messages were an unconceited statement of might. A generous warning from that which was without prejudice. Their songs told that they were a power to be dealt with, and one crossed at one's own risk. A toll might be taken for passage.

Bren lay on the other side of the mountains. Baralis knew what kind of city it was. He knew the turn of the streets. He'd seen the sparkle of water in its fountains. Bren was a dangerous city. Dangerous in its pride. Its children were taught that Bren was the most beautiful, the most pure, and the most powerful city in the Known Lands. Not for them the festering passions of Rom, not for them the overcultured languor of Annis. No, they were alone in their perfection. Their city was cleaner, more industrious, and stronger than any other.

Such pride is always dangerous. When a person is sure he knows the best way, he is seldom content until he has made converts out of others. So it was with Bren. Baralis drew his lips into a cynical line.

Only conversion, when undertaken by the good duke took the form of annexation.

The duke of Bren had started modestly enough: surrounding villages were brought into the fold, small rivers were claimed. Then towns were invited to join with them the invitations always so thoughtfully accompanied by a legion or two of Bren's armies. Since the duke had been in power, the maps of the Known Lands had changed. Bren, which twenty years before had been a fair-sized city surrounded by many towns, now stood alone.

And the duke wanted more.

Baralis knew all this, and it did not worry him. He and the duke had the same aims, for the time being.

He stroked the mane of his horse; such a beautiful creature, so gentle, so obedient. Not at all like that arrogant, preening, and now dead stallion of Maybor's.

He looked to where Maybor led the column. The great lord was now riding his captain's gelding and looked most uncomfortable doing so. Doubtless the fall from his horse had rendered him somewhat infirm. Baralis was beginning to think that Maybor could not be killed. At least not in one fell swoop.

Perhaps his best course would be to slowly debilitate the man. Certainly the poison on his robes and now the fall from his horse had left their marks. Maybe he should just carry on trying to murder him until the old philanderer was so overcome with various injuries and afflictions that he dropped dead of his own accord.

Baralis smiled, his lips following the curve of his thoughts: Maybor was a naive fool if he thought he would be the superior envoy now that King Lesketh was in his grave. And what a premature grave it was.

Someone had a hand in the king's death, he was sure of it. From the very beginning of the king's affliction, right from the impact of the double-notched arrow, Baralis had controlled the man's illness.

Controlled the progress of poison on the flesh, controlled the wasting of muscle and then mind, and, when it suited him, controlled the semblance of recovery. He was the architect of the king's illness, and it was an insidious construction designed to be brought down on his bidding. The king had not been due for death.

Only now he was dead. Despite what the messenger said, despite the presence of the Master of the Bath and the royal guard, someone had gained access to the king's chamber. Baralis was almost certain of who it was: Kylock, once prince and now king.

So the boy had made his first move. He should have expected it. Kylock would not be content living in the shadow of an invalid king and a too-powerful queen. Baralis could almost be pleased with this youthful show of initiative, as long as the boy didn't make any more rash moves.

Of course he would have preferred that in his absence the court be run by the queen. She was a woman who knew the value of stability, and stability was just what Baralis needed until the marriage between Kylock and Catherine of Bren was consummated. Only then should the combined might of Bren and the kingdoms show its teeth. Now he was worried in case Kylock should take it upon himself to win the war with the Halcus-a victory that Baralis knew could be won by a determined leader-and by doing so, draw the eyes of the world northward before the alliance was in place. A world made nervous by an aggressive new king would look much more critically upon a proposed alliance between the two mightiest states in the north.

There was some consolation to be gained in the fact that the armies of the kingdoms were badly depleted. Five years of war rendered even the best of soldiers battle weary. Still, it was a situation that would need careful monitoring. Kylock was his creature. Murdering the king was simply proof of it. The deed would have been done once the marriage had taken place. All Kylock did was anticipate the need.

He had been rash, yes, but he'd carried it off! Fooling court and queen into believing the king's death was a natural progression of his illness. Baralis couldn't help but feel a little proud. Not a father's pride, rather pride of ownership. There was much he didn't know about Kylock. The boy had power, he was certain of it. He was also equally certain he could not use it. The drugs he provided acted as a suppressant.

Kylock took them willingly, thinking they provided him with insight into the world of darkness. All they did was drive him nearer to madness. And that was the way Baralis wanted it. So much easier to control a man whose power of reasoning had been eroded by subtle shifts of poison about the brain.

The drug inhibited the swell of sorcery in the mind. Sorcery came from the mind and the gut; it met and became potent in the mouth. Kylock could draw power from the belly, but his will could not form the intent. He was like a wheel that could not turn for want of grease.

It had to be so. Baralis could not risk the future king's reputation being sullied by rumors of sorcery.

There was another, more personal reason for administering the drug. 'Twould be dangerous if Kylock turned out to be more powerful than himself. It was difficult to gauge these things, but the signs were there: he was conceived on a night of reckoning, when fate itself danced its way into his seed. Fate aside, blood alone would ensure the passing down of sorcery's particular gifts. And Baralis' blood had ever been potent.

The wind picked up and there was bite to its bluster. Baralis pulled his collar close about his neck, seeking to quiet his misgivings along with the cold. Kylock was addicted to the drug. He would continue to take it in Baralis' absence. There was nothing to be concerned about; he was merely tired, no more.

Endless hours in the saddle combined with the relentless chill of wind and snow had worn him down. He was anxious to be over the mountains and into the city. Ambition and intrigue were his lifeblood, and the long journey eastward had forestalled both.

By murdering the king, Kylock may have made his job more difficult, but he was always one to rise to a challenge.

Melli sat at the foot of the stairs and waited. She knew it was now well past morning. The light stealing beneath the doorway grew steadily weaker and would soon be replaced by the even paler glow of candlelight. Even this late in winter the days were still short.

She had sat here for many hours now, knowing the delicate terror of anticipation. At every sign of movement from above, Melli would grow tense; her hands fluttered nervously, one to smooth her dress, another to check her blade. Once she was sure the knife had not slipped from its position between living skin and dead bone, she would compose herself. It was important not to look afraid. Only they never came, and so Melli had more time to think the worst.

She wondered what the delay could mean. She knew the captain had intended her to be taken away in the morning, and now it seemed his plans were either delayed or changed. Melli stood and waited.

As the hours went by and her limbs grew stiff with stillness and cold, Melli wondered what had become of Jack. In the weeks they'd spent with each other, she had come to rely on him. She had watched him gradually changing, growing more sure of himself, and at the same time more distant. She was quite confident that he'd survive on his own. In fact, he would probably do better now that he didn't have her to worry about.

The lock turned, and Melli's thoughts snapped back to herself. She stood up and faced the door. Her heart quickened and her stomach reeled. The door opened and two men were silhouetted in its frame.

One was tall and well proportioned: the captain. The other was slight and oddly shaped. "There she is,"

said the captain, making no move to enter the room. "I told you she was a beauty."

"Bring her up into the light." The voice of the second man was thin and high, lacking in emotion.

The captain made a snort of protest, but complied with the man's wishes. He descended the steps and grabbed Melli by the wrist. Twisting her arm to ensure compliance, he forced her up the stairs. She was led past the man in the doorway and into the light.

She had to squint at first. The light was too bright.

The captain slapped her hard on the cheek. "Stop squinting, girl!" he ordered.

Melli did not have time to wonder at this curious command, as the second man moved close and began prodding her with a long, thin finger. She shrank back in distaste. The man was badly disfigured. One side of his face was slack; there was no muscle to fill out the cheek. His left eyelid drooped nearly shut, and his half-mouth rested in a flaccid sneer.

"Too skinny," he said, the lips on his good side curling up slightly. He shook his head. "Too skinny."

The captain looked at the man with barely disguised distaste. "You're mistaken, sir. There is meat to the bones." The man made a doubting sound with tooth and spittle as he circled Melli. She noticed that his left arm lay limp at his side; the fingers curled close to the palm. His left leg dragged as he walked.

He continued prodding her with his good hand. A finger came up to her cheek, and its long, yellow nails drew a furrow in her skin. "Not as young as you promised," he said.

The captain shrugged. "She is young enough, Fiscel, and you know it."

The man ignored this comment and slipped his fingernail between Melli's lips. Melli was forced to open her mouth as his nail pressed against the tender flesh. She tasted her own blood. He ran his finger along her teeth and pulled her lips back to see the gums.

Apparently satisfied with what he saw, he turned his attention to her body. Melli felt the guilty pressure of the knife at her side. Detection of the hidden weapon seemed imminent. Through the fabric of her dress, the man named Fiscel squeezed the swell of her breast. This indignity was too much for Melli to bear and she raised her arm to strike him. With surprising speed Fiscel caught her arm, and with unexpected strength he forced it to her side. He made a strange sound in his throat, and it took Melli a moment to realize he was laughing. His face was close to hers. She smelled the sick-sweet odor of his breath. It occurred to Melli that if she could divert his attention long enough, he might not resume his prodding of her body, and her knife might go undetected.

She decided to become her own saleswoman. "I am, I assure you, sir, well rounded. There is no bone on me that is without its fair measure of meat. I see no need to poke me as if I were a newly set cheese."

The captain, who was becoming impatient with all the proddings and examinations, seemed pleased at this statement. "See, Fiscel. I told you she has the bearing of a noblewoman."

Melli took this opportunity to step away from her inspector. To her delight, Fiscel let her go and turned his attention to the captain.

"I will take her," he said. "Though she is a disappointment to me."

The captain seemed unaffected by this pronouncement; he leaned back against the wall, placing a foot on an empty beer barrel. With his oiled mustache and softly beaten leathers, he was a picture of dashing elegance. He was well aware of the contrast between himself and the other man, and Melli saw that he was using his physical superiority as part threat, part bargaining tool. "I'm afraid I have you at a disadvantage, sir," he said.

"What disadvantage is that?"

"When you first arrived and were taking a glass of mulled wine, I took the liberty of having one of my men, inspect your ... how should I put it? ... your wares. He told me you had two other girls, and that, although young, they were lacking in beauty and bearing." The captain permitted himself to look a little smug.

Fiscel waved his good arm dismissively. "Captain, your low tricks are as misguided as they are predictable. Those two girls are no concern of yours, and their charms, or lack of them, have no bearing on this deal." The flesh-trader-for Melli now knew without a doubt that he was one-was obviously well used to verbal parrying. "I am in half a mind to leave the girl. She is pretty, yes, but no longer young and has a violent disposition."

"The girl is not yet past her eighteenth year, and violence when called spirit is often attractive in a woman." The captain had now given up his nonchalant pose. Melli almost felt sorry for him. He was in the presence of one who would surely outwit him.

"The girl might be thought young here in the north," said Fiscel, "but in the Far South, she would be considered an old maid. She is many years past first blood."

Melli strove to hide her embarrassment at the mention of such an intimate subject by a man. In all her life, she'd never heard a man make any references to a woman's cycle, and she thought it a subject they had no knowledge of.

"Fiscel, you and I both know that not all your dealings are done in the Far South. I have heard that you do business in places as near as Annis and Bren. This girl is still young in the eyes of such cities." The captain was allowing his temper to show. "The girl is beautiful, nobly born, fine figured, and she knows courtly manners. Do not try to tell me that she is an old maid barely worth your attention."

"You say she is a virgin?"

"You have my word."

Fiscel made a peculiar doubting noise, which had the effect of spraying the limp side of his lips with spittle. "The girl is no great find. She is skinny, dark-eyed, and small breasted. I will give you a hundred less than you're asking."

"The girl is pale-skinned, blue-eyed, and well-hipped. I will take no less than my original price."

Melli was beginning to feel most indignant at being talked about so callously. Although she disliked the fleshtrader's comments, she could see there was some truth to them.

"The girl is simply not worth three hundred golds," said Fiscel. "Her hair is too dark, her chin is too forward, and she is too tall. Why, her very height alone will cut down the number of potential buyers-men insist on being taller than their women."

Melli had the distinct feeling that Fiscel could come up with belittling things to say about her until winter's end. She took some comfort in the fact that he would probably be no less insulting if he were face to face with the greatest beauties of the day.

"I will take two fifty, no less." Apparently, the good captain had succumbed to this last tirade; either that, or he'd run out of good points with which to counter the insults.

"Take two twenty-five and you have a deal." Fiscel smiled: a dreadful sight, as only half his face complied with his wishes.

The captain rolled the fine points of his mustache and did not bother to conceal his repulsion. "Two forty."

"Two thirty."

"Done."

Fiscel held out his long-nailed hand to clasp on the deal. The captain brushed the surrounding air, but did not touch it. He glanced over at Melli, a strange look not without regret. "You have got yourself a good deal, Fiscel."

The flesh-trader shrugged. "She will do." He unclasped his belt, and for one awful moment, Melli wondered if he was going to flog or rape her. He did neither. Instead he twisted the broad leather belt until a split in the inner lining became apparent, dipped his fingers into the split, and drew out two fifty-gold bars. These he handed to the captain, who duly tested them with a scrape of his knife. Fiscel replaced the belt. "You will receive the rest once I have confirmed your word."

"Word?"

"Your word that she is a virgin. Just as you tested the gold, I must test the girl."

The captain did not look pleased, but Melli really didn't give a damn. What test was this? Her face flushed with anger, but she forced herself to be calm. Maybe if she were left alone with Fiscel, she would have a chance to use her knife.

"It is nothing to be concerned with, captain," he was saying. "I will take her to the inn with me, and once certain delicacies have been ascertained, I will pay my due. I will, of course, expect a complete refund if the girl has been used." Fiscel's good eye narrowed sharply. "Perhaps, if such an unhappy situation arises, I might be persuaded to take the girl off your hands for the odd thirty golds."

The captain reluctantly agreed. "I will set a guard by the inn, in case you decide upon a late-night departure."

"You are too kind." Fiscel came as close to a bow as his twisted frame could muster. He turned to Melli.

"Follow me, girl. I am most anxious that this matter be settled tonight."

Five

Darkness came early to Bren. The sun slipped behind the western mountains, and the city fell victim to their shadows. On cold winter nights such as this, mist rose from the great lake and cloaked the city in its icy pall.

Those who braved the chill streets of Bren did so in search of what diversions the darkened city afforded. Bren was not a city of music or culture, high cuisine or clever conversation. Bren was a city of power. A city that knew the value of a strong army and that praised the worth of a strong man. A night's entertainment for a man of Bren-the women didn't count--consisted of a skin or two of cheap ale, some wagering at the fighting pits and, if he had a few extra coppers left, an hour's worth of whoring.

The whores of Bren didn't roam the streets or ply the taverns, it was too cold for walking, particularly in the sort of clothes they chose to wear. Instead, they worked the brothels. These brothels were to be found close to the fighting pits. A man who wins at wagering will likely feel the need of a woman to celebrate. The man who loses needs a woman for commiseration. Not that women were the only sex on offer, though Bren, as a soldiering city, officially frowned upon anything that was not considered manly.

Still, most men were drawn from their homes at night, leaving the warmth of the embered hearth for the cold promise of the streets. Once sufficiently numbed against winter's chill by a skin or two of ale, they would gather around the pits, hungry for the sight of blood.

The fighting pits had been present in Bren before there were any walls, before it was even a city, when it had just been an ambitious town. Some said the pits first started Bren's craving for bloodshed, others said it was merely a symptom of what had always been present. The men of Bren cared little for such debates: intellectual pursuits were for the priest and the weaklings. Fighting was what counted.

The pits were circular in shape, roughly four men across, and less than a man deep. The crowd gathered around the edge and laid bets on whatever fight was taking place.

Tradition held that the victor of the fight was thrown onethird of all money bet. However, this was usually not adhered to unless the fighter was either especially good, or had enforcers in the crowd. The rules of conflict were simple: the only weapon allowed was the short-bladed hand knife, and once in the pit anything was considered fair game. Victory could be claimed by either death, unconsciousness, or submission.

In olden days, long metal spikes had jutted from the walls of the pit, and the idea was to impale one's victim. Too many people died that way-though the victors always got their third-and the practice had stopped from lack of willing participants. It was rumored that such matches could still be found, if one knew the right people and were willing to pay the price.

Tawl lifted the skin to his lips and drank deeply of the cheap ale. He then swung the skin above his head and poured the remainder over his hair and face. The crowd was bigger than last night. No doubt the story of the man whose arm he tore off had spread. Nothing like a maiming for bringing in the crowds.

He could see the men looking his way, see their eyes appraising him and their whispering lips discussing him. He could feel their excitement, their desire for blood and guts and bone. He was repulsed by them.

But he would give them what they wanted. He checked the linen wrap around his arm. The cloth was closely bound; it would not slip. He had brought dishonor upon himself, but he would not willingly bring it upon the knighthood. He'd tried to rid himself of the mark: he burned his flesh and then rubbed sawdust into the wound; he'd scored the skin with the edge of his sword, drawing a cross in blood. The circles still remained. They taunted him with their presence and shamed him with what they stood for. He was no longer a knight, but the circles would give him no peace.

His eyes strayed to his hands. There was blood beneath his nails; whose, he did not know. Perhaps one-arm, perhaps the man before, or the man before that, perhaps even Bevlin. It didn't matter. Blood was a fitting adornment.

Corsella came and sat beside him. The deep cleft of her bosom, which was.exposed to the night air, was goosepimpled. Tawl absently ran his blood-stained fingers over the puckered flesh. "Did you bring more ale?"

Corsella, who was young from a distance but aged with nearness, nodded. "I did, Tawl." She hesitated a moment, and then took a deep breath. "I think you should wait until the fight's over before you take any more."

Anger flared in Tawl, and he smacked the woman full on the lips. "Give me the ale, bitch!"

Quick tears flared but didn't fall. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. She passed the skin without a word. He drank more than he'd intended, just to spite her. The ale gave him no joy, merely dulled his senses further. Of late that was the most he could hope for.

He looked over to the other side of the pit. A man, naked from the waist up, was being rubbed with goose fat: his opponent. He was of average height yet well muscled, his skin still smooth with youth. His face was beautiful, but not without arrogance. Tawl had seen his kind before. He had made a name for himself in his village and had come to the city hoping to repeat his triumph. The crowd was clearly impressed by the boy's looks. They cheered as he presented himself for their admiration. The goose fat, which was supposed to make it harder to get a hold of him, served to show off his body to its best advantage.

Tawl knew what the crowd was thinking. They looked at him and the boy, and then money changed hands with wolflike speed. They expected the boy to win, but not before the golden-haired stranger had put up quite a fight. Perhaps, if they were lucky, someone might end up maimed or dead. Tawl took another draught of ale. Men would lose money betting against him this night.

He stripped off his leather tunic, and Corsella ventured forward with a pot of goose fat. He shook his head. He wasn't going to be greased like a lamb for the spit. Nor would he take off his linen undershirt; he wasn't about to give the crowd the added spectacle of a chest covered with scars left by torture.

They'd have to pay more if they wanted to see those.

The boy stepped down into the pit. The crowd applauded his smooth-skinned scowl and cheered when his muscles caught the light. He seemed very young to Tawl.

Cries of street vendors could be heard above the noise of the appraising crowd:

"Roasted chestnuts! Red hot! Warm your hands and your belly. If the fight gets boring you can always throw 'em."

"Extra strong barley ale! Half a skin only two silvers. One drink will make the fight look good and your wife look beautiful."

"Pork joints! Hot from the ovens. A safer bet than any fighter."

The crowd quieted as Tawl stood up. All eyes were upon him, and he fancied he saw regret in the faces of some who bet against him. Too bad. He made his way to the edge of the pit and jumped down to the stone floor below. The crowd was disappointed. The boy, whose name was Handris, was putting on a show, displaying his muscles and his noble profile to their best advantage. Tawl merely paced the pit, head down, ignoring the crowd and his posturing opponent.

A red swath of fabric was raised and then dropped into the pit. The fight had begun.

The boy circled, looking for weak points. That was his first mistake. With every step he unknowingly showed his own weaknesses. Tawl was a hawk on the wing. His years of training and experience came back to him like a gift. He evaluated his opponent almost without realizing what he did. The boy was nervous-that was good. He knew how to carry his knife, though. His arms were well muscled, but his flank and back were weak. Just above his belt there was a slight discoloration: an old wound or bruise--probably still tender.

Tawl stood and let the boy come to him. The boy swung forward with his knife. An instant later he twisted round, kicking out with the back of his heel. Tawl was forced to step away from the knife and in doing so left himself open for the kick. Pain exploded in his shin. The boy's second mistake was not to use his advantage. He let the appreciation of the crowd fill his ears and his mind. Tawl pounced forward.

His knife provided a distraction while he elbowed the boy's jaw. The boy's head snapped back. Tawl allowed him no chance to steady himself. He was on him again; a punch to the gut and then a rake of the knife along the boy's arm.

At the sight of blood, the crowd ah'ed in appreciation. Doubtless more money was wagered.

The boy was quick to right himself. He had the lightning reflexes of youth. He sprang forward and the force of his momentum carried them both to the ground. He brought his knife up and pushed for Tawl's face. That was his third mistake=too much reliance on his blade. Tawl raised his knee with all the force he could muster and slammed it into his opponent's thigh. The boy reacted violently, and his knife cut into Tawl's shoulder. Bright blood soaked through the linen.

The boy was still on top of him, his knife poised for further thrusts. Something in the way the boy held the blade reminded Tawl of a long shadow once cast in Bevlin's hut. He tried to force the vision of the dead man from him. But when he succeeded, he found the image of his sisters lying beneath. He was worthless. He'd failed his family, his knighthood, and Bevlin. Anger became his weapon and his shield. A rage came upon him, and suddenly he was no longer fighting a boy, he was fighting against fate. Fighting against Larn and its lies, fighting against his ambition and what it had made him.

He flung the boy from him. He landed badly on his back. Tawl was over him in an instant. He threw away his blade-it reminded him too much of the long-shadowed night. The crowd was in a frenzy. There was fear in the eyes of the boy. Tawl went for his throat, his fingers enclosing the muscled column. He felt the graze of the boy's knife upon his flank. Not relieving his grip for an instant, Tawl knocked it from his hand, using his elbow like a club. He kicked the knife away.

With his free arm, he punched the boy time and time again. He knew no self-restraint. The only thing that mattered was getting the demons off his back. Even then he knew they would give him no peace. The boy's face became a bloody pulp. The crack of broken bones sobered the now silent crowd.

Tawl took a deep breath. When he let it out, he tried to let go of his rage. It was hard; with rage came forgetfulness and even perhaps the semblance, no matter how temporary, that he was in control. Only he wasn't, either way.

He got to his feet and stood back from the lifeless body of the boy. The only noise in the chill night was the sound of his own breath, quick and ragged. The crowd was waiting. At first Tawl didn't understand why. Then he saw the red swath. It was lying near the wall of the pit. He went over and picked it up. He held it aloft for the crowd to see: the sign of victory.

The crowd erupted into a riot of shouting and calling. Whether in delight or damnation, Tawl didn't care.

He felt something hard hit his shoulder, and then something at his back. The crowd was throwing coins.

Silver and gold. Soon the bottom of the pit was aglow with the sparkle of coinage. The boy's friends came and dragged the body away. Tawl wasn't sure if he was dead or alive. Corsella was lowered into the pit and busied herself loading coins into her sack. All this time Tawl hadn't moved, the red swath was still in his hand, its bright corners flapping in the breeze.

Melli followed Fiscel out of the garrison. The man's walk was almost comical; he lurched from good leg to bad like a drunken cripple. His breathing was weak and irregular, and was accompanied by a straining rasp of a sound that emanated from deep within his chest. The smell of him filled her with revulsion. The overbearing sweetness of exotic perfume barely masked the stench of the sickbed beneath.

Even though Melli was a head taller than Fiscel, she wasn't sure that she could manage to overpower him. Her wrist was still throbbing from earlier, when he had shown her the force of his tight-fingered grip.

Melli rubbed the sore spot. Fiscel's body had power despite the look of it. She was not really worried about his strength: it was his appearance that disturbed her the most. His face was a grotesque mask; his good eye was quick and vulpine, his bad eye watery and dim. He was physically repulsive, and it was this, more than any hidden strength, that she was afraid of.

A guard drew back the heavy wooden door and Melli stepped out into the dark Halcus night. The wind brought tears to her eyes, and the terrible cold froze them on her cheeks.

Fiscel grabbed her arm. His long fingernails dug into her flesh. He led her forward. At first she could see nothing, then as her eyes grew accustomed to the dark, she made out a shape in the blackness. It was a wagon, and three horses were harnessed to it. Two of the horses were large and heavy, and one was slender of back and limb: a rider's horse. A man dressed in a cloak of gray was attending to them.

Fiscel brought her to the back of the wagon. He rapped sharply on the wood and the door swung open.

Melli felt the flesh-trader's hands upon her backside as he pushed her up the step and into the wagon.

The door was closed after her, and she found herself in the company of two other women. The smell of bitter almonds filled her nostrils. The wagon was lit by a small oil lamp. There was barely enough space to contain the four straw pallets that lay aside each other. A brief stretch of Isro carpet and several smooth-sided chests were the only other contents.

The two women were not surprised at her sudden entrance. They lounged on a pallet drinking hot liquid from brass-encased glasses. One of the women, who was dusky skinned and raven haired, indicated that she should sit. Melli was inclined to ignore the languid gesture, but the wagon lurched forward and she found herself unsteady on her feet. The raven-haired woman smiled an I-told-you-so.

The wagon began to move more steadily and Melli settled herself on the pallet nearest the door. The raven-haired woman nodded to the pale-haired girl, obviously an order to pour another cup of liqueur, for the girl took up the silver pot and filled a glass with the steaming, clear liquid. Melli took the cup by its brass handle. The metal was warm to the touch, but not as hot as the glass beneath.

The sharp but fragrant vapors slipped into nose and lung, working their subtle magic of relaxation and comfort. The jostling of the wagon, the itch of the straw, the ache of her muscles, they all seemed to recede into the background. Melli took a sip from the cup. The liquid scalded her tongue. She felt it burn all the way to her belly. Then the warming began. She felt her body growing heavy and warm. Her fingers swelled with hot blood, her face became flushed, and she could feel her heart racing to keep up with her thoughts.

The raven-haired woman smiled an encouragement. The pale-haired girl sent a warning.

Melli drained her cup, welcoming its heat on her tongue. The wagon came to an abrupt stop. A minute or two later there was a rap on the wood. The door was opened again and Fiscel stood there, one shoulder higher than the other. He beckoned Melli forward. The pale-haired girl stepped ahead of her.

"No, Lorra," said Fiscel to the girl. "You will spend the night here in the wagon. Estis will watch over you."

"You mean I don't get to stay at the inn and have a decent supper." The girl sounded peevish.

"You will do as I say." Fiscel's tone brought an end to the matter. Then, turning toward the raven-haired woman, he said, "Come, Alysha." The raven-haired woman poured some of the almond liqueur into a flask, picked up an embroidered sack, and followed him out.

Melli found herself in the cold once more, but this time she was oblivious to its touch. They were in the center of a small town. Light peeked from shuttered windows, smoke rose from snow-laden rooftops, and a lone dog barked an angry lament.

Melli was led to the narrow doorway of a tavern named the Dairyman. Behind her, the wagon rumbled away. Fiscel pushed her into the bright lights and warm air of the tavern. A room full of men stared at them.

"Keep your mouth shut," warned Fiscel. He left her by the door in the care of the raven-haired woman, Alysha. The flesh-trader made his ungainly way to the bar, sparking many a disgusted look as he did so.

He spoke with the innkeeper and money changed hands. A second exchange with the tavern girl prompted further largesse. Finally, Fiscel turned to Alysha and nodded. Melli was guided forward, toward a low door at the back of the room. The motion drew the eye of every man present, and the room fell silent as they passed.

Fiscel tapped impatiently with his walking stick and threw Melli an accusation of a glance. It was as if he blamed her for being an object of attention.

Melli was feeling most peculiar. Blood coursed through her veins at an alarming rate; she was giddy with its speed and richness. Her body felt heavy and feverish, and somewhere deep within she felt an unnamable need.

With Fiscel to the front, and Alysha to the back, she was led up a curved staircase to the floor above.

The tavem girl appeared and showed them to their rooms. One was large and comfortable, with a full-sized bed, the other small and cramped with two pallets. The tavern girl bobbed a curtsy and promised to be back soon with food.

Melli struck a path toward the smaller room, but Fiscel laid a restraining hand upon her arm. "No, my pretty," he said, his voice thin and mocking. "Why so eager to be rid of me? We should spend some time together. Get to know each other."

Alysha opened the door of the largest room and sat on the bed. She patted the covers, inviting Melli to join her. Melli declined and sat on a wooden bench near the unlit fireplace. As she did so, she heard the soft laughter of the ravenhaired woman. Fiscel smiled, the good side of his mouth revealing his bad teeth.

"I propose we eat first, and then, when we're all relaxed, we can get down to the business of the night."

He turned to Alysha. "I see you have brought a flask of nais with you, my precious one. Pour our new friend a cup before it grows cold."

Nabber watched as Tawl stepped from the pit. The golden-haired knight was oblivious to the praise and backslapping. A wealthy-looking man stepped forward and tried to engage him in conversation. Tawl brushed him aside. Another man who was watching the knight closely seemed familiar to Nabber. It took him a moment to realize it was the very first person he'd pocketed upon entering the city. The man with the portrait of the golden-haired girl. Yes, it was him all right. His chest was as broad as his head was narrow. His dark, plumply lidded eyes never left Tawl for an instant.

The knight was still clutching the victory marker. Even from Nabber's position at the opposite side of the pit, he could see the force with which Tawl was holding on to the swath. His knuckles were white.

In all his days, Nabber had never witnessed a fight like the one he'd just seen. It was almost as if Tawl were possessed. His eyes glazed over, and he didn't seem to know what he was doing, nor how to stop himself. Nabber was sure he wasn't the only person in the crowd who'd felt disturbed at the sight. It was as if they'd been allowed a glimpse of something shocking and intensely private. A spell had been cast this night, and the man in the blood-stained undershirt whom he used to call his friend had been the sorcerer.

Nabber had watched as the crowd grew more and more excited. More than just blood thirst, it was the fascination of seeing a fellow human laid bare. Those primitive instincts, which the world commands be hidden, had been on show this night. Nabber shook his head slowly. Men would pay good money for the chance to see such savagery again.

Already a fair sum of coinage had been thrown into the pit. Gold and silver, no copper. Nabber felt that the crowd only needed the smallest measure of encouragement to throw more. Their generosity needed a little prompting, that was all. He might have even done it himself if it weren't for the fact that a fleshy woman with hair of a particularly unnatural shade of yellow was quickly putting what coinage there was into a sack.

Dual instincts warred within Nabber. There was money to be made here, lots of money. No doubt about it. But it would be money gained from the loss of a man's honor. Now a dilemma such as this would have been no problem in the past; coinage was coinage, and acquiring it was the most noble of pursuits.

However, Nabber only had to look over to where Tawl stood-distant and immeasurably changed-to know that there were other things in the world just as important as money, and helping a friend was one of them.

The hairs on Nabber's arm stood on end. This was, without a doubt, his noblest moment. He felt quite proud of himself; he would help his friend. Still, if there was money to be made while doing so, he was not about to turn it down.

Nabber watched as the yellow-haired woman scrambled from the pit and went to join Tawl. He said something to her, and the woman pulled a half-skin of ale from her sack. Tawl snatched it from her and drained it flat. The woman handed him his tunic, but he brushed it aside. He grabbed hold of her arm and they made their way free of the crowd.

It was bitterly cold on the streets of Bren. The mist from the great lake had begun to gather and thicken.

Nabber was chilled even with his cloak, jerkin, tunic, waistcoat, shirt, and undershirt on-Rom had been a much easier city to dress for-and he wondered how Tawl could manage with just a layer of linen between him and the cold.

He didn't like any of it: the fighting, the drinking, the woman with yellow hair. It wasn't that he disapproved of those sort of things. No, indeed, he was an open-minded man of the world. It was just that it didn't seem right for Tawl to be doing them. Tawl was a knight, and knights were supposed to be better than everyone else.

Nabber followed the knight and his lady as they made their way through the city. The district began to change for the worst and Nabber began to feel more at home. Prostitutes clothed in low-cut dresses stood in brothel doorways and called to passersby. They promised exotic delights, curvaceous bodies, and cheap rates. They even called to Nabber:

"Over here, dearie. Special rate for first-timers."

"Give me a chance, little one, and I'll show you where everything goes."

He smiled politely at the offers, but shook his head, just like Swift had taught him. Not that Swift himself ever shook his head at a prostitute. After all, he'd say, what else was a man's contingency for?

Some of the calls were less flattering.

"Bugger off, you little snot! You're scaring the punters."

"Stop gawking, peep-boy! If you can't pay, don't look."

"I don't give lessons, baby-face. Come back when you've filled out your britches."

Nabber was immune to this sort of heckling. The prostitutes in Rorn had far sharper tongues.

He hung back a little from Tawl, keeping his distance. For some reason, which he could not name, he didn't want to make contact with the knight just yet. Eventually the pair slowed down and entered a brightly lit building. The redpainted shutters confirmed it was another brothel.

Nabber slipped down the side of the building. He waded through the filth of kitchen refuse and emptied chamberpots until he found what he was looking for: a way to see inside.

The shutter was closed to keep out the cold and the smell, but the wood was badly warped. There was a convenient split running down its length. Nabber put his eye to the wood.

Smoke filled the room. Candles burned low and the fire was well banked with ashes. Groups of men and women lounged on chairs and benches. Food, fried but now cold, congealed unnoticed on platters.

There was fondling and drinking, both men and women showing more enthusiasm for the latter. The women's dresses were unlaced and their bosoms, both small and large, went mostly unnoticed.

Nabber looked on as Tawl and his ladyfriend entered the room. She pushed a path through the drunkenness and cleared a bench for them to sit on. Tawl immediately called for ale, his voice harsher than Nabber remembered. Ale came and food along with it. The knight ignored the food and drank the ale from the jug. The girl whispered something to him, perhaps a caution for his drinking, and Tawl smacked her in the chest. Nabber was shocked.

The girl appeared quite used to this sort of treatment and didn't make a move to leave. She took a portion of fried chicken and set about tearing at it with large but even teeth.

Nabber saw her exchange a seemingly casual glance with a small-eyed woman. The woman edged nearer, and the girl slipped her the sack. Tawl was drinking heavily and saw none of this.

The small-eyed woman left the room and returned a few moments later. Tawl's sack was still in her hand, but it looked slimmer now. She crossed the room, paused a second in front of the minor to pat her heavily powdered hair, and then returned the sack to the girl. Although Nabber had no way of knowing, he was almost certain that the bundle now contained substantially less of Tawl's gold. Indignation rose in his breast. Robbing was normally fair game to him, but this was downright deceitful. The girl with the bright yellow hair had set Tawl up. And it probably wasn't the first time.

But it would be the last. No one robbed a friend of his and got away with it. No one.

Nabber looked toward Tawl. The knight's head was down. He seemed absorbed in something. It took Nabber a moment to realize that he was intent upon his arm. He was rewinding the cloth that bound his forearm. The cloth that served to hide his circles. With movements made slow by drink, Tawl wound the cloth, his fingers binding the fabric deep into his flesh. The bandage slipped and Nabber was shocked by what lay underneath: a portion of flesh as big as a fist was burned. The flesh was raised and blistered.

The scar which ran through his circles had reopened and formed a ribbon of red through the black.

Tawl began to rewind the cloth. He wasn't a man concerned with bandaging an injury, he was a man intent on hiding his shame. By covering his circles it was as if Tawl were trying to hide the past, to bandage it out of sight.

Nabber moved away from the window. He felt a confusion of unfamiliar emotions. There was a pressure in his throat and an aching in his chest. The sight of Tawl, sitting alone in the sordid whorehouse quietly binding his circles, was too painful to bear. He turned his back on the window and made his way to the street. Time to get a little sleep. He would return in the morning when the knight was sober.

He walked back up the road, past the brothels and their prostitutes. If they called to him, this time he didn't hear them.

Melli, who usually prided herself on a healthy appetite and had not eaten for at least half a day, found the food held no interest for her.

Fiscel and Alysha had been the perfect hosts, solicitous and polite. Her plate was never empty, her glass always full. Melli hadn't actually tested how quickly they brought more food, but when it came to refilling her glass, they showed the speed and intent of swooping kestrels.

Thinking of birds of prey, Melli noticed that Fiscel had the eye of a predator. His gaze was sharp, focused, cold as metal. That was his good eye, of course. His bad eye had the look of the prey. Melli giggled merrily and wondered why she only had such witty thoughts when she'd been drinking. A small, detached part of her argued that perhaps she did have such thoughts when sober, only they didn't seem so amusing to a sound mind and a dry belly.

She most definitely had a wet belly now. Wet Belly Melli! She laughed brightly and Fiscel laughed, too.

The flesh-trader looked so repulsive when he laughed that the sight of him made Melli laugh more. The raven-haired Alysha just smiled, a smile soft with all the guile and complicity that women of the Far South were famous for.

Fiscel refilled her cup. The brimming glass was unsteady in her hand and wine spilled on the rush-covered floor. Melli bent forward to see how much wine was lost. As her head came up, she caught a glance and a nod exchanged between her hosts. Alysha moved toward the foot of the bed. Strangely, amidst all her feelings of drunken glee and growing trepidation, Melli found herself envying the older woman. She moved like a temptress. The beauty that was denied in her face flourished in the ravishing but effortless grace of her movements. Melli felt like a country bumpkin in her presence.

With arms so fluid as to seem almost without bone, Alysha reached for the embroidered sack. A pull on the thread revealed its contents: rope, coiled like a snake. Something glinted in the center of the coil.

Melli tried to focus upon the shiny object, but her eyes refused to do her bidding.

Fiscel settled back in his comfortable chair. He had the satisfied look of a connoisseur about to enjoy a feast. Wet Belly Melli was beginning to feel like Melli On a Spit.

The bright flash of metal drew her eye and turned her stomach. Alysha drew a blade from her belt. Its haft was encrusted with pearls. The dark-haired woman knelt before the rope and began to cut its length.

She was adept with a blade and even managed to endow the business of rope cutting with a certain capable elegance.

When she'd finished there were four lengths of rope. Up came the beautiful neck, revealing a half smile on the unlovely face. "Come," she beckoned, the first word she'd spoken in Melli's presence. "Come and join me. I will promise not to hurt you." A voice to match her movements, not her face. A beautiful, husky voice that hinted of things exotic and forbidden.

Melli was suddenly afraid. She looked to the door and saw that Fiscel caught the action. His good hand lay resting upon his walking stick. The end of the stick was formed by a large swelling of wood a fist thick. Melli understood the threat even before the flesh-trader's fingers enclosed the weighted end. She looked back to Alysha, who was sitting patiently on the bed. The dark-haired woman raised a hand of invitation. She was playing the game as if Melli had free will. Melli knew there was no choice; the invitation nothing but an order in disguise.

As if reading her thoughts, the woman said, "Come willingly to me now and I will be gentle. Refuse and I may have to hurt you." There was bone to the flesh after all, and tough meat beneath.

Drinking all that almond liqueur followed by numerous glasses of cheap wine had been a terrible mistake.

Melli was pretty sure that she was in no state to make a run for it, or to put up a fight. There was one option, though.

She began to scream at the top of her voice. Melli was pleasantly surprised at how loud and jarring a sound came from her lips.

She didn't see the blow coming. She felt the excruciating impact, heard the thud of wood against her skull. Tears came to her eyes and spittle to her lips. Stumbling forward, she fell into the waiting arms of Alysha. The woman dragged her onto the bed.

Melli's head was caught in a spiral of pain and heaviness. She was tempted to give in and pass out.

Forcing herself to stay conscious, she focused on the pain rather than the heaviness. The back of her head throbbed like a hive. Even in her dull and drunken state she realized the blow had been placed with care; a knock on the back of the head would leave no noticeable scars or bruises. Her hair would cover the consequences. Fiscel was obviously a man who treated his merchandise with due consideration. Melli felt a certain spiteful delight in the fact that she was already marked goods. Six welts on her back would bring her desirabilityand very probably her price-right down.

Alysha bent over her and began to spread her arms. Melli could do nothing; it was taking all her concentration just keeping the room in focus. The raven-haired woman drew her arm out to the side and then above her head. She reached over for the length of rope and tied Melli's wrist to the bedpost. The rope was soft against her wrist, its touch nearly a caress. Alysha pulled hard on the silken rope and the caress became a vise. Fear and bile bubbled within Melli's stomach. She felt the mix burn in her throat.

Once both arms were secure, Alysha's cool touch fell upon Melli's leg, drawing it out and to the side. The rope found one ankle and then the other.

Melli was spread-eagled on the bed. She raised her head, an achievement in itself considering it weighed twice as much as normal. Fiscel was back on his well-cushioned chair, and Alysha stood above her, knife in hand.

The dark-haired woman wielded the blade like a professional. One moment its tip rested against Melli's bodice, the next it was slicing a path down her dress.

The knife! Melli felt it fall from her skin along with the fabric. She waited, breath in body, for its discovery. A few seconds passed, and she risked raising her head once more. Alysha was sitting cross-legged on the floor; it looked as if she was polishing something. Melli glanced down at her dress.

The fabric of her bodice lay unfurled on both sides like opened petals. Most of the knife was concealed under the dress, but the edge of the hilt could be seen jutting from the folds. Melli shifted her body slightly, and fabric and knife fell toward her. Next, she raised her back and shoulders, and the knife slipped down toward her waist. When she lay flat once more, the knife was hidden beneath her.

She was allowed no time to enjoy her triumph. Alysha came and sat by the foot of the bed, between her legs. In her hand she was holding what looked to Melli to be a smooth piece of glass. Melli felt her undergarments fall away from her skin. She flushed with shame.

"Such a pretty body," said Alysha. "Not as skinny as I thought. You would render a fair amount of fat."

Melli raised her head as Alysha lowered hers. The woman was kneeling between her legs and looking at her most private parts. Melli could not bear the indignity and shifted angrily against the ropes. She felt her knife slide against her back, and then the sting of the blade as it cut into her skin. Terrified she might do more damage to herself, she lay as still as the dead.

Alysha murmured words of calming in her soft, faraway voice. Melli felt something smooth and cool press gently against her sex. She saw the woman's lips move as if in prayer. What was spoken had more weight than words. The air from Alysha's mouth reached out toward. her, probing. Melli became afraid.

She'd heard many tales of sorcery, even seen it once herself, but this-so much less powerful than Jack's drawing-seemed an unbearable intrusion. She shifted against the ropes, suddenly not caring if her knife was revealed. Magic was inside of her; its presence warming as it searched. Every fiber of her soul fought against it. Every cell of her body felt violated.

Alysha mouthed a few words and the force withdrew, becoming air once more upon her tongue. "The hymen is intact," she said. "The girl is still a virgin." As she stood up, her legs faltered and she was forced to steady herself against the wall.

"Are you sure?" asked Fiscel.

"Of course I am," Alysha snapped. "The girl has a hymen as tough as old leather. She will need quite a breaking."

"There will be plenty of blood?"

"More than usual."

"Good. She will fetch a high price." Fiscel's smile was warm with anticipation. "My southern beauty never lets me down. You have so many talents, my dear, I don't know what I'd do without you." He poured a glass of nais and handed it to the woman. "Why, your hand is shaking, Alysha. What is the matter?"

Alysha looked quickly toward Melli. "There is something about that girl, Fiscel," she whispered.

Melli was trying very hard not to fall asleep, but she felt so weak. Her eyes had stopped focusing and her thoughts had followed suit. Slowly, despite all her efforts, her eyelids began to close.

"What do you mean, my precious?" asked Fiscel.

"Her fate is strong. It fought against the sorcery, nearly forcing it back upon me before I was ready. And her womb. . ." Alysha shook her head.

"Her womb waits for a child who will bring both war and peace."

Traff spat out the wad of snatch. It was not a good blend, too bitter by far. He spat a few more times for good measure. A man needs a clean mouth.

He watched the shadowed cottage. The lights had gone out some time ago. The old woman would be fast asleep by now. Still, he would wait a few minutes longer, just to be sure. Surprise was as good a weapon as the keenest knife.

He passed the time by grinding the chewed snatch into the snow with the heel of his boot. Perhaps he might give up snatch all together. He'd heard that it rotted the teeth. In the past he wouldn't have cared one way or another about rotted teeth. Bad breath and toothache were for women and priests to fret over. But now he had other things to consider-his pretty young bride-to-be for instance.

Lady Melliandra, daughter of Lord Maybor and once betrothed to King Kylock, was to be his. Her father had sold her to him, along with two hundred pieces of gold. The great lord had struck a lame deal.

He, Traff, had given away a little information, nothing more. Lord Maybor, however, had given away his only daughter. The old fool was in his dotage. So desperate had he been to hear about Baralis' scheming that he'd lost his powers of judgment. And as a result, the delicious Melli was his.

All he had to do now was to find her.

That was what brought him here tonight, to a small cottage set back from Harvell's eastern road. A cottage that was owned by an old woman who was a pig farmer.

The old crow deserved a beating just for the fact that she'd not turned her farm over to the authorities like she was supposed to. An old widow woman had no business running a farm, depriving a man of making a legitimate livelihood. She would be hanged if the word got out-and make no mistake, the word would get out-only by then she might be too stiff for a hanging.

Traff stepped out from his hiding place in the bushes and made his way toward the cottage. His blade was tucked in his belt and pressed against his thigh like a second man hood. He drew the knife from its resting place and his body mourned the loss. It was a fine knife, long and thin-bladed. A knife for fighting, or for killing.

He approached the cottage from behind, slipping between the barn and the sty. The smell of pigs filled his nostrils, and Traff found himself wishing he still had a mouthful of snatch, bad or otherwise. The pigs caught his scent and grunted nervously.

He fell under the shadow of the cottage and made for the door. Pushing it gently, he tested its strength: good hinges and a firm bolt. He moved away. Moving toward the front of the building, he tried every window shutter until he found one with rusted hinges. Breaking in was going to be noisy. Traff shrugged.

The woman was old and probably deaf. He shouldered into the shutter with all his strength. The hinges cracked like kindling. The shutter fell into the cottage, taking the linen curtain with it. It crashed against the floor. Wincing at the noise, Traff climbed into the cottage.

Borc, but it was dark! He stood for a moment allowing his eyes to grow used to the blackness. He was in the kitchen. On the far side lay the door to the bedchamber. He adjusted his grip on the knife and then made his way across the room. The door was not bolted and swung back to his touch. In the darkness he could make out a white figure on the bed. It took him a moment to realize that the old woman was sitting up and that she had a knife in her hand.

"Don't come any closer," she said. "I bought this knife last week, and I've a hankering to test the blade."

Traff laughed. It really, was quite absurd. Did the old crow have no idea just how ridiculous she sounded? The woman made a quick movement and then he felt something tear into his shoulder. The bitch had thrown the knife! Anger flared within Traff. He crossed the room in one leap. Grabbing the woman by her scrawny neck, he pressed his thumb into her throat. The feel of old flesh repulsed him.

Blood sprinkled onto the covers and the floor. His blood.

"Not so brave now, old hag." Traff pushed his thumb against her windpipe. With his other hand he performed a showy maneuver with his knife, making sure the blade caught what little light was in the room. The woman's eyes glittered in unison with the blade. Traff was beginning to feel more relaxed now that he was back in charge. The wound on his shoulder didn't feel too deep. He had been wearing his leathers and they would have taken some of the bite from the knife.

"Now then, all I want you to do is answer a few questions for me. You'll be all right as long as you tell me the truth." Traff's tone was that of a parent admonishing a naughty child. "I've been talking to a friend of yours. He told me that you had two visitors stay here about five weeks back. Is this true?" Traff eased his grip on the woman's throat to give her a chance to confirm what he was saying. The woman didn't as much as blink an eye. Traff jabbed the haft of his blade into her chest. The woman coughed and spluttered. "I'll take that as a yes," he said.

"Were their names Melli and Jack?" Another thrust of the haft. The woman stifled her coughs this time.

Traff was quickly depleting what little store of patience he'd been blessed with. "Look here, bitch, you answer my questions or I'll cut off both your hands and set fire to your precious pig sty." To illustrate his willingness to perform the former of these two threats, Traff drew the blade against her wrist. Dark blood welled to the surface in a thin line. She bled well for an old one.

"Now then, let's move along." He was the indulgent parent again. "What I need to know is where they were headed." Traff eased the point of the blade into the woman's open wound and absently drew back the skin.

"They headed east." The old woman sighed as she spoke. A single tear glistened forth in the darkness.

"Good, but not good enough." Traff scraped his blade against the intricate bunching of bones in the woman's wrist. "Where in the east?"

"Bresketh."

"No such place, old woman." One quick flick of the knife and the tendon connecting one bone to another was severed.

The woman cried out. "They told me Bresketh."

Traff got the distinct impression the woman was telling the truth. He tried a different tactic. "They might have told you Bresketh, but where do you think they were headed?"

No reply. "Answer me, old woman, or your pigs will be crackling before the night is over."

"Bren. I think they were heading to Bren."

Traff smiled. "One last question. Did the boy Jack ever lay a finger on the girl?"

"I don't know what you mean."

Traff was pleased to note that the old woman now sounded afraid. "Let me explain, then," he said. "Melli is my betrothed, and it would make me very angry if she was as much as touched gby another man."

Traff continued working his knife into the open wound on the old woman's wrist. "Very angry, indeed."

"He never laid a finger on her. I swear."

"Good." Traff brought the knife to the woman's throat and slit her windpipe.

He wiped his hands and knife clean on her nightgown and then stood up. He was sorely tempted to put a flame to the sty, but he'd promised her "friend" that he could have the pigs, and he was a man of his word. When it suited him.

Now all that remained was to find a candle and then ransack the place. The old crow was bound to have a stash of gold somewhere. After a good night's rest and a hearty bacon breakfast, he would begin the journey east. Melli was his betrothed, and he would track her down wherever she was.

Six

They were making their way toward the pass. The path began to narrow and steepen as it wound its way up into the mountains. To either side lay huge banks of snow; virgin white, they gleamed with silent menace. The air, which was already ice-cold, had begun to thin out, and Maybor's damaged lungs had to strain for every precious load of oxygen.

Damn Baralis! He was responsible for this. Before the incident on Winter's Eve, he'd had the staying power of a man half his age. His lungs had been the mightiest of bellows, and now, thanks to Baralis and his foul poisons, they were as full of holes as a cheese-maker's cloth.

At least the wind was at rest. For the first time in this cursed journey the air was still, bestowing an unlooked-for blessing upon his weary bones.

If all went well and the pass was met by midafternoon, they would be in Bren in three days time.

Maybor was impatient to gain the city. He was tired of traveling, sick of looking at snow and the back end of horses and, most importantly, he was anxious to be among civilization again. Bren promised all the delights of a modem city: fine food and strong ale, cheap women, and skilled tailors. He would find a tailor first. It was high time he had some decent robes made. His lungs had not been the only casualty of Winter's Eve: his wardrobe had to be destroyed. Now he had barely enough clothes to impress a tavern wench. Baralis had a lot to.answer for.

Maybor turned his horse, a treacherous move on so narrow a path, and headed back along the length of the column. It was time he and Baralis sorted out a few things. Confronting the man here, along the cliffs and drops of the Great Divide, would give him the advantage. There was no greater horseman than he; no man could guide and control a horse as well. Baralis possessed no such skill. If Maybor judged right, the king's chancellor would be feeling just a little nervous at the moment, a little preoccupied with having to ride his horse along the hazardous snow-covered trail.

What better time to test the man's verbal acuity? And if Baralis' horse happened to lose its footing in the heat of debate, and plunge itself and its rider down into the snowy abyss of the mountain, that would merely be a regrettable accident.

The path was only wide enough to accommodate two riders abreast. Even so, Baralis chose to ride alone, or perhaps no one was willing to ride at his flank. Maybor had noted the way all the soldiers gave the king's chancellor a wide berth; they were afraid of him, though they would never admit it. Maybor could understand their fear; he more than anyone else knew just how dangerous Baralis could be.

Moving down along the column caused considerable inconvenience to the riders as they were forced to make way for the man and his horse. Maybor eventually pulled alongside Baralis.

"So, Maybor, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?" Baralis was as calm and aloof as ever.

Maybor had to admire the way the man could speak in such low tones and yet have all his words clearly understood. "I think you know what brings me here," he replied. "There are still some matters that need to be resolved between us."

"Matters to be resolved, indeed! Since when did you become a statesman, Maybor? Last I heard, your talents ran to women and murder. I didn't realize you were also an aspiring politician."

"Taunt me not, Baralis. As you have just pointed out, one of my talents is murder."

"Is that a threat, Maybor?" Baralis didn't wait for a reply. "Because if it is, then it's a naive one. You may have a little talent as far as murder is concerned, but you are merely a skilled amateur when compared to me." A little of the sting was robbed from the man's words as he was forced to rein his horse tightly to guide the creature around a sharp turn in the path.

"Not so great with a horse, though?" Maybor could not resist the jibe. He rounded the curve with the grace of Borc himself. One quick look to the left confirmed that the snow bank had given way to a sheer drop. To the right, the snow still rose like a mighty hillside. Maybor brought his horse closer to Baralis'

mount, forcing the man to ride nearer the edge.

"Enough of this quibbling, Maybor. Cut to the bone. What did you come here to say?"

"I came here to tell you that I will be the superior envoy in Bren. I am king's envoy."

"I didn't know you could speak with the dead, Maybor."

"What d'you mean?"

"Well, correct me if I'm wrong, but you were appointed King Lesketh's envoy. Lesketh, as we both know, is now cold in his grave, and unless you have developed a way to converse with his spirit, you have no rights in Bren."

Baralis' mocking tone raised a knot of fury in Maybor's gut. How he hated the arrogance of the man! He edged his mount more to the left. The two horses were so close their bellies were almost touching.

Baralis was forced to pull on his reins to slow his mount.

"What's the matter, Baralis? Surely you aren't afraid of a little drop?"

"Don't play games with me, Maybor. You wouldn't want to lose another horse."

Maybor met the cold challenge of Baralis' eyes. There was an unflinching insolence in their gray depths.

Maybor sat back in his saddle. He couldn't really believe what the man had said. He was claiming responsibility for killing his beloved stallion. And while he'd been riding it, no less! No, it couldn't be true.

Suddenly a cold wind blasted Maybor's face. A terrifying rumbling came in its wake. The mountainside was moving. A whole bank of snow was shifting.

"Avalanche!" someone cried.

The air was filled with the crashing of snow. Maybor rode forward in panic. The snow slid down in one mighty sheet, smashing into the path. The noise was deafening.

There was chaos along the column. Men rode in fear for their lives. One man rode himself right off the cliffside. Chunks of snow and ice shot through the air like crossbolts.

Finally the snow came to rest, leaving a deadly silence as its obituary. White powder floated down on the party like a pall.

The column had congregated around the bend in the path. No one could see the damage done by the avalanche. They were short both men and supplies. The avalanche had caught the last of the column.

Maybor looked around, suddenly hopeful. Baralis was still among the living. He cursed himself; he should have used the distraction to push the king's chancellor from the cliff!

No one dared move. Maybor's eyes were racing over the remaining supplies. Not one of the barrels had his mark upon it. Damn it! He'd lost three score casks of Nestor Gold. It was to have been his personal gift to the duke of Bren.

"My cider!" he exclaimed loudly. Maybe the men could dig it out.

"Crope!" The name was uttered with quiet anguish. The voice belonged to Baralis.

Maybor spun around. Baralis was moving toward the bend in the path, oblivious to the rest of the party.

Maybor did a quick scan of the men. The huge lumbering idiot was nowhere to be seen.

"Lord Baralis!" shouted the captain. "You can't go back there, it won't be safe. Wait an hour or two and give the snow time to settle before we dig the men out."

"They will be long dead by then," murmured Baralis. "I will send some men to accompany you," said the captain, moving forward.

"I will go, too," cried Maybor. He wasn't about to let Baralis pick through all the supplies with no one watching. Baralis turned to face the party. His skin gleamed like polished marble. His gaze surveyed the men, meeting the eyes of each one in turn. "Ride on!" he commanded, his compelling voice carrying the authority of a king. "Ride on! I will deal with this danger alone!"

Such was the force of his voice that, after a short pause, the men began to turn their horses and make their way along the path. Maybor was powerless to stop them. The compulsion to obey was too strong.

He watched as Baralis dismounted and made his way around the bend toward the avalanche site.

Maybor was tempted to follow, but the threat of danger was too real and he didn't like the idea of his hide being permanently buried beneath a mountain of snow.

The party rode for a few minutes before the path widened sufficiently to make camp. The men were silent, their faces grave and tense. The captain ordered a head count.

Maybor did not doubt where the thoughts of all the men lay. Everyone was wondering what was happening at the avalanche site. A few minutes passed and then something strange happened: a warm wind rippled through the camp. Maybor told himself he'd imagined it, but the puzzled faces of others confirmed its presence. Again the air gusted wane and fast. There was a cracking, shifting noise. And then the unmistakable aroma of cooking meat.

Even as Maybor was disturbed at the smell, his mouth betrayed him by watering. He looked up, but the face of every man in the party was cast down, all intent on keeping their own counsel. It was as if to look at someone else might cause the strange goings-on to solidify into reality.

A length of time passed; Maybor had no way of gauging its measure. The air was cold once more. A chill breeze held the smell of well-done meat in its keep. The only noise was the sound of someone tapping a barrel-a man with enough good sense to realize that now was exactly the right time for a stiff drink.

Then, just as the ale began to flow, Maybor spotted Baralis approaching the campsite. He was walking, leading his horse by its reins. Lying over the mare's back was the body of a man. Size and width alone confirmed that it was Crope. The king's chancellor drew near. He was leaning heavily against the mare.

The body on the horse shifted slightly; Crope was still alive.

The captain looked to Baralis.

He nodded, his face grim. "Go now," he said. "Rescue those who are left. Most are dead. I have done what I can." Maybor could read the questions on the captain's face, but something stronger than curiosity forced the man to hold his tongue: fear.

Baralis led his horse to a sheltered section of the path. He ordered a guard to help lay Crope's body on the ground. Maybor could clearly see the strain on the face of the king's chancellor. He was exhausted, his shoulders drooping, his hands shaking. Reaching inside his cloak, he pulled out -ga small glass vial. He swallowed the contents like a man dying of thirst. His weight was against the horse, and without its support Maybor suspected Baralis would collapse.

The captain began to organize a group of men to accompany him to the avalanche site. Maybor insisted on going along to inspect the damage. A few minutes later, they rode up to the place where the snow lay across the path. The smell of meat tantalized the palate. Maybor hurried forward. A portion of the snow had entirely melted away. Water pooled and then dripped from the path. Barrels and bodies were uncovered. The snow-melt formed a rough circle. At the center was the body of a horse and its rider.

They were joined as one; their bodies scorched and blackened. Cooked to a crisp. Maybor heard the sound of more than one man vomiting.

Never had it been more difficult to deny the existence of sorcery. The very air was thick with it. Maybor rolled his phlegm and spat out the taste of meat and magecraft. "Come on now, men," he cried, purposefully sounding harsh. "There are still some alive. Now is not the time for shows of womanly weakness."

The soldiers began to clear away what remained of the snow and free the few men who were still moving. Past the melt-site, Maybor noticed a mound of snow that looked to have several barrels embedded in it. If he wasn't mistaken, his mark was upon them. "Before you deal with the dead," he called, "free my cider. Five gold pieces to the man who brings me the most barrels."

It was time for his midmorning snack. He had a fancy for some meat. Hot, sizzling fat surrounding delicate pink flesh: charred on the outside, tender within. Tavalisk had to stop himself from pulling the bell chord and summoning forth a huge joint of lamb.

He was watching his diet. His physician-Borc rot his soul-had lectured him on the dangers of overeating.

None of the dreary recitation had any effect on the archbishop until the foul charlatan had mentioned the fact that overeating could lead to early death. Early death was one thing that Tavalisk most definitely wanted to avoid. What was the point of amassing great stashes of gold and land if one wasn't going to live to enjoy them?

Consequently he was trying his best to cut down on his eating. Instead of his usual three-course breakfast--eggs and bacon, followed by kippers and rolls, followed by cold pea soup--he now had only two courses. Needless to say, it was the pea soup that was bidden a fond farewell. Still, it was a sacrifice, and such uncharacteristic self-denial was hard for Tavalisk to bear. In fact, it made him rather angry.

The physician had prescribed music as a distraction. Now, the archbishop was as fond of music as the next man, and music might indeed tame savage beasts and so forth, but when it came to his stomach, a jaunty tune-no matter how well played just couldn't stop his overactive bile from burning away at his gut.

A knock was heard at the door. The wood rang of Gamil. "Enter," called Tavalisk, taking up his lyre. He strummed with studied indolence, his mind firmly on food.

"I wish Your Eminence joy of the day."

"There is little joy in this day, Gamil." The archbishop suddenly hated his aide; the man probably had three courses for his breakfast. "Quickly tell me what petty intelligences you have and then be off. I am already tiring of your presence."

"Well, Your Eminence, do you remember the man who spied on the knight for us?"

"Of course I do, Gamil. I am too young for my dotage just yet. You mean my spy, the one who waited outside Bevlin's but and saw the dead body the next morning?" The smell of cooking wafted gently through the open window. Tavalisk strummed faster on his lyre.

"The man has been seen keeping low company, Your Eminence."

"Just how low, Gamil?"

"He's been talking with friends of the Old Man."

"Hmm. That low, eh?"

"Yes, Your Eminence. He was spotted in the whoring quarter emerging from one of the Old Man's lairs, accompanied by two cronies."

Tavalisk looked over to the bowl of fruit, the only food in the room. Peaches and plums mocked him with their pink plumpness. How he hated the cruelty of fruit! He fingered his lyre with increased vigor.

"And did this man leave with a heavy purse?"

"I can't exactly say, Your Eminence. But straight after leaving the Old Man's lair, he made his way to the market district and bought himself two new robes."

"Wool or silk?"

"Silk, Your Eminence."

"Ah, then we have our answer. Our man has sold his information to the Old Man."

"Your Eminence is as wise as he is musical."

"So you've noticed my playing, then, Gamil?" Tavalisk broke into a new and very loud tune on his lyre.

"Your Eminence's playing leaves me at a loss for words."

"That is always the way with the great masters, Gamil. They move one to emotion, not to speeches." The archbishop finished off his tune with a suitably theatrical flourish. Even to his biased ears he could tell he hadn't quite hit all the right notes. Still, genius was measured by more than purely technical skills alone.

"So, Gamil," he said, laying down his lyre, "how well did the Old Man know Bevlin?"

"We know they corresponded at irregular intervals, Your Eminence. The last time we were aware of an exchange of letters was just after the knight returned from Larn."

"It seems to me, Gamil, that the Old Man won't be pleased that his good friend Bevlin was bumped off by someone he tried to help."

"Indeed, Your Eminence. The Old Man is known for his loyalty to his friends."

"What action do you think he might take?"

"Who can tell, Your Eminence?" said Gamil with a slight shrug.

"You can tell, Gamil. That's what I pay you for."

"These things are difficult to predict, Your Eminence. Perhaps the Old Man might seek revenge for Bevlin's death by having the knight assassinated."

"Hmm. The situation bears watching. Keep an eye to the gates and ports. I will be interested in knowing if any of the Old Man's cronies leave the city."

"Yes, Your Eminence."

Tavalisk pulled on the bell rope; he needed food. Playing the lyre had honed an edge to his appetite. No wonder so many of the. great masters were as fat as pigs.

"I think it would be wise to pick up our man, Gamil. I can't allow one of my spies to turn traitor and get away with it. And who knows, once his tongue is sufficiently loosened by the rack, we might find out just what the Old Man is planning to do about Bevlin's death." The archbishop put down the lyre. Something about its shape reminded him of pomegranates--his favorite fruit. "Is there anything else?"

"A rather unsettling rumor about Tyren has reached my ears, Your Eminence."

"How unsettling, Gamil?"

"I've heard that he's ordered the knights to intercept and seize all of Rom's cargoes that are headed to the north."

"This is intolerable! Who does that gold-greedy bigot think he is?" The archbishop pulled on the bell rope again.

He now had need of a drink as well as a meal. "I need this confirmed as soon as possible, Gamil. If it is true I will have to come up with a suitable form of retaliation."

If a war was coming, let no one say that Rom was slow from the stables. The archbishop smiled a tiny smile. The whole thing was really quite stimulating. The Known Lands had been too long without a decent conflict, and as long as it was waged in the north, both he and Rom would be safe from its ravages.

"I shall endeavor to find the fact behind the fiction, Your Eminence. If there's nothing further, I will take my leave."

"I was rather hoping you would stay, Gamil. After a quick snack, I was planning to play all of Shuge's masterworks, and I'm anxious for your opinion on my fingerings."

"But Shuge's masterworks run to some five hours or more, Your Eminence."

"I know, Gamil. It will be a real treat for such an avid music lover as yourself."

There were six sacks of grain in the kitchen and Rovas was busy turning them into eight. Jack watched as the seasoned smuggler practiced one of the less ethical tricks of his trade. He poured a portion of the barley grain into a new sack until it was quarter full, then he took a quantity of what looked to be wood shavings and poured them into the sack. Next he topped the sack up with more grain and tied it with a length of twine.

"Couldn't that do a person harm?" asked Jack.

Rovas smiled showing wide teeth in a wide mouth. "There's people who'd put worse than wood shavings in grain, boy."

"Such as?"

"Ground bones, soil, sand." Rovas made an expansive gesture with his arm. "The people who get this grain should count themselves lucky. I've taken the trouble to shave the wood real fine. No one will choke on it, and I've heard that it's good for the digestion."

"Better for your pocket, though."

"What's the point of a man doing business if he can't make a little profit?" Rovas reached over to Jack and tousled his hair. "You're young yet, boy, and you don't know the ways of the world. Commerce is and always has been its driving force." He slung one of the sacks of grain over his shoulder. "You've got a lot to learn, Jack, and if I do say so myself, I'm the man to teach you." With that he stepped outside and began loading the grain onto his cart.

Once he had finished, he turned to Magra, who was spinning by the fire. "Come, woman," he said.

"Accompany me to market like a good wife would." Rovas then addressed Jack. "You see, boy, potential customers will think a seller more honest if they see he is a family man."

"Perhaps I should go along as your son, then," said Jack with a hint of amusement, "just to complete the family circle."

Rovas slapped Jack on the back. "You're learning fast, boy. But I'll have to decline. I've known these buyers for many years now, and a long lost son might prove a little difficult for them to swallow."

"So might those eight sacks of grain."

Rovas laughed heartily and even the normally hostile Magra managed a snort of amusement. The smuggler buckled his belt and slipped a knife and a sword under the leather.

"When I get back, boy," he said, "I'll start teaching you how to use a blade like a real man." He winked merrily and then was off, Magra trailing after him.

Jack breathed a sigh of relief. It was good to be on his own. It seemed as if he'd had no chance to think since he'd heard that Melli was dead. He moved closer to the fire and poured himself a cup of mulled cider. The sweet and heady fragrance of apples tugged at his senses, evoking memories of his life in Castle Harvell. The kitchens were often filled with the scent of apples, either with baking or cider-making. There was such simplicity then; no dangers, no worries, no guilt.

He ran his hand over the thick and bristling growth on his chin and neck. It had been many days since he'd had a shave. The last time had been the day the Halcus soldiers came to the coop ... the day that Melli was murdered.

Jack threw the cup into the fire where it smashed against the back wall-he should have been there! It should have been he, not Melli, who was clubbed to death. He had failed the only person who'd ever relied upon him. He cupped his face in his hands, pressing his fingertips deep into his temples. The pain of guilt became a tangible pressure. He felt it build up, demanding release. A sharp metallic taste slivered along his tongue.

The shelving that hung above the fire suddenly rattled and then gave way, sending all the pots and pans that were hanging from it plunging into the flames. Jack stepped back in horror. He heard a door open behind him and Tarissa walked in.

"What in Borc's name have you done?" she cried, dashing forward to salvage what was probably a week's worth of food from the fire. "Don't just stand there, help me!" She grabbed hold of the metal poker and speared the haunch of mutton with its tip. "It's badly charred, but the meat will be all right," she said. "Wrap a rag around your hand and save what pots you can."

Jack obeyed her orders and pulled several pots from the fire. Most were empty, their contents spilt and then lost to the flames.

"The stew and porridge!" cried Tarissa, but it was too late. Those two most staple of foods sizzled on the embers. Jack pulled the last of the pans from the fire. He managed to salvage a pot full of beets, two roasting turnips, and a string of sausages.

"What happened?" demanded Tarissa. She was obviously upset. Angry tears gleamed in her eyes. A family's wealth was judged by its supply of food.

"I don't know," Jack said. "The shelf just collapsed." He wasn't being honest, he knew what had happened: as his anger and frustration flared, the shelf had given way. The two were related, there was no doubt in his mind, and it was sorcery that provided the connection. He supposed he should be thankful that no one was hurt. Only he didn't feel very thankful at the moment, just tired and confused.

"Here, let me look at your hand. The rag is badly scorched." Tarissa sat beside him on the bench and unwrapped the rag. The flesh beneath was livid red. Tarissa's face softened into remorse. "I'm sorry, Jack," she said. "I shouldn't have asked you to put your hand in the fire. Please forgive me." Her fingers hovered above the burn and then lightly touched his wrist.

Jack could not meet her eyes. Blistering pain swelled in his hand. He almost welcomed the sensation. It diverted his thoughts from the truth. Sorcery accompanied him, and like a shadow it would follow him to the grave.

Tarissa began searching in cabinets for ointments to put on his skin. He was deeply moved by her sudden change in demeanor. Her kindness was an unexpected gift. Jack sat and let her rub salve onto his wounds. Her touch was gentle, as if she were afraid to hurt him further. He looked at her face. Her lashes.were long and fair, her nose short with a tiny bump, her lips pink and full. She was beautiful, not perfect, just beautiful. She looked up and their eyes met. For a brief second Jack was puzzled by what he saw. There was something about her that was known to him. Delicate hazel eyes, an intricate mingling of brown and green, met his.

Her lips moved the barest instance: an invitation as bold as open arms. He leaned forward and kissed her, a chaste kiss made less so by the plumpness of both sets of lips. Jack felt her tender flesh give way and then envelop him. He reached out with his arm to draw her near, but she backed away. She stood up awkwardly and would not look at him.

"It was you that made the shelf give way." A statement. Jack looked to the floor. "I never laid a hand upon it."

"I know." Tarissa smiled with tantalizing assurance. Jack could think of no reply. There was little point in lying; she had guessed the truth. Instead he asked, "Is Tarissa your full name?"

She laughed outright at this blatant attempt to change the subject, yet seemed happy to go along with it.

"My full name is Tarissyna," she said.

Jack felt his spirits lighten. She knew the truth but didn't condemn him: her second gift to him. "Tarissyna is a noblewoman's name in the kingdoms."

She shrugged. "Perhaps, but I've lived in Halcus most of my life, and my name counts for little here."

"When did you leave the kingdoms?"

"I was a babe in arms when my mother brought me here." There was an edge to her voice. It took Jack a moment to realize it was bitterness.

"Why did Magra leave?"

"She was not wanted. She was an inconvenience to people in high places. By staying she risked death."

"And you?"

Tarissa laughed coldly. "They wanted me dead more than my mother,"

"But you were just a baby."

"Wars have been waged over babies." Tarissa turned away and began to brush the remains of the food from the hearth.

Jack could tell she wanted to say no more. She had told him just enough to pique his interest, and he found himself more puzzled than ever. He could still feel the press of her lips against his. It acted like a reprimand, reminding him not to question too deeply, after all she had done no less for him. By dropping the subject of the shelf falling into the fire, she had saved him from awkward questions. He would do no less for her.

Jack knelt beside her, helping to scrape the burnt stew from the grate. He looked at Tarissa, and she looked at him. Their mutual secrets, only hinted at, never told, acted as a bond between them. And when their arms brushed together as they cleaned up the fireplace, neither was inclined to be the first to pull away.

A short time later, when the grate shone like a newly minted coin, the door burst open and in came Rovas and Magra. The older woman sniffed the room like a bloodhound and then made straight for the fire. "What has happened here?" she cried. Even in anger, her voice carried the elegant modulated tones of a noblewoman. Her eyes darted to Jack.

Tarissa spoke before Jack could stop her. "There was a little accident, Mother. I was stirring the stew when the whole shelf came down."

"How can that be?" asked Rovas. "I nailed that up good and strong before winter set in."

"Hmm, I think we have our answer, then," said Magra.

"If ever a man lacked practical skills, it is you, Rovas Widegirth."

"Less of the wide girth, woman. You know as well as I do that to be a successful merchant you need to appear prosperous. There's nothing like a big belly for showing a man's got money to spend."

Jack wondered what a woman like Magra was doing with a man like Rovas. They were total opposites.

Magra was refined; her speech, her appearance, even the words she chose, spoke of nobility, yet Rovas was a self-confessed rogue. It didn't make any sense.

"No need to worry," Rovas was saying. "There's plenty more where that came from. How can I call myself a smuggler and not have some hidden stashes?" He turned to Jack.

"Come with me, boy. You can help me dig up the vegetable garden. I buried a chest of salted beef there.

The only problem is, I can't remember exactly where."

As Jack left the cottage, he caught Tarissa's eye. He sent her a look of thanks. She had saved him from some difficult questions.

Rovas spotted the bum mark on his hand. "How'd you do that, boy?"

"I was helping Tarissa save the pots from the flame."

"Right hand, eh? Never mind, that won't stop me teaching you the blade. A true fighter knows how to wield a knife with both .hands. This way your left can have a head start."

Nabber made his way along Bren's busy streets. Traders and beggars called to him. He bought a stuffed pork pie from a street merchant and tossed a handful of coppers toward a cripple and his blind mother.

The speed with which the mother found the coins was nothing short of miraculous for a blind woman.

Nabber smiled brightly her way. He knew she could see, but he admired her skill anyway. The way her eyes rolled wildly in her sockets was truly the work of a dedicated artiste.

He bit into his pie. It was delicious, hot and juicy, with at least a passing resemblance to pork.

It was a beautiful day, that is, for a place as cold as Bren. The sky was light blue and clear, the air crisp and fresh. Something was going on in the city, he was sure of it. To the north of the city, where all the fancy buildings and the duke's palace were situated, the streets were being cleaned and banners were being hung. Probably expecting important visitors, Nabber concluded. Affairs of state didn't concern him, however. He had one mission on his mind today: he was going to help Tawl.

He passed a market stall where hand mirrors were being sold. He picked one up and had a quick look at himself. "S'truth!" he muttered to his reflection. He hastily smoothed back his hair with a handful of spit.

To think he'd gone following Tawl last night with the hair of a wild man. His collar was none too clean, either. Swift would be disappointed. "Always wear a clean camlet, " he would say. "You'll look less like a scoundrel that way. " Nabber could see the wisdom of Swift's words. Though he still wasn't sure what a camlet was.

He was tempted to pocket the mirror-it would make a fine addition to his personal grooming accoutrements but the stall-holder had a mean eye, and Nabber prided himself on knowing when not to take chances.

The sun followed him to the west of the city. It was late afternoon and Nabber wondered if he should have made an effort to find Tawl earlier. The problem was that the best pickings were to be found before noon, and he'd been reluctant to give up a day's earnings. Swift would have thought him foolish. So here he was, best part of the day over, bag full of coinage in his tunic, on his way to find the knight.

He took a turn onto Brotheling Street and made his way toward the place where he'd last seen Tawl.

The smell was more accurate a guide than any map. Each building had its own characteristic odor, and Nabber honed in on the one he remembered from last night. The place looked rather dismal in the daylight; the timbers were rotting and the paint was peeling. It just went to show how generous the night was with its favors. The building had looked like a palace under its patronage.

Nabber knocked boldly on the door.

"Go away, you're too early," came the reply.

"I'm looking for a man, name of Tawl. He's a fighter."

Nabber was forced to shout at the wood, for the door had not been opened.

"No one here named Tawl. Now get lost!"

"He was here last night. Big fellow, golden hair, bandage on his arm."

"What's in it for me?"

Nabber began to feel more comfortable talking to the faceless voice; information for coinage was a concept he was more than familiar with. "Two silvers if you know where he is."

"Ain't worth my breath."

"Five silvers then." This was turning out to be more expensive than he hoped. Still, it all helped the cash circulate. Swift had given him long lectures on the importance of circulation.

"Done." The door was opened and a small-eyed woman emerged. Nabber recognized her at once as being the woman who had stolen Tawl's gold. "Let's see the spark of your silver."

Nabber brought out the promised coinage. "May I be so bold as to ask the name of such a fine-looking woman as yourself?"

The woman looked taken aback by this request. She patted her elaborately coifed hair, and said, "I'm Madame Thornypurse to you, young man."

Powder from her head swirled into the air, and Nabber had to fight the urge to sneeze. "So, Madame Thornypurse, which way was the gentleman headed?"

"Not a friend of yours, is he?" The woman's voice was as shrill as a mating goose.

"No, madame," said Nabber. "Never met him before in my life. I'm merely a messenger."

Madame Thornypurse sniffed in approval. "The man you're looking for has gone drinking in the Duke's Fancy. It's a tavern on Skinners Lane. Now hand over the cash."

"It was a pleasure doing business with you, madame," said Nabber with a little bow as he passed her the coinage. Swift himself would have been impressed at the speed with which the money disappeared into her bodice. Nearly as quickly, the door was shut in his face.

Nabber sneezed heavily; the hair powder finally proved too irritating to ignore. He then made his way along Bren's busy streets. He soon found the Duke's Fancy. It was a tall and brightly colored building. A group of men were dicing in the doorway. Nabber was tempted to join them, for he loved to dice more than he liked to eat, but he passed them by, pausing only once or twice to see how the dice were landing.

It was really quite a pity he was on a mission, as the dice were landing with the grace of a goddess. A man could circulate a lot of coinage with dice as sweet as those.

He entered the tavern and pushed his way through the throngs of revelers. The air was thick with the smells of hops, yeast, and sweat: a fine drinking man's odor.

Nabber caught the flash of straw yellow hair: it was the woman who'd collected Tawl's money for him the night before, and then passed it on to old Thornypurse. Indignation swelled in his breast and he stepped toward her. She was calling loudly for more ale and was being enthusiastically cheered on by a group of men and women. The ale came-a whole barrel of it-and she reached into a sack to pay the innkeeper. It was Tawl's sack. The woman was buying drinks for Borc knows how many people, and paying for them with Tawl's money!

The knight was still nowhere in sight. Nabber's eyes followed the sack. As always, his hands were ahead of his brain. The straw-haired woman was distracted for only an instant as she raised her cup in toast, but it was enough. Nabber slid the sack from the table. With fingers that never faltered for an instant, he bundled it into his cloak. Now was not the time to revel in the thrill of the snatch, so he bowed his head low and made for the door.

A second later the cry went up: "My gold! Someone's stole my gold!"

Nabber had to stop himself from shouting ogut that it wasn't her gold at all. He kept calm. He could see the door. Only a few steps and he'd be gone. There was some disturbance in the crowd behind him. He couldn't afford to look back. He pushed the last of the people out of the way and made it to the doorway. Still not sure if he'd been fingered, he began to saunter slowly down the street. He was just about to break out into a nonchalant whistle when he heard the telltale sign of footsteps behind him.

Nabber quickly abandoned all attempts to appear blameless and started to run as fast as his legs could carry him.

Swift, while being a thief of great sophistication, had known of the occasional need for a quick escape.

Nabber followed his instructions: "Never run in a straight line. Take every turn that crosses your path, always head to where the crowd is at its thickest ... and move like the wind. " Down streets and alleys he fled, through markets and gatherings he charged. The footsteps still followed. He dived into an alleyway, good and dark, and ran up its length. It ended in a stone wall. Nabber drew a deep breath.

It was too tall to scale; he'd just have to blaze a path backward. Quickly he scanned his brain for any words of wisdom that Swift might have imparted on this particular predicament. He came up blank.

Nabber was forced to conclude that Swift would never have been stupid enough to run up a blind alleyway.

Knees trembling from fatigue more than fright, Nabber turned to face his pursuer. The man was silhouetted against the light. He moved forward and the sunlight shone on his hair. Golden hair. It was Tawl,

A long moment passed. The sun retreated with the tact of a diplomat, leaving man and boy alone. A low wind gusted down the alleyway. It toyed with the filth, picking up more smell than substance.

Tawl stood and looked at Nabber, his great chest heaving, his hair the color of dark gold. There was no expression to be read on his face. Without a word he began to move away.

To Nabber's amazement the knight turned and started to retrace his steps down the alleyway. Tawl's pace was slow and his head was bowed. Nabber couldn't bear it an instant longer. "Tawl!" he cried.

"Wait." He saw the knight hesitate for the briefest instant, and then, without turning round, he shook his head. At the sight of this small, almost negligent gesture, Nabber felt his throat grow tight. Tawl was walking away from him.

Swift had warned him many times about the dangers of friendship: "Never let a man get close enough to rob your purse, " he would say. Having no friends himself, merely accomplices, Swift was a person who put little value on friendship. Up until the time he'd met Tawl, Nabber had been inclined to agree with him. But Swift wasn't always right. Yes, he could turn a phrase more smoothly than a milkmaid churning butter, yet for all his cleverness he could trust no one. And no one trusted him. Suddenly the idea of ending up like Swift-a man who asked you what you wanted before asking your name-didn't seem as enticing to Nabber as it had in the past.

He ran after Tawl and put a hand on his arm. "Tawl, it's me! Nabber."

"Get away from me, boy." Tawl's words were as sharp as blades. He pulled his arm free and continued walking. "Here," said Nabber, handing him the sack. "Take your loot back. I only robbed it to stop your ladyfriend from spending it all."

The knight pushed the sack away. "I don't need you as my keeper. Have it yourself. There's plenty more where that came from."

"You mean you plan on staying in Bren?"

"My plans are not your concern, boy." Tawl quickened his pace, but Nabber kept to his side.

"What about your quest? The boy . . ." Nabber was about to say, "the boy who Bevlin sent you to look for," but stopped himself. Now wasn't a good time to mention the dead wiseman.

Tawl swung around. "Leave me be!"

There was such venom in the knight's words that Nabber actually took a step back. He got his first close look at his friend's face. Tawl had aged. Lines that had been mere suggestions a month earlier had deepened and set. Anger blazed across his features, but there was something more in his eyes. It was shame. As if realizing he'd been found out, Tawl lowered his eyes and turned back to his path. His footsteps echoed softly as he walked away.

Nabber was tempted to give him up; the man wanted no one's help. It was getting late and the idea of a hot supper at a fine tavern was most appealing. He watched Tawl reach the end of the passageway and turn onto the street. Just before he passed out of sight, Tawl ran his fingers through his hair. It was a simple movement, one Nabber had seen him do a hundred times before. The familiarity of the action made Nabber realize how well he'd come to know Tawl. The knight was his only friend, and they were both a long way from home. Supper began to seem less important.

He hurried after Tawl. It had been a mistake to approach him in such a forthright manner, asking about the quest, telling him he was being cheated of his money. If he was ever to get the knight back to his old self, he'd have to try a more subtle technique. Tawl obviously wanted to forget the past, forget the wiseman, forget the search for the boy, forget even himself. Well, he'd make sure that Tawl wasn't allowed to forget. The one thing that he was sure of was the fact that the knight had lived to find the boy.

It had been his sole purpose, and for him to give up on it so completely struck Nabber as being unspeakably tragic.

For tonight, though, it would be best if he just kept watch on him. He'd bide his time and wait for a suitable opportunity to get back in the knight's good graces.

Nabber stepped onto the street. He paused a minute to buy a pastry from a street trader-missing out on a hot supper was one thing, but going without anything to eat at all was quite another-and then struck a path back toward the Duke's Fancy.

Seven

"Of course, Bodger, there's really only one way to tell if a woman's a virgin."

"You mean apart from them having straight hair, Grift?"

"That one's an old wives' tale, Bodger."

"I've got to agree with you there, Grift. Ever since you've been wearing those extra-tight hose, you could easily be mistaken for an old wife."

"Hmm, I wear them strictly for therapeutical reasons, Bodger. With vitals as delicate as mine, the first gust of wind sends them north, and once they're there, it's murder to get them back."

"Aye, Grift, you're famous for your temperamental vitals."

"Do you want me to impart my worldly wisdom or not, Bodger? Other men would pay good money to be taught by a master such as myself."

"Go on, then. What's the real way to tell if a woman's a virgin?"

"You have to put her in a room with a badger, Bodger."

"A badger?"

"Aye, Bodger, a badger." Grift sat back on his mule and made himself as comfortable as a man on a mule can be. "You take the badger, Bodger, lock it in a room with the girl you're testing. You leave them alone for a couple of hours, and then go and see what's happened."

"What's supposed to happen, Grift?"

"Well, Bodger, if the badger falls asleep in the corner, then the girl's been around the haystack, if you know what I mean. But if the badger comes and curls up on her lap, then she's a virgin good and true."

"What if the badger bites the girl, Grift?"

"Then the girl will catch the ground pox, and no one will care either way, Bodger."

Bodger nodded judiciously; Grift had a point there. The two men were at the back of the column, making their way down a wide but steep mountain path. The air was silent and brittle. No birds called, no winds blew.

"You had a close call yesterday, Bodger."

"I was lucky to be brought out from under the avalanche, Grift."

"I don't think luck had much to do with it, Bodger. Lord Baralis makes his own luck." Although Grift was sorely tempted to ask Bodger exactly what had happened at the avalanche site the day before, he knew it was wise not to do so. No one who'd been pulled out from under the snow had talked about it.

In fact, no one in the entire party had mentioned the incident. People were pretending it never happened.

By the time they reached Bren, it would be gone from everyone's memory. Six men had died.

Hearing a noise behind him, Grift looked around. "Here, Bodger, Crope's finally caught up with us.

That's him joining the rear now."

"Aye, Grift. He'd be hard to mistake down a deep tunnel. I wonder why he insisted on hanging back at the avalanche site this morning."

"Let's find out why, Bodger." The two men pulled aside from the column and waited until Baralis' servant was abreast of them.

"Nasty bruise that, Crope," said Bodger, motioning toward Crope's forehead.

"Hurts real bad," replied Crope in his low and gentle voice.

"Is that why you didn't ride with us first thing, then? Because you weren't up to it?"

Crope shook his head at Grift. "No, I had to go digging."

"Burying treasure, Crope?" Grift winked at Bodger.

"No, Grift," Crope said, oblivious to Grift's sarcasm. "I lost my box in the 'lanche. Slipped right out of my pocket, it did. Took me a long time to find it." Crope smiled and patted the square-shaped bulge in his tunic. "It's back where it belongs now."

"Why, Crope, you amaze me," said Grift. "I don't believe I've ever heard you say so many words in one go. That box must be pretty important to spark such an outpouring of verbal eloquence."

Crope's face lost its smile. "None of your business, Grift. I wants to be on my own now." With that Crope pulled on his reins to slow his mount, and Bodger and Grift rode ahead.

"Well, Bodger," said Grift, "if I know Crope, he's probably keeping his old toenail clippings in that mysterious box of his."

"Aye, Grift. Either that or his nasal hair."

"He'd need a bigger box for that, Bodger!"

Bodger nodded his head judiciously. "Still, Crope risked riding through the pass on his own just to save that box."

"The pass wasn't as bad as I thought it would be, Bodger. We were over it in no time."

"Aye, Grift. If the weather holds, we'll be in Bren in two days time."

"It's when we reach Bren that the real drama will begin, Bodger."

"How so, Grift?"

"Well, no one in Bren knows yet that Kylock is now king. If you ask me, Bodger, the people there will get mighty jittery when they find that out. Betrothing a girl to a prince is an entirely different matter than betrothing her to a king."

"I thought it would be more of an honor, Grift."

"Bren's not a city that likes to be upstaged; it needs to be the dominant force in any alliance. Mark my words, Bodger, there'll be trouble when we reach our destination."

The sun disappeared behind a bank of clouds. Night was pushing its suit and the day would soon succumb.

It was cold in the garden and the snow crackled underfoot like long-dead leaves. The breath of the two men could be seen whitening, crystallizing. When they drew close, which they did from time to time, there was a certain intimacy in the crossing of their breaths.

Jack was amazed by Rovas' stamina. Although the man was possibly twenty years older than himself, he moved with the speed of a stag and fought with the endurance of an ox.

Jack was feeling at a distinct disadvantage. They were fighting with long staffs-a weapon that tested a man's strength more than his reflexes. Jack was beginning to realize how very little he knew about combat. Up until this point his only weapon had been a pig-gutting knife, and although it had helped him kill a man, it had been frenzy not skill that had placed the blade.

The wood came together with a blunt cracking sound. Once again Rovas pushed him back. Jack turned his staff. His opponent was faster and the wood met again. Rovas chuckled. "Waste of a blow, boy.

Shouldn't have bothered." With a lightning quick movement he disengaged his staff, took a step back, released his fore-grip, and used the staff as a spear. He slashed at Jack's shoulder. Jack was totally unprepared and went down, his head meeting rocks beneath the snow.

"You said I had to hold the staff with both hands." Jack got to his feet, brushing the snow from his tunic.

"Did I?" Rovas was nonchalant. "Well, that just goes to show that you should play by no man's rules except your own." The huge man looked quite alarming; his face was bright red and he was sweating with gusto.

"So I should trust no one."

"Just one person: yourself."

Jack handed Rovas his staff and the two made their way back toward the cottage. It had been an exhausting day. Rovas had woken him at dawn and they'd spent most of the light hours in the garden fighting. The bearded smuggler was a good teacher. He had a vast stock of weapons ranging from the leather-bound clubs favored by the Halcus, to the seemingly dainty-but Jack had learned deadly-thin-bladed swords of Isro. There was not one weapon in his collection that Rovas couldn't use or offer some useful advice on.

Rovas stopped by the small outbuilding that was attached to the cottage. "Fancy helping me stuff the kidneys?" be asked. "The women can't abide messing around with the intemals."

Jack tried hard not to look bewildered.

Rovas laughed heartily and opened the door, pausing to strike up a lantern. The smell of newly butchered meat filled Jack's nostrils. The light gleamed upon the offal. Liver rested in platters pooled with blood. Kidneys waited coyly in baskets, scenting the air with their distinct perfume. "Beautiful, eh?"

prompted Rovas.

Jack was beginning to think that Rovas was slightly mad. How could a marl possibly find such a sight appealing? He nodded his head slightly, in what he hoped was a noncommittal manner.

Rovas smiled brightly, showing teeth as large as pebbles. "There's loot in this room, boy. There's people around Helch who haven't seen as much as a single sausage all winter. They'll pay good money for a pound or two of prime offal."

So that was it. Rovas wasn't mad after all, merely greedy. "Where did all this meat come from?" asked Jack. Rovas beckoned him closer, and when he spoke his voice was a theatrical whisper. "From a good friend of mine, name of Lucy."

Lucy. Jack reeled at the sound of it. His mother's name. Such a common calling. Hundreds of girls in every city in the Known Lands answered to its light, musical sound.

Strange how he'd gone so long without hearing it spoken. It brought back a yearning for the past, for a time when he'd rest his head against his mother's chest and the world held no secrets, just promises.

She had worked so hard. Even now he could smell the ash, see its grayish bloom upon her face and touch the bums upon her fingers. She had been an ash maid in the kitchens; raking through the cinders in the morning, banking down the embers at night. The staff was merciless, it was always: "More wind in the bellows, Lucy."

"Lucy, bring more logs from the pile."

"Clean the ash from the grate, Lucy, and while you're about it, make it shine."

Only Lucy wasn't her real name. Jack could never pinpoint the exact moment when he discovered this; it was more a gradual realization.

From as early as he could remember he spent his days in the kitchen. He tried to be as "quiet as a mouse and as little trouble as a laying hen," for when he got into trouble his mother was punished for him. He'd totter under one of the huge trestle tables, find the rind of an apple, or the scrape from a carrot to chew upon, and settle down to view the goings-on. The kitchen was a place of wonders; cooking smells filled his nostrils, the clang of copper pots and complaints filled his ears, and the sight of food tempted his young eyes.

He'd spend hours lost in daydreams. The butcher's cleaving knife became Borc's ax, Master Frallit's apron would become the Knights of Valdis' banner, and the stool by the fire where his mother sat became a throne.

When his mother grew tired, as she did more and more the year before she took to her bed, Jack would help her with the fires. One time when they both had their backs to the kitchen, scrubbing the burn from the grate, the head cook called out: "Lucy, clean the stove when you've finished there." His mother never looked round. The cook called again, louder. "Lucy! The stove needs a cleaning." Jack had to shake his mother's arm to get her attention.

From that day on he watched her more closely. There were many times when she failed to respond to her name. Later, before the end, when he was older and she was weaker, Jack challenged her about it.

"What are you really called, Mother?" he asked. He'd chosen his time with cruel precision. She was too ill to feign surprise-he felt ashamed of that now.

She sighed and said, "I will not lie to you, Jack. Lucy is not my given name, it was chosen for me by another later." He tried to get her to say more, pleading at first, and when that failed, shouting. Sick as she was, her strength of will remained firm and her lips remained closed. Rather than lie to him, she had told him nothing instead.

Rovas, bearing offal, brought Jack back to the present. He was glad of it, there were too many questions in the past. "The trouble with the kidneys, Jack," he said, "is that they're a little ... how should I put it? ... a little light."

"Light?"

"Too many to a pound, if you know what I mean." Rovas smiled like a guileful child.

"So you intend on making them heavier." Jack was beginning to catch the man's meaning.

Rovas nodded enthusiastically. "You're a bright boy," he said. "Now this is what we do." The smuggler placed a kidney upon an empty platter and then whipped out his knife.

"One tiny cut, here, just above the tendon." He opened the kidney like a surgeon, and then held the incision open with the knife-point. "Just pass me that jar over there, boy." Rovas indicated a large container on a shelf. "Careful, it's quite a weight."

Jack swung the jar from the shelf and nearly dropped it. Master Frallit's baking stones were heavy, but at least they were large. "What's in this?" he asked.

"Lead, of course. Heavy as a mountain, soft as a good cheese. Reach in and grab me a chunk. A fair-sized one, mind. We don't want it getting stuck in anybody's throat."

Jack handed Rovas a piece of the gray metal, and the man wasted no time inserting it into the middle of the kidney. He carefully closed the cut, molding it back to its original appearance, and then gave it to Jack to feel. "Not a bad job, if I do say so myself."

"This could kill a man," said Jack, testing its weight in the palm of his hand.

"So could going without meat all winter." Rovas shrugged. "A man's got to make a living, and the chances are the metal will be found before the kidney reaches the pot." He caught Jack's disapproving look. "It's the way of the world, boy. If I didn't do it, someone else would. Halcus has been through some hard times since the war with the kingdoms started, and things look set to get worse. It won't be long before Bren is pushing us from the other side. If someone like me comes along and brings supplies to people who wouldn't normally get them, then it's only fair I take a decent profit for my troubles."

"What do you mean about Bren pushing from the other side?" Jack wasn't about to challenge Rovas on his way of doing business. The man would never admit he was doing anything wrong.

"Haven't you heard? Your country is joining with Bren, and if you ask me, it means trouble for more than just us here in Halcus. Annis, Highwall, even Ness-everyone's nervous. People are afraid that Bren is using the Four Kingdoms to help them dominate the north." Rovas spat reflectively. "Just this morning I heard news that Highwall is busy training an army in readiness. That's one city that won't wait for an attack like a rabbit down a hole."

This was the first Jack had heard about a war. The kingdoms joining with Bren? Events had moved swiftly since he left the castle. "Kylock is going to marry . . ." Jack struggled to remember the name of the duke's daughter, "Catherine of Bren?"

Rovas nodded. "War's acoming."

War. It might never have happened if Melli had married Kylock as she had been supposed to. She would never have been killed, either. Jack put the kidney on the platter and tried to wipe his hands free of the blood. The stain smeared and thinned, but would not come off. Looking down at his bloodied hands, Jack couldn't help feeling that he was somehow responsible for what was to come. It was foolishness, he told himself. He'd never influenced Melli in any way; she had already decided not to marry Kylock before they met.

Feeling guilty, yet not understanding why, prompted Jack to attack Rovas. He wanted to share the blame. "You should be pleased if war breaks out," he said, his voice rising in anger. "More fighting will mean more profit."

For one brief instant Jack thought Rovas would hit him. The man's body became tense, his hand moved abruptly from his side. He controlled himself, though. Jack could clearly see him working to regain his good humor. With an effort Rovas shrugged and said, "Skirmishes along the border are one thing, boy, a full-blown war is quite another. Yes, there's more money to be made, but there's more chance of being killed before you spend it!" By the time he'd finished the last sentence, Rovas was back to his old self.

Jack was almost sorry; he wanted a fight.

"Here," said Rovas, distracting Jack's thoughts by handing him the platter of kidneys. "Stuff these for me.

I've had enough of war for one day. I'm off to get my supper." With that he left the hut, shutting the door behind him.

The thought of war had stirred something within Jack. The kingdoms joining with Bren? Why did the news matter so much? And why did it make him want to pick a fight with a man who would surely have beaten him? For the first time since leaving the castle, Jack felt restless. The familiar yearning to take off and leave everything behind was upon him. The platter felt like a dead weight in his hands. The smell of the kidneys was unbearable. He shoved the platter away and opened the door.

The chill night air cooled Jack's face. The familiar yearning, but also the familiar frustration. He had nowhere to go.

Rovas' footsteps formed an arc in the snow. Jack's eye followed the curve to where it ended: the entrance to the cottage. The people inside were his only connection to the world: Rovas, Magra, Tarissa.

They were not what they seemed. Magra and Tarissa had secrets to keep. The same thing that made the mother bitter had made the daughter strong. Then there was Rovas, who only minutes earlier had nearly slipped and shown the edge beneath the padding. They had the look of a family, but not the feel of one.

Even the cottage had the look of home about it: candlelight slipping out from the shutters, smoke spiraling up from the roof, the polished door offering a welcome. It was no place for him to stay. Jack suddenly felt tired. He couldn't foresee a time when he'd ever have a proper home again.

Traveling with Melli had made him forget how alone he was. As long as she was with him all his worries had been for her. Keeping Melli safe and warm and well fed was all that mattered. Now that she was gone, his thoughts turned inward once more.

For many months now his destination had been Bren. There was no reason behind it other than it felt right to head east. Now more than ever, with the news of war still ringing in his ears, he felt the need to be there. But he wouldn't go. Not yet, anyway. He wasn't ready. He had no skills at fighting, and if he were going to a place of war, it would be better to be prepared. And then there was Melli. Jack couldn't bear the thought of going without trying to make amends; her death was too important to be casually forgotten. Leaving now would diminish her. Nearly ten years ago, when his mother died, he'd carried on as if nothing had happened, barely sparing a breath to moum her. He wouldn't make the same mistake again.

Jack closed the door and the expanse of the night retreated. He would stay and learn. Rovas was using him-the man obviously had his own reason to want the Halcus captain dead-so he would use Rovas. He would learn all the smuggler could teach.

Reaching for his knife, Jack turned back to the kidneys. He suddenly felt sorry for the Halcus; leaded meat was the least of their problems.

The stars were out in Bren. Bells, muffled by damp and darkness, tolled the hour of midnight. Oil lamps cast their light into the fray, gaining an ally in the snow, which reflected their magnified meager assault.

The crowd was restless. They had been kept waiting too long. Blood was what they craved. They had come to see the golden-haired stranger fight. A man who looked like an angel yet fought like a devil.

Rumors abounded: he was a nobleman who'd fallen from grace; he was a warrior from beyond the northern ranges; he was a knight on a quest. The blend of mystery, romance, and danger was a heady mix to the people of Bren. They turned out in unheard-of numbers to see the object of so much speculation.

Nobles, taking tipples from silver flasks, rubbed shoulders with tradesmen swigging from tankards and peasants slurping from skins. There were even some women present, hoods pulled over their heads to hide their identities and thick cloaks pulled close to conceal their femininity.

Nabber surveyed the crowd. Pickings were rich tonight. He was astute enough to know that the real cash lay not in the hands and pockets of the nobility, but in the pouches of the tradesmen. The nobles were notoriously tight of fist, whereas the merchants were eager to spend and came prepared. Although he'd made a promise to himself that he wouldn't do any prospecting, Nabber found the pull of easy cash hard to ignore. He pocketed almost without conscious thought, as a man might scratch an itch. A few silver coins here, a jeweled dagger there. The peasants he left alone, never forgetting Swift's words:

"Only the lowest kind of scoundrel steals from the poor. "

Still, he hadn't come here tonight for financial gain. He'd come to keep an eye on Tawl. The knight was keeping the people waiting. His opponent, a man as broad as he was tall, was making his impatience known. He was already greased and in the pit, and Tawl hadn't even shown up yet. At last there was a hush. The crowd parted and from their midst emerged Tawl. He made his way to the foot of the pit and ripped off his tunic. Gasps of awe escaped from those nearby as his muscled but scarred torso was revealed. Nabber felt such pain at seeing his friend revealed in all his fallen magnificence before the crowd that he could hardly bear to look.

"I've killed men before now for keeping me waiting." It was Tawl's opponent, shouting up from the pit in an attempt to bring the crowd's attention back to himself.

The crowd was pleased by this warning and looked to Tawl for a suitably menacing reply. When it came, they had to strain to hear the words:

"Then you kill too lightly, my friend."

The crowd was silent. Tears came to Nabber's eyes. He alone knew the anguish behind Tawl's words-words that were more a reproach to himself than his opponent. Nabber, who had never aspired to anything more than a comfortable life, began to comprehend the tragedy of a man who had failed to live up to his own ideals.

A cry went up, "Let the fight begin!" and Tawl jumped into the pit.

The betting, which had been a lackluster affair before the knight's appearance, began to take on the look of a feeding frenzy. As the two fighters circled each other, odds were shouted and bets were laid.

Nabber took a moment to size up Tawl's opponent. He was a large man, wide and well muscled, with no lard to slow him down. Someone nearby offered five golds on him to win. Nabber could not resist; in his eyes the fight had only one outcome. Tawl would prevail.

"I'll take you up on that, kind sir," he said, feeling a twinge of guilt.

"Done!" replied the man. They exchanged markersnotched sticks-and Nabber moved away.

In the pit, the fighters were locked together. Taut muscles, perfectly balanced, strained for supremacy.

Tawl's knife was close to his foe's belly. Nabber felt a ripple of indignation on spotting the knife of his opponent. It was longer than a hand knife, a fist longer. The man was not playing fair.

"Ten golds on the scarred stranger," he cried to no one in particular. It was his way of backing up Tawl.

"Make it twenty and you're on." The voice of a noble man.

"We have a deal." Another exchange of markers, this time with a polite bow, and then Nabber stepped back into the crowd.

The fighters were well matched at first. Each man executing a seemingly effortless array of feints and thrusts. The fight gained momentum and an edge of anger honed the skills of both men. Tawl was forced to parry a blow with his forearm, and his opponent's blade cut through to bone. Blood welled slick and dark in the lamplight. The crowd cheered. Nabber, always the businessman, knew a good opportunity when he saw one: everyone thought that Tawl had lost his advantage.

"Who'll give me two to one on the stranger?"

Nabber was inundated with takers and collected markers like fallen leaves. The problem was that by the time he'd finished his dealings, the fight had taken a turn from bad to worse. Tawl's arm was drenched in blood and lay limp at his side. He was backed up against the wall of the pit, his opponent's knife at his throat. Tension was so high that most of the crowd had actually stopped betting. Nabber willed his knees not to give way under him.

"I'll give you five to one on the stranger," hissed someone in his ear. To Nabber, the idea of betting at such a time seemed appalling. He turned around and kicked the man hard in the shins.

The subsequent need for a quick escape prevented Nabber from seeing what happened next. Suddenly the crowd went wild, stamping their feet and calling at the top of their voices. When Nabber managed to get close to the pit once more, he found the balance of power changed. Tawl had his opponent up against the wall of the pit. The man's knife lay on the ground. Tawl's knife was at his throat. The eyes of the knight were dangerously blank. The knife blade shook with tension as both men fought over its course. It hovered and wavered, close enough to flesh to draw blood, yet not near enough to slice muscle and tendon.

Tawl's opponent gathered his strength and in one brilliant move pushed the knife away from his throat.

The knight was forced to step back. The last thing the dark-haired man saw was Tawl stepping forward.

Freed from the stalemate, Tawl pivoted to the side and fell upon his opponent's flank. He sliced the man open from belly to groin.

The crowd was shocked. It had happened too fast. Where was the skill? The finesse? A moment passed while they decided how to respond. Nabber was disturbed at the sheer violence of Tawl's attack.

His opponent was lying in his own blood, his entrails seeping from the wound. Even now, Nabber knew with all his heart that he couldn't abandon his friend. It wasn't Tawl who he'd just watched fight: it was someone else. He gathered his breath deep within his lungs and let out a cry:

"To the victor!"

The crowd followed his lead. The stalemate had been broken and Bren was happy once again to cheer the winning side. The noise was dizzying and the sparkle of coinage was dazzling. The dead man was soon covered with silver. Nabber took his markers from his tunic and began to look around for his debtors. He spotted the nobleman in the distance, trying to slink away unnoticed. Nabber spat with disgust. He should have known better than to bet with anyone of the blood. They were notoriously absent losers.

He had just decided to cut his losses when someone tapped him on the shoulder. Nabber didn't look round at first; it certainly wouldn't be anyone eager to pay their bets.

For a brief second his heart thrilled, perhaps it was Tawl. He spun around. The man wasn't Tawl, but he was familiar all the same,

"Well met, my friend," said the stranger. "'Twas a good fight, eh?" It was the man he'd pocketed his first day in Bren: the huge chest, the wide arms, the shiny black hair.

Nabber suppressed his natural desire to run. There was no way the man could prove it was him. Then he remembered the portrait. It was tucked under his belt and would give him away as surely as falling leaves gave away autumn. He remained outwardly calm despite the turmoil within. "Not a bad fight.

Though I've seen better in Rorn."

"Is that where your friend is from?" The stranger's eyes glanced toward the pit. "Rom?"

Nabber was immediately on the defensive. "What makes you think he's a friend of mine?"

"I watched you working the crowd for him. Quite a job-reviving betting and then saving his skin at the end." The stranger smiled, showing white teeth. "Nice trick thathaving a boy in the crowd."

"I ain't nobody's boy," said Nabber.

"I saw you follow him the other night," said the man. "After he beat that young lance from out of town,"

Nabber decided to change tactics. "What's it to you?" The man shrugged, his whole body becoming taut for the barest instant. Nabber suddenly realized what he was dealing with: a contender.

"Perhaps I should introduce myself," he said. "I'm Blayze, the duke's champion."

Impressed, but determined not to show it, Nabber said,

"My, my, shouldn't you be busy defending the duke, then, rather than hanging around on street corners?"

The man ignored the jibe-Nabber had to give him credit for that. "I like to keep an eye on the competition, and your golden-haired friend is the only decent fighter I've seen in a long while."

"Just as well for you, really."

Another shrug. "Makes no difference to me, boy, I beat all comers." He was confident without being arrogant, and well spoken-for a fighter.

"Need a decent fight, do you," said Nabber, "to help raise your favor?"

The man who he now knew to be called Blayze, pulled away a little. "I'm not about to waste my time talking with a boy whose tongue is quicker than his wits. Now, unless you're willing to admit you know the lance who just won in the pit, I'm off." He turned and began to walk away.

"Tawl," shouted Nabber. "His name is Tawl and he's from the Lowlands." Friendship was one thing, but on a night like this when the coinage shone brighter than any oil lamp, it was difficult to believe that anything mattered more than money and its making. Besides, what was the harm of telling Blayze a name?

The man carried on walking. "Arrange a meet for me. Two days from now at sundown by the three golden fountains." He never turned around to discover if his words had been heard, he merely slipped into the crowd. A few seconds later, Nabber spotted him making his way down the street. He was accompanied by a slight figure who was both cloaked and hooded.

Nabber took all his markers and snapped them. No chance of finding who they belonged to now. No chance of finding Tawl, either. The knight had left the pit. Even if he were to find Tawl, he would never agree to come to a meeting set up by him. It was probably for the best. Blayze had the look of a man who wasn't used to losing; a full compliment of front teeth and a straight nose were rare sights in fighters.

And the body! Nabher whistled in appreciation. More muscles than a shipful of sailors. Tawl wouldn't stand a chance.

Or would he? Nabber began to make his way toward Brotheling Street. Tawl had a unique talent that owed more to rage than to muscle, so perhaps the outcome was anything but certain. One thing that was certain, though, was that there was loot to be made here. Plenty of it. The duke's champion fighting the latest sensation in Bren, Nabber could almost hear the sound of money spinning about the pit. This was just the sort of earner that Swift spent his days dreaming of-and it was his for the taking!

As Nabber walked up the street, he felt an unfamiliar sensation. Like bellyache, only higher and deeper, it formed a tight band around his chest. He tried ignoring the feeling at first and set his thoughts upon solving the problem of how he was going to get Tawl to agree to a meet with Blayze. However, the pain wouldn't go away. It niggled and chided and allowed him no peace. Despite his attempts to pass it off as an unusually high case of indigestion, Nabber knew in his heart it was guilt.

Melli drifted through the hazy clouds between waking and sleeping. Some tiny still-lucid part of her brain hinted that sleep was best. Some large still-active part of her belly swore that it was.

Cheap Halcus wine and exotic southern liqueurs didn't mix. She'd paid the price for their incompatibility all day. Rolling along a bumpy road in a wagon that was obviously built before Borc's first coming hadn't helped much, either. She was sick and feeling sorry for herself.

Her brain defied her stomach and set a course for full waking. Without opening her eyes, she was aware that it was late. The light filtering through the tissue of her eyelids was low and golden; candlelight, and the cries of owls and wolves had found their way into her dreams for some time now. The smell of incense and almonds was as strong as ever, and she realized, rather belatedly, the wagon was no longer moving.

She heard the door open and then felt a flurry of cold air race in. Fiscel's voice said: "Alysha, I want a word alone." Melli kept her eyes closed and lay very still.

"Lorra." It was Alysha's low and alluring voice. "Go outside for a while."

"But it's cold and dark. I was nearly asleep-"

"Go now," said Alysha, cutting the young girl's complaints short. "Or I will make you stay out the whole night."

"You wouldn't dare."

Alysha laughed. "You're no great prize, Lorra. Your flesh would fetch as much dead as alive."

Melli tried hard not to shudder, but the coldness of the woman's words was too much. The sound of the door slamming was testament to their sting. Lorra had obviously decided not to take Alysha up on her threat.

Fiscel spoke softly, "Is the new girl all right?"

The rustle of silk suggested a shrug. "She will live. Her stomach reacted to the herbs in the nais, that's all."